Chapter 2

CHAPTER2

MEDUSA

It’s child’s play to get into the building. Even if the cameras weren’t on loops thanks to Bellerophon, they have blind spots a mile wide. I slip through them without issue and take the long journey up the stairs to the thirtieth floor. I’m strong and I train daily, but thirty flights of stairs are enough to wind even me and have my thighs shaking a bit as I finally reach the proper landing.

I take a few moments to regain my breath and get my head on straight.

The hallway is a study in luxury, from its thickly carpeted floors to the wall lights at regular intervals between the widely spaced doors. These apartments are big. I eye the cameras tucked up against the ceiling. There are no blind spots here, so I’m doubly glad for Bellerophon’s help.

I check the number on the key—that Odysseus provided knowing it what it would be used for—and head down the hall to the door matching that number. It’s on the end, which is just as well. I’ll only have to worry about neighbors on one side, and even then, I’d bet my last paycheck that the soundproofing in these units is top of the line. Gods forbid you see even the tiniest evidence that you’re not in a house with four walls to yourself.

In my apartment, sometimes it feels like I’m literally rubbing elbows with my neighbors. I can tell what they have for dinner and know the cadence of their walk from memory. It’s not exactly a restful living experience, but they’re mostly good people and so I make do. And, truth be told, it makes me feel less alone on the bad nights.

You’re stalling.

I take a deep breath, press the key into the lock, and slip into the apartment. I close the door softly behind me and engage the deadbolt again. It’s late enough that most of the lights in the main living area are off, but the curtains are open and so there’s plenty of city light to see by. It’s a nice space. Big and luxurious with an open concept that will make sneaking around tricky. It’s also empty.

Maybe she’s not home. I don’t know much about mistresses, but judging by the apartment itself, she’s raking in Odysseus’s money. Not that it will do her any good after tonight. The thought makes me sick to my stomach. She won’t be out with him; he’ll no doubt be spending the evening with his wife, securing his alibi.

I clench my fists and have to count slowly to ten to combat the surge of pure rage. If anyone should be punished for this situation going shitty, it’s him. But that would mean one of the precious legacy families seeing consequences for their actions, and that’s something Olympus and the Thirteen will never allow to happen.

It’s not my business. I might jump at Athena’s behest, but I’m not a person who gets to ask questions. I certainly don’t get to demand justification or changes to the plan.

Somewhere down the hall, a melodious voice rises in conversation. I tense for a long moment until I realize she must be on the phone. At least I can pinpoint her location now.

I survey the space again, this time with an eye for staging. The problem with pills is that I need her to swallow them. I drift into the kitchen and check the wine rack. It’s half empty and there’s an open bottle on the counter. I sniff it and make a face. I don’t drink as a general rule, so I can’t begin to guess if the taste of the wine will cover up the bitterness of the pills. It smells nasty enough to do it, but if she drinks wine regularly, then maybe not. And if she only drinks a little, it might not be enough to get the job done.

Still, she won’t feel a thing, even if I have to smother her afterward.

I shudder.

It has to be done. I don’t have a choice.

I listen closely, but she’s still talking to someone somewhere down the hall. Probably in her bedroom. I ignore the guilt trying to choke the life out of me and carefully tap the entire bottle of crushed pills into the bottle of wine. I pick it up and swirl it a few times, hopefully helping things dissolve.

The voice starts coming down the hall.

Fuck.

I cast a wild glance around, but hiding spots are in short supply. The only option is to fling myself behind the couch in the adjoining living room and hope she doesn’t turn on the lights. I crouch there, working on keeping my breathing under control and silent, as light footsteps pad down the hallway.

“Yes, Daddy, I need a new dress. We talked about this. Yes, I already have a blue dress, but I wore it last time we went to The Dryad. You can’t honestly expect me to wear the same thing twice, can you?” Her tone has a girlish lilt to it that sets my teeth on edge. She laughs, high and sweet as she walks into the kitchen. “Don’t play games, Daddy. You know I need the money tonight or they’ll add another two weeks onto the turnaround time. Please?” She takes on a playfully whining tone. “Please.”

Her phone dings. “Oh, thank you. You’re the best.” She lowers her voice. “Do you want to see what I’m wearing right now? Or, rather, what I’m not?” A beat. “Oh.” She sounds almost normal. “Well, have a good night.”

