Persephone snorts. “We’re all too attached. Don’t even pretend that you’re not. You’re even more revoltingly sentimental than I am.” She nods toward his hand. “You still wear her hair around your wrist.”
My heart slamming in my chest, I look more closely at the thick, dark cord around Ares’s wrist. I’d hardly noticed it, thinking it was some sort of braided rope bracelet, but it’s not. I know exactly what it is now.
I was ten, small but fierce. He’d bested me on the training field—as always—but I kept fighting with a broken arm, cuts and bruises, and one eye swollen shut.
Thanos dodged every knife I threw at him, got behind me, grabbed my hair in his big fist, and then started dragging me toward the castle with a frustrated curse. But I wouldn’t stop. I kept hissing, spitting, and twisting like a slippery little snake, landing blows and shouting that I wasn’t done yet. I was never done, because I was so determined to beat him one day.
“Enough, little monster. Time to find the healer, or you’ll be weak for days.”
And that would have left me vulnerable to my brothers. To Mother.
I still wouldn’t listen. If I fought hard enough, I was sure I could finally win. He held on to my hair and pulled until my eyes watered. I wasn’t getting anywhere with my thrashing and yanking, so I drew the last knife I had in my belt and cut off my hair above his grip. The second I could, I spun around and plunged the dagger into his thigh with a bloodcurdling scream of triumph.
Thanos had looked at me then, with my long hair still clutched in his fist, like I’d just become an entirely different creature. One he liked even better. It was the first and only time I ever drew his blood.
Staring at his bracelet now, I lift my hand and touch my head, memory’s ghost still flitting through my mind. The morning of that training session, my hair had started out longer than it is today. The day had ended with a bushy tangle of barely chin-length curls.
The following morning, Mother had slapped me and said I looked like a boy. Father, a nonentity in my life, hadn’t recognized me for days. Thanos had given me a rust-colored scarf to cover the mess I’d made. He’d patted his thigh where I’d stuck him with my knife and told me he’d dyed the cloth in his own blood.
Remembering his pride in me that day, I get the most horrifying urge to cry. “You kept me alive all these years.”
Ares shrugs. “I was nowhere about after you left Castle Fisa. The others made sure of that.”
“No, you were here.” I press my hand to my chest. His training was never about hurting me—or my trying to hurt him back. It was about skill, yes, but also about perseverance, about finding inner strength, both mental and physical, when the wells of each seemed not just dried up but completely drained and destroyed. His often-brutal methods taught me that giving up is never an option. A true warrior fights through pain. Through anything. Through everything.
“You’re not dead until you’re on the far side of the Styx,” I murmur. It’s what he always said. And I know that better than anyone for having nearly been there. Until you’ve paid the ferryman and taken his boat, there’s always one more swing, one more kick, one more bite if it comes to that. That lesson never left me. Or failed me.
The urge to cry gets worse. “I owe you my life.”
Athena huffs, half rolling her eyes again. “Let’s not exaggerate. Now”—she rubs her hands together—“terms.”
I glance at Piers again, still reeling from seeing Ares wearing my braided hair around his wrist. Not even the mention of terms appears to interest Piers, though. He’s staring at Kaia, but his expression looks dull and unfocused.
Griffin watches his brother as well. Anger burns brightly in Griffin’s eyes, stoked hotter by terrible hurt. I slip my hand into his, squeezing gently. He doesn’t look at me, but after a moment, he grips my hand back so hard it aches.
I return my focus to the Olympians because looking at Griffin is breaking my heart. Piers’s betrayal must have shattered him on a deep level. Now, perhaps even worse, he’s about to lose his brother forever before he has time to even try to understand or forgive.
Ares glares at Piers. “He has to pay for what he tried to do to my little monster.”
“She has a name,” Persephone snaps out impatiently.
“I know,” Ares snaps back. “It’s Little Monster.”
“No, it’s Catal—”
“Not important,” I interrupt. “What do you mean by terms?” I ask Athena.
The look Athena levels on me is so icy I get chills. She jerks her spear from the ground and then flips it in her hand, pointing it straight at me. For a terrifying second, I think she’s going to run me through.
Her eyes narrow. “You’re just like Artemis said. Irreverent in the extreme.”
I swallow. I guess I overstepped. Or she’s not used to me. Probably both.
Athena thumps her spear against her shield, startling everyone. Apparently, that’s her way of opening negotiations. Better than skewering me, at least.
“He’ll be fluent in the first ten languages he hears,” she announces.
Good Gods! How many do they have?
