Chapter XXIV: Theseus

CHAPTER XXIV

THESEUS

“So,” Theseus said, looking over a plume of yellow flowers at the woman who sat across from him. “You wish to learn about Triad?”

She had introduced herself as Cassandra, but he knew her real name was Helen. She was an aspiring journalist, a student at New Athens University, and she worked for Persephone Rossi.

She was still unaware that he knew everything about her, still pretending to be interested in joining his organization, just as she had last week when she’d arrived at a rally.

Normally, he would not indulge this behavior, but he was an opportunist and he saw her potential.

He knew what she truly wanted.

She was ambitious and constantly on the hunt for the pathway that would propel her to the top. She was no more interested in him than he was in her, beyond what they could do for each other, only at this point, she still believed she had the upper hand, that she would be solely responsible for breaking a story about the greatest threat to Olympian rule.

He admired her confidence, but he hated her ignorance.

She was holding a knife and fork, cutting into a steak she had ordered. Her movements were careful, graceful even—she was trying to impress him.

She hadn’t yet.

“I think I’m more interested in how you view it,” she said. Her voice took on a heady note, and as she stared at him, her eyes dropped to his lips.

He found her seduction boring and predictable. Her fatal flaw was thinking that her beauty was enough to sway him. Phaedra was beautiful, and so was her sister. He could fuck beauty all day. It changed nothing, gave him nothing.

It was only pleasurable if he could hurt them, and it made his cock hard just thinking about it.

“I do not wish to sway your opinion,” he said. “Let our actions speak.”

“Your actions seem terroristic.”

“That is a matter of perspective,” he said. “I would argue that Olympus is responsible for terrorism.”

She glanced to her left and right, likely anxious about what he’d said.

He smirked. “Does that make you uncomfortable?”

“Well, it is blasphemy,” she said.

“I suppose it is,” he replied. “If you worship the gods.”

“Worship or not, they are real,” she argued. “The consequences of heresy are dire.”

“No more dire than a deadly snowstorm,” he replied. “If I die spouting truths about the gods, then so be it.”

She was silent as she reached for her glass and then sat back in her chair. It was an action he had not expected. It exuded comfort.

“Do you want to know what I think?” she asked, sipping her wine.

He didn’t, but he had to admit, he was curious about the sudden change in her posture and her strange and sudden confidence.

He waited. He would not implore her.

“I don’t think you care what happens to the people of New Greece, but I think you need their worship.”

His gaze did not waver from her face.

“And what do you think of that?” he asked, his eyes darkening.

“Everyone wants to be worshipped.”

“Do you?” he asked.

He was eager for her answer. He expected something generic—a comment along the lines of what woman doesn’t wish to be worshipped?

Instead, she said, “I could be feared for all I care. I just want power.”

There was a glint in her eyes he had not seen before, a darkness he wanted to prod.

After a moment, he stood.

“Come with me,” he said, and though she stiffened, she took his extended hand.

Once his fingers closed around hers, he teleported.

When they appeared, it was in the shadows of a large warehouse, on a balcony that overlooked a crowded floor.

Theseus called this the Forum.

Those in attendance were there by invitation only and chosen based on their grievances with the gods—those whose prayers had been rejected.

“Where are we?” Helen asked.

“You are safe,” he said.

She turned her head but did not look at him. “I was not asking if I was safe.”

“That’s all you need to know.”

Theseus placed his hand on the small of Helen’s back and guided her toward the rail. He caged her within his arms, pressing her against it, his erection settling against her ass. Her back ached, her shoulder blades biting into his chest.

A man stood at the head of the crowd facing six demigods who sat, half shrouded in darkness.

“I have begged Apollo,” he said as he made his case. “I have laid golden honey and hyacinths at his altar, but my prayers have gone unheard.”

“Unheard or unanswered?” The question was posed by Okeanos. He was the twin brother of Sandros, both sons of Zeus.

“Unanswered!” someone shouted. Others roared in agreement.

That was the beauty of a crowd of followers—it took one leader to incense them, to shift the energy and inspire anger.

“Who are they?” Helen asked, her voice quiet, nearly inaudible over the noise below, which echoed all around them.

“They are agents of their people,” he said, speaking near her ear. “Within Triad, they are called high lords, demigods, descendants of the gods.”

The man who had at first spoken with a quiet disposition was now riled. His voice rose to a shout.

“Listen,” Theseus said, directing her attention below again.

