11. Nat

11

Nat

a pike. For nostalgia’s sake

Mattresses are a mortal crutch to easy sleep. A soft, cloudy pad to help wipe away regrets and allow for idle non-reflective slumber.

In the realm of the dead, we sleep on stone. Slabs of blue swirled marble to stay cool along the sweltering banks of the river. Cold and slippery, there’s no hesitation to rise when we wake. No disappearing into sleep or avoiding our duty. We pass out when we’re exhausted and return to our feet often before wounds heal.

I love beds.

I love pillows and mattress toppers and duvets. I love memory foam everything, cozy blankets, and matching ruby satin jammies. I love sinking into my Alaskan king and having the weight of duty waft off my shoulders. I love dreams without auras, without weapons, without the looks .

I love it so much. Too much.

Loved .

Now I’d parry with my non-dominant hand for a month in exchange for a thin sheet of rigid marble.

When the knock comes, I realize I should’ve messed up the sheets. Punched the pillow. Poured on a drool stain.

More than was acceptable just to fuck with them.

I point my bare toes together at the ceiling. My heels scrape the wallpaper, my fingers flexing in the carpet, arms solid and strong under the weight of my body.

I exhale the scent of fresh linens and wait for the overhead fan to complete three rotations before saying, “Enter.”

Right when I say it, I picture Sin peering at me, his face upside down as he flashes that smile. I push my spine straighter, dig in my nails to ensure I keep my distance. He’s so …

Divine .

Capital, extra-large D.

The air seems to charge around him, as if a pool of molten electricity he controls at will. It’s infuriating.

Scintillating.

I should rip his arms from his sockets for touching me.

He hates my kind.

Believes we’re monsters. Mistakes of the Titans. Rhea rejects.

I’ve heard what the upper realms think of our kind. Horrible tales to make an Erinyes never want to step foot outside the Underworld.

Megaera used to say we might as well have kept the black, batty wings. Then at least we could fly away from their pitchforks.

Hades doesn’t like when the aunties tell their stories by the campfire.

No one tells a Fury to stop speaking, but he has his ways of changing the subject. Sprinkling dried flower petals into the coals, making the flames transform into explosions of colorful lilies, daisies, and orchids.

Asking Cerberus to howl her songs.

Inviting Persephone to dance.

That’s his favorite.

Anything to wash the pitying sheen from Persephone’s soft green eyes.

Hades wanted to stop us from lamenting a fact we couldn’t change. We weren’t too rude or overbearing. We didn’t forget to dab perfume on our necks. We were Erinyes.

That’s what those in the mortal realm hated.

Our nature, our existence.

Not things we’ve done, not choices we've made.

Sin thought I was a Goddess.

For minutes, for hours, he’d looked at me as if … as if he desired me.

I can practically hear Theia’s taunt, yeah, and then you shot him .

He deserved it.

It had felt … nice to be thought of as more. Nice until I’d discovered he was a Blackguard.

I’d bathe in his blood before I returned home. A heart for each of my fallen sisters.

A cool, detached voice says, “We don’t know what you eat.”

My stomach drops as Drake uses his foot to seal the door behind him.

Of course Sin didn’t come. He doesn’t care.

Hades spawn .

The disgust in his voice, the hate. Next time, there’d be no question, not even restraint to keep me from sending him leagues underground.

I kick my feet forward, arcing out of my handstand until I’m flatfooted. Clean, dry hair pours over my shoulders in straight lines as Drake switches on a disco ball lamp, effectively dispersing the shattered moonlight pouring in from the window.

His shadowy, empty gaze skims over me, assessing.

The borrowed clothes are tight, too small and revealing.

Better than Sin’s sweater, which is conveniently tucked in the dresser to preserve the scent.

Not that I plan on sniffing it.

I shrug at Drake. “A steady diet of fresh eyeballs from unfaithful males and the sous vide livers of killers.”

The edge of his mouth twitches, adding more angles to his sharp, chiseled face. “I hope those taste like a burger because that’s what I ordered.” He removes the napkin from a plate to reveal a juicy set up of bun and patty, a pile of salted curly fries.

