Chapter 3

CHAPTER3

CALYPSO

I’ve made a grave miscalculation. I’d begun to suspect my time with Odysseus was coming to an end. He liked the idea of having a mistress more than he liked dealing with me as an actual person, and his wife was understandably not thrilled to have him parading me to all their normal spots. I’d argued against being so bold, but Odysseus is always so sure he’s the smartest man in the room. He wouldn’t listen.

Now someone’s decided to take care of his mistress problem the old-fashioned way.

I eye the dark hallway, where I can almost make out the tall form of someone standing there, a vague impression of broad shoulders, but everything else in shadow. I lift my brows. They haven’t attacked, which is a small miracle.

I might get out of this mess yet.

I lift the glass and swirl the contents. “It was a good move with the wine. I must have surprised you when I came back into the kitchen, though, because you didn’t place the bottle exactly where I’d left it.” A small taste had confirmed the wine was tampered with, though I don’t know if I would have caught it if I wasn’t looking for it. Frustration had me opening the bottle early and I’m just tipsy enough to not have caught the taste being off.

They don’t answer, but they also don’t move. I have to talk fast to derail whatever their plans are. Common knowledge says humanizing yourself to an attacker or kidnapper is the way to go, but I have my doubts about that. The man I’ve been sleeping with for seven months barely sees me as a person. All my life, people have sought to use or possess me, the same way one uses or possesses a priceless vase or a painting. Not a person. Why would this assassin be any different?

“Did his wife send you?” I wouldn’t put it past Penelope. She’s too smart to believe her husband would leave me if she cornered him, so it’s a ruthless and smart move to go around him. I didn’t anticipate her being willing to murder, but people have killed for less.

I don’t honestly expect an answer, but I get one all the same. “No.” Their voice is low and almost agonized. “Not her.”

Not the wife. Then… “Oh,” I say faintly. Gods, I didn’t expect that. Or for it to hurt so much.

I knew I was taking a risk allowing Odysseus to seduce me and shower me with gifts and this apartment and all the rest. I foolishly thought I could get out unscathed. I should have known better. I certainly flew too close to the sun with this one. “I suppose that’s one way to end a relationship.” I reach out with a shaking hand to set the wine on the dresser.

I realize my mistake of turning my back to the door too late. I try to spin back around, but I’m immediately wrapped up in a strong grip, pinning my arms to my body.

“Let go.” I fight, but they’ve got me in too tight a hold.

“Stop struggling,” they mutter.

“I think not.” It won’t make a difference. They’re too strong. Too big. I almost get twisted to see their face when they shift suddenly and cover my eyes with calloused hands. I go still. “What are you doing?”

“You can’t see me.”

I blink against their palms, my brain trying to kick into gear even as fear and panic surge inside me. I fight it down through sheer practice. To panic is to die. That metaphorical rule has become terrifying literal in this moment. “Blindfold me.”

“What?”

It’s a gamble and not even a good one, but I’ll take whatever hesitance I can capitalize on. “Blindfold me. I promise I won’t take it off. If you don’t want me to see you, then I won’t look.”

“It’s not that simple.” But they’re waffling. “This has all gone so wrong.”

I huff out a laugh. “While I sympathize, I think between the two of us that my night is going worse than yours. I just found out that the man I slept with less than twenty-four hours ago hired an assassin to kill me.” I shake my head, their hands following the movement and continuing to block my sight. “I really shouldn’t have given him the satisfaction of faking it.”

“I—”

“What can I call you?” I’m scrambling and not even elegantly, but if I give them time to think too hard, they might decide on Plan B. I have a feeling Plan B is a violent, bloody death.

Another hesitation. “You can call me M,” they finally say reluctantly.

M. Probably a first initial. Odysseus would think he’s rather clever to have others doing his dirty work, which means this is no random person picked up from the upper city warehouse district. They smell clean, too, like mint and eucalyptus. No, this is someone who would be called by the legacy families or the Thirteen, which means they’re one of Athena’s knives in the dark. Ares’s people are more security and soldiers.

On impulse, I reach up and clasp their forearm. They’re wearing long sleeves but I can feel the ragged scars beneath. Which means it can only be one person. Or, rather, it’s a reasonable assumption that Athena would send her best.

Medusa.

Fuck.

I’m not getting out of this alive.

I close my eyes and take a slow breath. No one escapes Medusa. She’s become something of an urban legend in Olympus. Some years ago, the last Poseidon tried to make her his mistress, despite the fact that she reportedly wasn’t interested in the job. He took it poorly and there was an attack, but she fought her way free and threw herself upon Athena’s mercy, such as it is. Or perhaps Athena intervened. The details are a little fuzzy. Athena, being Athena, wasn’t one to ignore a wonderfully made tool to add to her arsenal. Since then, it’s said that the only time people see Medusa is when she’s the last thing they see.

It’s obviously a rumor designed to bolster Athena’s reputation, but I can’t shake the suddenly feeing that I most certainly don’t want to see Medusa. “Blindfold me,” I repeat. “Please.”

“Close your eyes,” she finally says.

I obey. I don’t dare do anything else. “I am.”

Slowly, oh so slowly, her hands lift from my eyes. The temptation to look at her is nearly overwhelming, but I manage to wrestle down the urge. A few moments later, a cloth comes down around my eyes. I can’t tell exactly what it is, but it hugs my face tightly enough that no light gets through. I gingerly lift my hands to it. Cotton. A face mask folded up? “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. Not with what I’m here for.”

To kill me.

I make myself smile. “Yes, well, you haven’t done it yet, so thank you all the same.”

“I will.”

