A Touch of Ruin (Hades x Persephone #2)(83)

She was thrust beneath bright lights, they blinded her and made the whole place appear darker, so it was hard to tell just how many people were in the crowd in front of her.

Apollo grabbed the mic and cried into it.

“Persephone Rosi, everyone! You may know her as Hades’ lover, but tonight, she’s our jury, judge, and executioner!”

The crowd cheered.

Apollo returned the mic to its cradle and reached for Persephone’s arm. She recoiled, but the god placed his hand on her back, guiding her to a chair to the side of the stage.

“Stop touching me, Apollo,” she said through her teeth.

“Stop acting like you don’t like me,” the god replied.

“I don’t. Liking you wasn’t part of the deal,” she snapped.

Apollo’s eyes flashed. “I’m not opposed to ending the bargain, Persephone, if you can live with the death of your friend.”

She glared and sat. Apollo smiled.

“Good girl. Now, you are going to sit here with a smile on that pretty face and judge this competition for me, got it?”

Apollo patted her face. She wanted to kick him in the balls, but refrained, gripping the edges of her chair. As he turned back to the crowd, they began to chant his name. The god encouraged this by pumping his arms in the air.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the Lyre, we have a challenger in our midst.”

The crowd booed, but Persephone felt relieved that she finally knew where she was. The Lyre was a venue in New Athens where musicians of all kinds performed. It was located in the Arts District at the edge of the city.

“A satyr who claims he is a better musician than me!”

More boos from the crowd.

“You know what I say to that? Prove it.”

He drew away from the mic, his face awash in the light from the stage.

“Bring the competitor forth!”

There was a disruption, and Persephone watched as the crowd split. Two burly men dragged a satyr between them. He was young and blond, his hair a nest of curls atop his head. His jaw was set, and his chest rose and fell quickly, giving away his fear, but his eyes were narrowed, black, and set upon Apollo with a hatred that Persephone could feel.

“Satyr! Your Hubris will be punished.”

The crowd cheered, and Apollo motioned for the men to bring the young man forward. They shoved him onto the stage, and he stumbled, falling to his knees. Persephone watched as Apollo summoned an instrument from thin air. It looked like a type of flute, and when the satyr saw it, his eyes widened. Clearly, it was important to him.

Apollo tossed it to him, and he caught it against his chest.

“Play it,” the god ordered. “Show us your talents, Marsyas.”

For a moment, the boy seemed even more frightened at hearing his name leave the god’s mouth, and then she watched as he rose to his feet, his expression determined.

Marsyas put the flute to his lips and began to perform. At first, Persephone could barely hear the music he created because the crowd was so unruly. She couldn’t help thinking that they seemed to be under some sort of spell, but slowly, they fell silent. Persephone watched Apollo, noting the way he clenched his fists and the tension in his shoulders. Clearly, he hadn’t expected the satyr to be good.

His music was beautiful—it was sweet, and it swelled, filling the whole room, seeping into pores and twinning with blood. Somehow, it knew exactly how to target each dark emotion, each painful memory, and by the end, Persephone found herself crying.

The crowd was quiet and Persephone couldn’t tell if they were stunned into silence, or if Apollo was preventing them from reacting with his magic, so she started to clap, and slowly, the rest joined in, whistling, cheering, and chanting the satyr’s name. Apollo’s face reddened and he gazed menacingly at Persephone and the young man before summoning his own instrument, a lyre.

As he strummed, a pretty tune emerged, and each note seemed to carry longer than the last. It was a strange and ethereal sound, one that didn’t calm, but commanded attention. Persephone felt as if she were on the edge of her seat, and she couldn’t figure out why. Was she fearful of Apollo? Or was she waiting for the music to transform into something more?

When he ended, the crowd erupted into applause.

Persephone felt like an invisible hand had clasped her heart and just released it. She sagged into her chair, taking deep breaths.

Apollo bowed to the crowd and then turned to Persephone.

“And now let us welcome our beautiful judge!” He smiled, but his gaze was threatening.

He gestured for Persephone to join him in the spotlight. She did, cringing when his arm snaked around her waist.

“Persephone, beautiful goddess that you are, tell us who is the winner of tonight’s competition? Marsyas,” he paused to let the crowd boo, the earlier hypnosis they’d experienced while listening to his music, gone. “Or me, the God of Music.”

The crowd cheered, and Apollo shoved the mic in her face. She could feel her heart beating hard in her chest and sweat beaded on her forehead. She hated these lights; they were too bright and too hot.

She looked at Apollo and then at Marsyas, who seemed just as frightened by what she might say.

She spoke, her lips brushing the hard metal of the mic.

“Marsyas.”

That was when all hell broke loose.

The crowd cried in protest and some rushed the stage. At the same time, the burly men who had dragged the satyr to the stage, returned and grabbed him again, forcing him to his knees.