“Pickles?”

“Yes.”

“Mustard?”

“No.”

“It’s perfect.” I grab the bun and take a big, juicy bite. Another. Wiping ketchup off my cheek, I stare at the Blackguard.

Midnight hair shorn at the sides, too long on top. Skin pale, nearly ghostly pale. He’s the shortest of the males, six one, six two, eye to eye with me, but my danger radar centers to him in every room.

A male not to be underestimated.

“Where are the others?” I ask. “Still talking about me? Fettering out my motives? Plotting a swift and fatal attack?”

“Atlas is teaching them …” Hazel eyes drift from the neat tucks of the bed corners to the ratty Diakonos dress I’ve tacked to the wall with my new dagger. “Manners, I suppose, is the best word. He’s letting Lev punch anyone who swears. But Lev’s too drunk to understand English so it’s more brawl than finishing school.”

“Sounds …”

“Idiotic.”

“Fun, actually.” I pick through the fries for the saltiest, greasiest one. “My sisters and I often partake in war games. Of course, ours involve more than fists. We’re actual warriors.”

Blades, catapults, spears straight through throats. Rough housing, Erinyes style.

I observe Drake from the edge of my vision, scouring up and down his aura.

Black attack .

My left vambrace is carved with Aunt Megaera’s advice. As soon as I sent a message to Hades to warn him of the Blackguard, a matching set in gold rose from the broken earth.

Megaera’s motto is on the left forearm, and on the right, in ancient Greek Cyrillic. Return home .

Hades is worried.

Overprotective.

If it were up to him, we’d never undertake risks, never be in danger.

In this, Aunt Megaera is right. I’ve got access to pure evil. It’s my duty to eviscerate it.

Now that I’ve warned my sisters, the regiments will be prepared, and as soon as I have Theia, I’ll send the Blackguard to Tartarus.

Each and every one.

Hands shoved in his pockets, Drake leans against the wall. The ease of the gesture conveying deadly confidence. “They’re terrified of upsetting you.”

“Right, and you’re the saint they sent?” I attempt to peel back the inky hue of his aura, lift it to see how many colors tangle, how many sins he’s committed, but they’re threaded and woven as if he’s done them all at once, over and over.

Despicable.

“I know you already have reason enough to kill me without me offending you, and you haven’t. Therefore, you’re either waiting for a dramatic moment, which doesn’t strike me as you, or you don’t want me to die. Yet.”

I munch on my quarter pounder, watching him, noting the way he steps deeper into my room, avoiding the bed as if he understands what it means to me.

As if he can see the pink pooling on the folds of the quilt.

He stops in front of a framed painting of bright red lips holding a cherry, rainbow sprinkles dappling the tongue.

The rooms are themed, and Atlas assigned me the lucky winner of tripping acid sex addict . Complete with toxic slime green pillows and mirrored ceiling.

He beholds the pop art like it’s the Parthenon in its glory. “Odd that a Phoenix and Fury would be friends, is it not?”

It barely sounds like a question.

I scan my surroundings for the nearest weapon. The lamp, the bedspread, the plate.

I chew faster. “It’s not, actually. The Phoenix are numerous in the Underworld. You’ve seen how I am treated for my blood. Phoenix suffer the same simple assumptions. Killed simply because of what they are.”

Gentle creatures, the Phoenix were once masters of history and strategy, beloved by Athena. Intelligent and able to be reborn, they were beautiful and everlasting.

Slaughtered time and time again by creatures bent on controlling them, bent on using their explosive power for their own gain.

Hades has an entire sect for fallen Phoenix along the River Lethe. Her waters are known for cleansing the mind and erasing memories.

Drake lets his gaze fall to the floor, narrow on the jagged tears in his jeans. “Do you blame us for trying to stay alive?”

“Do you know the secret to accepting death?”

“Accepting that everything ends?”

Wrong .

I finish my burger and tuck in on the fries, assessing the male obviously sent to interrogate me.

The Blackguard’s executioner.

Black-hearted and nimble handed.

Brooding. Theia’s drooling in my head. H. O. T. Hand him over. I’ll fix him .

