A Touch of Ruin (Hades x Persephone #2)(32)

“Sybil,” Persephone said gently, placing a hand on her arm.

“I knew it would be hard, but I don’t think I realized how difficult. No one wants a god’s discarded...plaything.”

“You are no such thing, Sybil,” Persephone said quickly.

“That’s not how the world sees it,” she said. “My worth is equal to the desire a god had for me. It has been since my powers manifested. Now I don’t even have those.”

Sybil turned into Persephone and sobbed against her chest. The goddess stood there, soothing her friend.

“It’s going to be okay,” Persephone said. “I’ll help in any way I can. Let me talk to Hades. I’m sure they need more help at The Cypress Foundation.”

She’d been so angry about Leuce, she’d forgotten to ask about openings.

“I can’t ask that of you, Persephone,” Sybil said, pulling away.

“You’re not asking.” She offered what she hoped was a comforting smile.

Persephone introduced Leuce to Sybil and poured three glasses of wine. Persephone was starting to feel like she was running a home for displaced women. They sat in the living room, watching Titans After Dark and talking about life. At some point, the inevitable topic of Apollo made its way into their conversation, and the longer they spoke, the angrier they became.

“He’s as horrible as I remember,” Leuce commented.

“Oh, girl, you don’t even know,” Sybil said, she took a drink from her glass. “He is so controlling. He punishes his lovers for being independent! It’s pathetic!”

“Can you believe Hades told me I couldn’t write about him?” Persephone said.

“If you want to write about Apollo, you write about Apollo!” Leuce said.

They were all on their fourth glass of wine. Despite this, Persephone expected Sybil to protest. Instead, she said, “Get the laptop, Seph!”

Persephone grinned and ran into her room to grab her computer. When she came back, she sat cross-legged on the sofa.

“Write this down,” Sybil directed. “Apollo, known for his charm and beauty, has a secret—he cannot stand rejection.”

“Oh, that’s good!” Leuce encouraged.

“Oh, oh! Hold on,” Persephone said, typing quickly, the words coming faster than her fingers would move. When she was finished, she read the piece aloud: “The evidence is overwhelming. I would have his many ex-lovers vouch for me, but they either begged to be saved from his wily pursuits and were turned into trees or died horrible deaths as a result of his punishment.”

“Yes!” Leuce cried.

Persephone continued, adding the stories of Daphne, the nymph who was turned into a tree, and Princess Cassandra, whose accurate predictions were dismissed.

“Cassandra cried that Greeks were hidden in the Trojan Horse but was ignored. Which begs the question how noble can Apollo truly be? When he fought on the side of Troy, yet compromise their victory, all because he was given the cold shoulder?”

“Gods, he’s so terrible,” Sybil said. “I don’t know why I didn’t see it before.”

“He’s abusive,” Persephone said. “Don’t blame yourself.”

“You should say that in the article!” Leuce said. “Apollo is an abuser—he has a need to control and dominate. It’s not about communication or listening, it’s about winning.”

They continued like that for hours, until Sybil and Leuce could no longer keep their eyes open. With the two asleep on the couch, Persephone was pinned against the armrest. The pallid glow from her computer hurt her eyes, but she continued to revise what they’d written together. The result was a critical and slightly hostile article about the God of Music. Persephone excluded Sybil’s story, even though she’d contributed a few lines illustrating her own experiences with the god. She didn’t want Apollo to retaliate against the oracle.

The more Persephone read and reread the piece, the angrier she got and before she could think it through, she composed an email to Demetri and sent the article. She felt triumphant for all of two seconds—before she scrambled from the couch, ran into the bathroom, and threw up in the toilet.

You are in so much trouble, she thought as she sagged against the bathroom wall. Her stomach felt like it was boiling, a combination of too much wine and guilt.

Apollo did this to himself. She thought, reminding herself why she’d sent the article. He deserves this. This is about justice, about giving a voice to his victims.

What about Hades?

Her stomach lurched and Persephone got to her knees just as bile rose to the back of her throat. She vomited again. Her nose and throat burned and all she could taste was bitter, acidic wine. She knelt for a while, breathing through her mouth until she felt steady enough to rise to her feet.

When she looked in the mirror, she didn’t recognize herself. She looked more like a soul that had just arrived in the Underworld, pale and shivering.

“Hades kept secrets,” she said aloud, as if that explained why she’d gone back on her word.

You kept secrets, she reminded herself as she rinsed her mouth and brushed her teeth. You didn’t tell him about Demetri’s ultimatum.

“That’s different,” she met her gaze in the mirror.

How?

It was different because it was her battle. She hadn’t wanted Hades’ help fighting it.