“I have lit candles and picked laurel leaves, I have carved symbols into stones that have basked in the sun, all in the name of a god who ignores my pleas!”

The crowd roared in anger and began to chant, “Death to Apollo!”

“Have mercy on me, my lords!” the man petitioned. “I only wish to be well so that I may continue to support my wife and daughter.”

A demigod stood and took two soft steps into the light, and the room grew quiet. He was large and warriorlike. Despite this, he had the gift of healing.

Theseus felt Helen take a breath.

“Who is that?” she asked.

“Machaon,” he said. “Technically the second. He is a descendant of the demigod Asclepius.”

“Apollo’s son?”

“The very one,” he said.

As Machaon approached, the man began to shake.

“Do not be uneasy,” said Machaon, and he placed his hand on the man’s head. “I will heal you of this blight.”

The man shook more, and then his knees gave out.

It was not evident what exactly the demigod was doing, but Theseus could feel his power just as he felt all divine influence. Machaon’s power was gentle, like the soft caress of a wave against the shore.

The man collapsed forward, but Machaon caught him and held him upright. The man’s head fell back, eyes closed.

Theseus felt Helen lean forward, her body tight with anticipation.

“Is he alive?” she whispered.

Then the man’s eyes blinked open, and the room broke out into cheers.

“Rise, my friend,” Machaon said. “You are healed.”

He helped the man to his feet, and he was consumed by the crowd as he was celebrated and Machaon’s name was chanted in worship, feeding his power.

Theseus could feel it too.

“The gods withhold,” he said, his lips grazing her ear as he spoke. “We give. The gods hinder,” he said, hiking her skirt up. “We assist. The gods destroy,” he said, touching her between her legs. “We mend.”

She moaned as his fingers slid through her heat. It was all he needed to know, that she was wet enough for his cock.

He pushed her forward, pulling one hand behind her back.

He let his hand smooth over her ass and then spanked her before kicking her feet apart and shoving inside her.

“Yes, fuck!”

She gasped and met him thrust for thrust, as if she yearned for something harder and darker.

He twisted her hair around his hand and pulled. She cried out but followed his command, arching her back as he moved, keeping one hand planted on the rail. She did not move to kiss him, did not try to be anything more than a vessel, and when he felt his balls tighten and a rush surge up his cock, he pulled out, his come spraying across her ass and down the backs of her thighs.

He restored his appearance as she turned to face him, her eyes darkened with lust.

“I’ll write the story you wish to tell,” said Helen. “But I want a ride to the top.”

“Your boss is the future wife of Hades,” he said.

She raised a brow. “If Persephone will not agree to publish my story, I will go elsewhere.”

He took a step closer, letting his thumb brush over her lips. He licked his own as he did.

“Next time, I will come in this mouth,” he said and then took a step away. Before he left her, he paused. “Be sure your words sow the seeds of war…Helen.”

He was waiting for the arrival of a group of Impious who had taken to calling themselves god killers. Normally, he was not opposed to isolated acts of violence by the Impious, but he drew the line when they became boastful. And these particular men could not stop talking about how they had dehorned a goddess.

“Where are they?” Theseus asked no one in particular, certain one of them would answer.

“On their way,” Damian answered. He was the son of Thetis, a goddess of water.

Theseus bit back his frustration.

A tension had been building in his body since Helen’s departure, and it had nothing to do with lust or a desire to fuck.

This was a different need—a violent one.

The doors opened, and five men entered.

The one in the middle, who was large and bearded, carried in each of his hands a long, white horn.

“My lord,” he said and bowed low for Theseus. “I have come to lay offerings at your feet.”

The man set the horns on the ground, and Theseus stared at them.

“Well, are you not pleased?” the man asked, his voice booming. “Are they not what you asked for?”

Theseus did not speak, but he bent to take one of the horns in his hand, testing it. They were rough and light.

Then he slammed it into the man’s chest.

“I am pleased,” Theseus said as blood burst from the man’s mouth.

“What the fuck!” one of the men shouted.

Another man vomited.

Theseus jerked the horn free, and the man groaned and then fell to his knees.

The other four men scrambled, screaming as they sought an exit from the warehouse. Two were struck with bolts of electricity by the twins. Another began to convulse and turned to ash as if he were burning from the inside out. The last began to gurgle and spewed water before he spun and fell onto his back, drowning.

“But unfortunately, I cannot have you live to tell the tale,” Theseus said when they were all dead.