He’s surely her type.

Handsome, reserved, looks like he’s been kicked by a bunny and spat on by a baby. The exact type Theia would swoop into her sunshine, make him smile and immediately lose interest.

Guilt demands I ask, “Why does Sin want a Phoenix? What will he do to her?”

“We just need to ask a few questions.”

“That’s it? He’s desperate to chat?”

“You said it yourself, Phoenix are rare up here, and they contain a wealth of information. We want a little of it.”

“Did you know,” I start, palming the brass base of the disco lamp. “The Erinyes weren’t sent to the Underworld? We escaped to it. We couldn’t survive here anymore. Our purpose is to eliminate hate, and this realm is so soaked in it that my aunts, the original Erinyes, began to tip into insanity. Splurging on killing sprees, bloodlettings, jumping from body to body, their teeth bared.”

He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t frown.

I send him a sardonic smirk. “Zeus used us. He invited us to fight his war against the Titans, promised us a better world, and when it was over, he banished us. But Hades honored us with a home, with open arms. He gave us meaning.” I stroke my vambrace, right over the sear of his command. “He loves us for what we are: deadly.”

Drake turns, sending a gentle waft of eucalyptus into me, medicinal and balmy. His aura swirls matte lines down his legs. “You’re not insane.”

“Flattered.” I sop up grease with the fries and shove them inside my cheek. Stifle a moan. “The longer I’m among mortals, the less true it becomes. Theia helped ground me.”

Before her …

I have no aura, but if I did, I’d avoid mirrors and windows.

I’d wear a blindfold or stick hot chopsticks into my eye sockets to avoid the daunting lack of color.

“The Phoenix,” he says. “Is she a fighter?”

“ My Phoenix,” I snarl. “She’s not. She’s harmless.”

He nods as if my answer was something he predicted all along. Then asks the question I dread most, “What makes you think she’s alive?”

“Same reason you’re still breathing. She’s a survivor.”

Fates, she might be impossible to kill considering she’s survived me.

Another nod from the executioner, his tongue pressing thoughtfully against his lip. “You can take my life if any harm comes to her.”

I scrutinize him—his gloves, the features devoid of warmth or depth. Sheenless aura. “You act as if I hadn’t already determined that.”

A flare of emotion sparks in his eyes, igniting some forgotten color there. “Valid,” he concedes, stepping toward the door. “How about this? If any harm befalls her, I’ll help you take his life.”

Drake opens the door and Sin tumbles inside, head first, body following. At the last moment, his hand smacks the door, saving him from a face plant.

“No fucking loyalty in this house,” the charmer snarls, scratching up the candy-blue wallpaper with his rings.

Drake doesn’t smile or spare me a glance. Only shrugs, returning a hand to his pocket before stepping widely past Sin with practiced ease. “That’s a strike for Lev.”

I grin as the executioner slips out.

I’ll kill him last.

For Theia.

“Smiling for me, dove?” Sin’s smooth voice interrupts my thoughts—too familiar and entirely unwelcome.

I scowl, switching to glare at the male who dared to invade my space. “If your pretty face takes a hit, what becomes your purpose?”

“I thrive on your threats to my life, darling, but nothing compares to when you call me pretty.”

His smirk is a wild ember burrowing into my skin.

I snort derisively. “What pathetic male fragility you possess.”

“I’ll teach you how to handle it with care.”

“Get out.”

“Say please, sweetling.”

His challenge hovers like Zeus’s thunderbolt. Aimed but not yet loose.

He feels it.

Whatever changes in the atmosphere when we’re together, he jerks a step forward, throws out a hand. “ Don’t .”

I lunge for my knife, fingers wrapping tightly around the hilt as his snake around my wrist.

He’s too close, too towering, smelling like spices and wine. “Stab me again and I won’t help you retrieve your friend.”

I shoot him an incredulous glare from under my lashes, rip my hand from his. “Yes, but you’ll also be dead—which makes it hard to determine which I’d prefer.”

“Kill me, sweets,” he taunts playfully. “But good luck finding someone so willing to help you and so easy on the eyes. Like it or not, my dear, we’re allies now.”