The mistress hangs up the phone. “Fuck.” Gone is the sugary sweet tone and the playful words. Something slams in the kitchen. “That bastard. That fucking bastard.”

I tense. Surely she doesn’t know. How could she? She must just think he’s getting tired of her. No one in their right mind would take a minor rejection as a sign that their lover intends to kill them.

She rustles around the kitchen, but it’s impossible to guess what she’s doing. There is a clink of bottle against glass, and I have to swallow down a relieved exhale. I doubt she’ll make it through the rest of the bottle before the pills kick in, but that’s fine. She’ll go to sleep and never wake up again. It will be peaceful.

Cold comfort, that. A peaceful death is still a life snuffed out too soon.

She curses again and moves back down the hallway toward what must be her bedroom. A few minutes later, soft musical sounds slink down the hall to my ears. The smart thing to do is to wait here for a reasonable amount of time and then strike, but curiosity sinks its teeth into me and won’t let go. I know better than letting myself humanize her, but I can’t seem to help it.

What is that sound? I don’t know instruments any more than I know wine. It shouldn’t matter. She could have a whole band in her bedroom and it wouldn’t make a difference, but I suddenly need to know.

I ease out of my hiding place and pad into the kitchen to check the bottle. Half of what was in it is gone. That’s good enough, assuming she drinks it all.

Again, I tell myself to wait here.

Again, I ignore my own instincts, drawn closer by the soft music that seems to wrap around my head and leave my thoughts foggy.

The hallway is as nice as the rest of the place, though I note a distinct lack of photos. Instead, she has surprisingly moody art pieces. Not that I know much about art, but when I pause in front of one, it makes my chest feel funny. It feels…lonely.

Overactive imagination.

I shake my head and continue to where the bedroom door has been left partially open, allowing a sliver of warm, golden light to spill down the hall. I avoid it, angling myself to get a look in the room. There’s no reason to do it. Honestly, it’s better if I don’t see her, but that feels like doing her a disservice.

Athena would shake her head if she knew the direction of my thoughts. She compartmentalizes better than anyone I’ve ever met, and that’s the first lesson she strives to teach her people when she takes them on. ‘One does not last long as a member of Olympus’s special forces without getting one’s hands dirty.’

I catch sight of the mistress sitting next to a giant harp, her fingers plucking at the strings and creating that haunting music that feels like a hand wrapped around my heart. My thoughts tumble over each other like a train derailing the tracks.

She’s beautiful.

Oh, I had known she must be, but she’s absolutely devastating. She’s got long dark curly hair and pale skin and curves. The kind of decadent body that isn’t fashionable right now, but makes my palms sweat. I can only see her profile from here, can only trace the line of her strong nose with my sight, attention snagging on full lips that are currently pulled down in a frown.

She’s also currently wearing a sheer robe and nothing else.

She half turns toward the door, her fingers still moving and gaze distant, and I get a look at her full breasts peaked with rosy pink nipples and her soft round stomach before I jerk my eyes to the floor. Bad enough that I’m here to—Well. I shouldn’t be ogling her like this. It’s wrong.

The thought almost makes me laugh in a horrible kind of way. Wrong is such a strange concept in this situation.

The music trails off slowly and she presses her forehead to the curve of the harp. “I am so fucked.” She shoves to her feet and paces back and forth, appearing and disappearing from the sliver of the room revealed by the open door.

The full wine glass is in her hand.

The urge to stride in there, to knock it out of her grasp, to tell her to run from this place and never look back, nearly overwhelms me. Only cold, hard reality keeps my feet planted. There’s nowhere to run to. The boundary around Olympus can only be passed through by a select few, and they’re choosy about who they allow to leave the city boundaries. The mistress of Odysseus, a woman marked for death by both Athena and Zeus? Poseidon and his people would turn her over without hesitation.

The death she’d suffer after would be miles worse than what I have planned for her.

Not to mention what will happen to me if I fuck this up. Athena doesn’t suffer failures any more than she suffers fools. There’s a marked difference between the circumstances ending in failure, and willfully allowing a mark to escape. One will get a reprimand. The other? I shudder.

No, there is no choice. No other option.

I hold my breath as she stops in the doorway. She swirls the red wine, staring at it contemplatively, and finally lifts it to her lips. The glass stops just before she makes contact. “You can come out now. I know you’re there.”

Fuck.