A Touch of Malice (Hades & Persephone #3)(69)

“What are we going to do?” Persephone asked.

They had to help her.

“We wait,” Hermes said. “We do not know who or what is on their side.”

Persephone felt dread at that comment—an overwhelming force that pulled her into a fast current.

She thought of the weapon that had taken Harmonia down and her mother, whose magic had powered it. What would they face here?

She studied the large crowd but did not find Helen among them.

More people joined until the room was packed and hot. The mask stuck to Persephone’s skin, uncomfortable and wet. With more people, came more anger and taunting. There was violence in the air, and she pressed closer to Hermes, feeling more and more uncomfortable. The god tightened his hold on her, which was less comforting than it should have been because she knew Hermes, too, was tense.

Sudden applause drew their attention to the stage where a man stood. He was dressed in a navy suit, tailored to his large body. He had wavy blond hair and eyes so bright and blue, she could see their sparkle, even from a distance.

Demi-god, she thought.

“That is Okeanos,” Hermes said.

“Who is Okeanos?”

“He is a son of Zeus,” Hermes said. “He has a twin, Sandros. They are not usually far from each other.”

Persephone watched Okeanos as he circled Tyche like a predator, a look of disgust upon his face.

He stopped at her head, and took hold of one of her horns, breaking it effortlessly. The snap made bile rise in Persephone’s throat, but drew cheers from the crowd. After he had broken the second horn from her head, he held them aloft like a trophy while the crowd hailed him like some hero from ancient times.

Then, he tossed them aside as if they were nothing—as if he had not just mutilated the goddess restrained upon the table.

“The Olympians make a mockery of power!” he shouted. “They parade around, celebrities more obsessed with their image and their wealth and hurting mortals than granting your desperate prayers.”

The crowd roared in agreement.

“It is a tale older than time. Gods outlive their usefulness to the world and must be replaced by new ones, those who understand it and see its potential. We are those gods. It is time to take back our world.”

More cheers.

Persephone felt sick. It was the narrative she’d expected, and the one Helen had perpetuated. These demi-gods really wanted to overthrow the Olympians. The problem was these people—Adonis, Harmonia, Tyche—were not Olympians—they were innocent. What was the point of hurting them?

Movement from Tyche drew Okeanos’ attention. The Demi-god continued to speak as he approached the goddess.

“We will have a rebirth! A new world where your prayers are answered, where the gods intercede only when asked, where they heal and do not hurt, but the price is dire.”

He picked up a blade that must have been sitting above Tyche’s head. It gleamed, sharp and dangerous.

“Are you willing to pay it?” He asked and the crowd responded with a resounding yes.

Just then, Persephone smelled her mother’s magic. It drew her attention and sent her heart racing.

For a moment, she felt panic, her breath came in short gasps and her vision blurred, but as quickly as she felt the magic, it was gone and when her eyes returned to the stage, Amphion was lifting the blade.

“No!” Persephone cried, and flung out her hands—just as several heads moved in her direction, they froze—except Okeanos whose gaze narrowed upon her.

Fuck.

Demi-gods may not be as powerful as other gods, but it was impossible to know what magic they were born with and it looked like Okeanos could control time. Without a word, he flung out his hand and sent a bolt of lightning barreling toward her.

Persephone’s eyes widened and she dove to avoid the hit, but as she landed on the floor, someone materialized in front of her—a goddess.

“Aphrodite—”

The goddess flung out her arm and in the next second, Okeanos’ body lurched, and his heart flew from his chest into Aphrodite’s waiting hand. His eyes widened and as he fell to his knees, Persephone lost her grip upon her magic and the crowd was mobile once again.

There was a moment of heavy silence before the crowd realized what had happened.

“Gods! There are gods among us!” someone yelled.

Then chaos ensued—some screamed and fled while others peeled off their masks and searched for weapons within the theater.

“Hermes!” Persephone cried. “Get Tyche!”

The God of Mischief was gone in a flash, appearing on stage beside the motionless goddess. The crowd surged forward in an attempt to attack Hermes, but the god’s eyes had begun to glow and some faltered.

Persephone got to her feet.

“Aphrodite!”

The goddess did not seem to hear her, her attention on the still-beating heart in her hand, the blood seeped between her fingers. Then Persephone’s eyes shifted as a mortal rushed the goddess, a long candlestick raised to strike.

“Aphrodite!”

Still, the goddess remained calm, almost passive as she turned her head in the direction of the mortal, threw out her hand and sent him flying backward into the crowd, scattering bodies until he landed with a loud crack against the opposite wall.

Persephone expected the mortals to bolt, but instead, they rushed toward them.