Without preamble, Zeus stalked across the sand. He ripped Kharon’s toga open as he grabbed him by his dark hair and lifted his limp body up.
Zeus slammed the brand into his already mangled chest. I clutched my heart.
When Kharon awoke, he’d have another scar.
Fluffy Jr. growled as he stumbled across the sands, turning to stand in front of me, his wings tucked against his back.
Clutching my stomach, I vomited its contents, then I dug my hands into the blood-soaked sand and pushed myself to my feet.
I staggered upright, screaming at the top of my lungs, “I know what you did!”
Zeus stopped walking.
He fisted his hands.
“You’re playing a game that you can’t win,” Zeus said, his back still to me. “If you don’t make it to the gate, you lose.”
He resumed walking away.
Choking on rage, I took a limping step forward, chasing after him.
One foot at a time.
A strange buzzing echoed.
It was clapping.
A new chant started, voices growing in strength, until Sparta was bellowing at the top of its lungs.
“A hero is forged—behold, the twelve labors of Hercules … A hero is forged—behold, the twelve labors of Hercules … A HERO IS FORGED—BEHOLD, THE TWELVE LABORS OF HERCULES.”
Finally, what felt like hours later, I stepped out of the harsh sun, into the shadowy hall of the coliseum, and collapsed on all fours.
Lying on the stone floor, I unzipped my toga pocket and pushed my hand inside—the graphing calculator was warm to the touch.
The odds were always in my favor.
I wanted to curl into a fetal position and sob for Augustus and Kharon, but I was still alive—I could still do this.
As darkness beckoned, my bloodline chanted my name. Hades and Persephone had made me in their image.
Zeus would learn.
I was theheiressto the House of Hades—and hellhounds, not lions, were the top of the food chain.
46
INTERROGATIONS
ALEXIS
Freezing water splashed across my face, and I struggled to breathe as someone pinched my nose. The pressure released. I coughed violently.
The room was dark.
Something cold dug into my skin—I shifted—chains were wrapped around my chest and legs, constraining me to a chair. My hands were at my sides, mostly free.
I was sitting in front of a metal table that was streaked with dried blood.