Does she realize how doubtful she sounds? It’s practically an invitation to dissuade her. Or perhaps that’s wishful thinking on my part, but I’m good at people and I’m a survivor. Even in this less-than-ideal situation, I can’t stop my instinct to find her fault lines and exploit them. “Do you often kill mistresses of powerful men?”

“You’re my first.”

I carefully lean back against my dresser. Impossible to say what her sexual inclinations are—that’s one thing rumor never speculates—but there’s no harm in testing the waters. I arch my back a little, letting my robe part farther, and am rewarded with a sharp little inhale. “Do you like women, M?”

“What? I... Um… Do you?” She sounds flustered, which I should not find charming, but I somehow do.

“I don’t have preferences when it comes to gender. Beauty is beauty.”

She clears her throat. “I’m not beautiful.”

“That’s not really for you to say.” I don’t know what she looks like, but that doesn’t matter. Not for this. “You’re strong. You’re clever. You’re ruthless. Those things are beautiful.”

“Really?” She manages to regain enough control to sound suspect. “Because the entirety of Olympus would beg to differ when it comes to standards of beauty.”

“The entirety of Olympus is far too shallow when it comes to image.” I shrug. My robe slips off that shoulder. At this point, it’s more garnish than covering. “They don’t think too fondly of me, either.” Too fat. Too bold and unwilling to play the game of virtue. Too strong of features. “Do you know that Odysseus offered to get me a nose job?”

“Fuck him. Your nose is perfect.” She seems to realize how forceful she sounds and makes a blatant attempt to dial it back. “No one could look at you and find you anything less than perfect.”

Oh yes, she likes women. Or at least she’s not immune to my charms, which is a shaky foundation but it’s not nothing. I smile slowly. I’ve dealt with worse odds and come out on top. “I realize this is a little unconventional, but I have a last request.”

A pause. She’s not moving, as best I can tell, but I haven’t actually heard her move to date. She’s as silent as a cat. Finally, she says, “That’s not really how this works.”

“Oh?” I cock my head to the side. “Do you often blindfold your victims and then have conversations with them?”

“…No.”

“I didn’t think so.” I don’t know if reminding her that I’m her victim is a good thing or a bad thing, but I have limited cards to play. “Indulge me.”

She sighs, and it’s so exasperated that my smile threatens to shift from charming to genuine. For an assassin, she seems rather out of her element. If the situation were different, I think I’d like her quite a lot. Medusa curses. “Well, spit it out. You obviously want something.”

Got you.

“I want you.”

She makes a choked sound. “That’s not funny.”

“Neither is knowing that I won’t live to see the morning.” This time, I can’t entirely keep my shrug loose. “As I mentioned earlier, Odysseus is a selfish lover.”

“You didn’t say that.”

“I said I faked it. It’s the same thing.” I flick my hair off my shoulder. “He wasn’t one to share, so I’ve been enduring mediocre sex for the better part of a year. If I’m going to die at your hands, I’d prefer to do it well sated.”

She’s still making that delightfully shocked choking noise. “No. Absolutely not. Out of the question.”

“Why?”

“Why?”

“Yes, why?” It’s tempting to step forward, to attempt to close the distance between us, but I’m already giving her the hard sell. If I push physically, too, then she’s liable to shove me out a window or something. I shudder at the thought of falling thirty stories to an untimely end. “Do you find me attractive?”

“We’ve already established that I do,” she grinds out. “But it’s still wrong. I know what you’re doing and it won’t work. This only ends one way.” She lowers her voice, almost as if talking to herself. “No matter what I think of it.”

Just as I suspected, she’s wavering. She has to be, in order to have given me the opportunity to talk to her at all. An assassin without conflict would have just ambushed me and gotten it over with. I’m not sure what Athena was thinking sending her, but then Medusa has a reputation for always getting the job done. Maybe she didn’t realize her sharpest tool was faltering.

I like her for that faltering. I like her even better that she’s reluctant to take advantage of me.

Unfortunately for her, I’m the one taking advantage in this situation.

“Assuage your conscience with the knowledge that you sent me to my fate well-loved.”

She sputters again. I spare the thought to wonder if she’s blushing, too. I’d bet good money that she is. I’m a fool because that pleases me entirely too much. After spending years moving among people who take it as a point of pride to act like they’re better than others—better than me—and conceal their emotions and thoughts, Medusa’s frankness is rather refreshing.

She finally clears her throat. “I can’t believe you’re asking for this. I don’t even know how to respond. This is wrong.”

“Another sin to add to the list.” I take a gamble and step forward. She doesn’t protest, so I do it again, except this time I let my leg buckle.

Medusa catches me before I hit the floor.

She’s strong. Taller than me by a good six inches and with a body that is carved with muscle. It makes sense, given her line of work, but I can’t quite help an appreciative noise as I run my hands over her arms. She sets me back on my feet easily but can’t quite seem to make herself release me. Her grip pulses on my hips as if she wants to touch me more but is working hard to restrain herself.

In the past, when I’ve made this same offer—albeit for different reasons—no one has ever paused before they’ve all but leapt on me in an effort to take what I’m giving before I can change my mind. Ironic that an assassin is the one who hesitates, who acknowledges the motive beneath the offer. “This isn’t right,” she murmurs. “You can hardly consent when I’m here for…the reason I’m here.”

I reach her broad shoulders and feather my fingertips over her collarbone. “Plenty of people have taken what they want with less care over my feelings on the matter.” I cup her jaw with one hand and drop the other to her hip so I can tug her closer. She follows my guidance without hesitation. “Please, M. If this is to be my last night, I don’t want to die with the memory of his hands on me. Kiss me.”