A Game of Fate (Hades Saga #1)(26)

Hephaestus’ creations would ensure mortals—and bees—were not at the mercy of a goddess. Conversely, his creations could be seen as an act of war against the goddess.

“Did Hephaestus tell you this?” Hades asked, curious, because if so, that meant they were communicating.

“No,” Aphrodite said, hesitating for a moment, as if she wanted to say something but stayed quiet.

“So, you were spying?” Hades questioned, raising a knowing brow.

Aphrodite pursed her lips. “How else am I supposed to learn what my husband is up to?”

“You could…ask,” Hades suggested.

“And receive a one-word reply? No, thank you.”

“What did you expect to learn while spying?” Hades asked.

A heavy silence followed his question. Finally, she answered, “I guess I thought he might be cheating.”

Hades could not help it, he paused to laugh. Aphrodite whirled to face him.

“It isn’t funny!” she snapped. “If he isn’t fucking me, he’s fucking someone.”

Hades raised a brow. “Is that what you discovered while you spied?”

Aphrodite’s shoulders fell, and she looked away. “No.”

She seemed disappointed. Like she might have felt better if Hephaestus was distracted by women rather than things.

“Hmm,” Hades hummed, and Aphrodite gave him a bruising look before they continued to the entrance of Hephaestus’ lab.

“The cyborgs will take you to him,” she said.

Hades narrowed his eyes, suspicious of her quick exit. “You’re not going to leave just to spy, are you?”

Aphrodite rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest. “I have better things to do, Hades.”

He considered challenging her reply, but decided against it, stepping around her and entering Hephaestus’ lab alone.

Inside, he found a cavernous room full of Hephaestus’ inventions—shields, spears, armor, helms, pieces of detailed ironwork, unfinished thrones, robotic humans and horses. At the center of it all, working with his back bent over a wooden table, was the God of Fire. Despite Hephaestus’ modern inventions, his work area and overall aesthetic paid homage to his ancient roots. His blond beard was long, his matching hair pulled back with a leather strap. He worked shirtless, exposing the scars on his skin, and wore a set of trousers that came to mid-calf.

“Lord Hades,” Hephaestus said as he approached, though the god continued to work, soldering a circuit board. Hephaestus was probably the only god who used titles with other gods out of respect instead of disdain.

After a few more minutes of work, Hephaestus put his tools down and pushed a set of clear glasses back on his head. He stood and looked at Hades with a pair of deep-set grey eyes. Hephaestus was huge, his physique chiseled like a marble statue. After landing on Lemnos and breaking his leg, it had been amputated. In its place was a prosthetic of his own design. It was gold but minimalistic, made of geometric shapes. Even not being able-bodied, he was probably the strongest physically, and definitely the smartest, of the gods.

“Hephaestus,” Hades nodded, looking at the metal and wires scattered across his table. Despite already knowing what these pieces were for, he asked, “What are you working on?”

“Nothing,” the god said quickly.

It did not surprise Hades that Hephaestus would keep quiet about his work. He had never been chatty, but after his exile and the scrutiny he had faced from other gods due to his scarred face and disability, he had become even more quiet.

“It cannot be nothing,” Hades said. “It does not look like nothing.”

Hephaestus blinked at the god and then answered, “A project.” He cleared his throat. “What can I do for you?”

Hades averted his eyes, looking around the room as he spoke. “I need your expertise. I need a weapon. One that will subdue violence and encourage truth.”

Hephaestus offered a hint of a smile. “Sounds like a riddle,” he said.

“You haven’t heard the last part,” Hades said. “It’s for an Olympian.”

Hephaestus raised a brow, but just as Hades suspected, the God of Fire did not ask questions.

“I can create something,” he said. “Come back in a day.”

There was silence for a moment, and then Hades said, “You know Aphrodite spies on you.”

Hades felt like a gossip. He was not sure why he was telling Hephaestus about Aphrodite’s secret. Maybe he felt like it was revenge for her bargain. Maybe he was hopeful it would encourage conversation between them, except that Hephaestus did not react to the news, his expression passive, disinterested.

“She is suspicious,” he said.

“Or curious,” Hades countered, because it was true.

“I suppose she can be both,” he replied, turning his back on Hades and focusing again on his work. Hades waited despite the silence, and finally, Hephaestus spoke in a quiet, coarse voice.

“She asked Zeus for a divorce. He will not grant it.”

“Is that what you want?” Hades asked. “A divorce?”

He watched the god’s profile—the way his jaw clenched and his fingers curled at the sound of the word. The God of Fire looked at Hades then, his brows drawn together, and there was a sincerity within his eyes Hades had never perceived before.