Page 80 of Blood of Olympus

He was either stupidly brave — or brazenly stupid.

“You say you know me, but you are sorely mistaken,” I said, voice lethally quiet. “While it is true that I am the daughter of Hades…” I tilted my head as a serpent would. As a dragon would. “The Hades you know is no more.”

Shock rolled through the crowd like a wave. A second wave followed when I called to the crowns, letting them both appear on my brow — golden and fractured, wispy and grey, final and absolute.

“I am Hades.”

My gaze touched on the onlookers like bees on a field of flowers.

“My name is Nyssa — you would do well to remember it...”

My declarations were met with silence. Even the children stared with slack jaws.

“...because I am queen of the three realms.”

Caelus strode to the front, kneeling before me. The mortals were quick to follow his lead — all except the lone man with rage in his heart and fear in his veins.

My lips parted to ask his name when a sound so melancholic and heartfelt filled my ears. All at once I was lost to the melody; to its trilling highs and sorrow-filled lows.

“What is that?” I asked instead, taking two steps closer to its origin.

The man followed my gaze then rolled his eyes. “That’s just Orland. He’s the local drunkard. Prone to fits of song when he’s too deep in his cups.”

My brows flickered. I wondered why I was so profoundly affected by a mortal alcoholic — albeit a mortal alcoholic with the voice of a muse. A quick glance confirmed I wasn’t the only one so heartily affected. Caelus’ expression likely mirrored my own — his stance certainly did.

“You’ll want to head into The Drunken Dragon” — he raised his palms in surrender when I skewered him with a glare — “What?! I didn’t name it… Majesty,” he whispered, eyeing my dual headpieces. “But it’s where you’ll find Orland.”

I walked off without another word, scowling when the man called a sardonic, “You’re welcome!”

Caelus captured my hand in his own, dwarfing it in his lightning-scarred fingers.

My heart flopped in my chest at the small gesture, and I knew he felt the surge of emotion in his own when I was rewarded with an adoring smile.

The song reached its crescendo just as we passed through the creaky wooden door of the ill-named tavern, hanging askew on its hinges as if some wine-addled fool had crashed into it on his way out and nobody had thought to repair it.

And there, in the corner of the room, upon a small raised platform, was a lone singer with his broken lyre. His song, even more than the sirens’ had, called us over; beckoned us to him, like we were moths, and he the flame.

“Dark was the hair that dripped down her back,

Light was the blue of her eyes,

Pale were the hands that tore her away,

Though mine was the soul’s demise.”

When the man finished singing, as though a trance had been lifted, he opened his eyes and blinked rapidly. Upon seeing us pressed so close, treasuring his every note, he jolted back so suddenly that the stool he was perched on tipped over, and he landed with a resounding thud on his back.

The tavern’s few patrons cackled with glee as Orland clambered to his feet, swaying slightly. He stared at me, cocking his head to the side, owlishly tittering as recognition fluttered across his features.

“I know you,” he slurred, taking one unsteady step forwards before folding in half and emptying the contents of his stomach all over Caelus’ boots.

He grimaced as Orland collapsed in his own mess, shoulders drooping in defeat, then sighed deeply. “At least I don’t wear sandals anymore.”

CHAPTER 20

Caelus

Fuck. Me.