6

6

The Chosen Few

Being required to attend the opening rites of the Crucible is worse than a trip down the River Styx.

Felix is losing his shit. I know he is because every time I catch a glimpse of him through the crush of people, he’s gnashing his teeth together and looking around wildly. Nice of him to make an appearance, finally. At least I’ve managed to rejoin the others on the city side of the bridge without catching his eye.

A minor miracle, actually.

I haven’t been spotted by Boone or Chance, either. I have a plan to keep it that way. As soon as things here really get started, I’m sneaking back to the den. Not just to avoid various confrontations, but also to process everything that I’ve been through tonight. Especially a certain god.

Felix swings his gaze in my direction, and I duck, trying to make myself as small as possible. Maybe he doesn’t know I abandoned my duties earlier, but this isn’t the time to find out. When he turns back without seeing me, I let out a silent breath of relief, then can’t help but smile a little to myself. Frustration really doesn’t sit well on his craggy features.

Not that I can blame him. This is a thief’s paradise. All these pockets so very ripe for the picking, and all his pledges have had their hands tied, since it’s now a little past midnight and the festival has officially begun.

The gathered people are smooshed together in milling multitudes. It feels like every living soul within a thousand miles of San Francisco—even those who don’t worship this set of gods—is here.

That makes sense if I think about it.

Most mortals have a vested interest in who is crowned ruler of the Olympian gods next for several reasons—a favorite or most hated or feared god or goddess, or a certain god as a patron, like me. And some are more directly impacted. I’m guessing many farmers favor Demeter to win, to bless their crops and harvests. Soldiers would favor Ares. Scholars and teachers want Athena. And so on.

Even mortals who worship other gods are interested because of the spectacle of it all. Or maybe they dislike a god with similar or competing powers to their own. Or maybe, most simply, they just don’t want to offend said gods.

No matter which way you look at it, the world is watching with interest.

And despite that, every single valuable is safe now.

No wonder my old mentor looks harried. Not a single whistle sounds. At least not the kind our pledges make when they coordinate around a potential mark.

And this will last the entire month.

I shift back and forth on my feet, staring at Zeus’ temple across the way as it does nothing beyond the usual lightning display.

Up in that temple, the gods’ mortal acolytes burn offerings, whisper prayers, and perform whatever rites they deem necessary. Since this only happens once every hundred years, I’d place bets that they’re just making it up as they go.

Not that we can see any of it from here. No cameras are allowed to record inside the temple—another edict from the gods. But it means I’m stuck with millions of others staring at the white-columned building atop the mountain on the other side of the bridge like it might suddenly turn into a dragon and breathe fire.

So far, all that’s happened is a single puff of white smoke that trailed upward into the sky, probably from a sacrifice.

People have filled the street along the bay all the way to the fringes of the city itself, and those of us standing at the very back have been channeled in between buildings. That’s where I am.

The other pledges are gathered in little groups, debating if Hermes will pick a thief or not. It’s happened before. After the initial round of smirks and glances aimed in my direction, they’ve gone back to ignoring me, which is good for my escape plan.

Several people around me stare at their phones, watching various forms of “live coverage” of even more people around the globe standing in streets in other cities, staring at various temples of these gods. I catch snatches of commentary here and there, not that they have much new to report yet.

“Legends hold that the gods and goddesses got so sick of Zeus as their king, they fought among themselves to be the one to topple him, resulting in the Anaxian Wars,” a news anchor is saying on a device near me. “It got so ugly that they wrecked wonders, knocking the Colossus of Rhodes off his feet and turning hundreds of warriors to terracotta.”

I snort a laugh. That pissed off a whole different set of gods, apparently.

The newscaster is still talking. “They destroyed cities like Atlantis and Pompeii and eventually demolished their home of Olympus, which has since been rebuilt.”

Everyone knows this story. After that, the gods formed a pact that they would never directly fight one another again, and the Crucible was created—where they just let us mortals duke it out on their behalves, apparently.

A gasp rips through the masses around me. “Zeus,” someone calls out. “Zeus is choosing.”

“Where?” a few others ask loudly.

After that, voices rise in a mottled swell of sound. I inch closer to a man to my left who is watching his phone with avid interest.

Sure enough, at a simple temple I don’t recognize located somewhere else in the world, a massive bolt of lightning shears out of a clear blue sky and strikes the temple with a clap of thunder so loud it appears to shake the very ground. Then a deep voice booms out—maybe from inside the building where he is, because I don’t see the god anywhere. “I am Zeus—first King of the Gods, god of the skies, thunder and lightning, god of weather, law and order, kingship, destiny and fate.”

I roll my eyes. Destiny and fate are the same thing. Aren’t they? Pompous jackass.

And it should be King of the Olympian Gods, by the way. But all the gods of my pantheon are egotistical enough to want to lay claim to the whole thing. So, King of the Gods it is.

“On this, the first day of the Crucible, I shall select first.” The god pauses, almost like he’s waiting for applause or something. Given we’re all unsure about exactly how this works and what it means, and I’m guessing the crowds surrounding the temple where he is are now having a hard time hearing around the ringing in their ears from the thunder, they all remain silent and watchful.

“I choose…”