Page 2 of His Eternal Claim

Papa wipes his hands on a handkerchief and turns, breathing hard. When his eyes slide past us, he doesn’t even stop.

Maybe he won’t visit my room tonight. When he’s angry, he sleeps in his own room, and then the next day, Mama has more blue flowers.

Something heavy sits in the middle of my chest, but I push it down. Crying is for stupid children; I’m not stupid. I’m Zagreus Vitale. Papa says that a name should mean something.

That I will inherit his throne and legacy, and I must learn to become like him.

Like most children, I do want to become my Papa, but what if I truly become him?

I don’t have time to think when the iron gates at the end of the garden open. A car rolls in, black and shiny, and stops. A man steps out. Papa’s friend. George Visconti. The one who was supposed to come today, the one Papa said we must behave for.

I sit straighter. Behind him comes his wife, holding the hand of a little girl.

She’s tiny. Around Corvin’s age. Her hair is tied into two pigtails that bounce when she walks. She looks around the garden and points at the roses.

Her eyes meet mine, and she smiles.

A big, bright smile like a man wasn’t killed in this garden a minute ago.

I hate it instantly.

I hate how her eyes shine. I hate how her dress is pink and clean. I hate how she knows nothing about bruises, or shouting, or blood on stone floors.

But… I can’t stop looking at her.

She keeps smiling at me as she walks with her Mother. Her cheeks are round and small. Her eyes look like they are honey dipped in cinnamon.

My heart makes a weird jump, like it skipped a step on the stairs.

I look away fast.

Mama moves beside me, her fingers brushing my hair. “Zagreus,” she murmurs. “Be polite. They’re our guests. Papa won’t like it if you are rude.”

“I don’t want to,” I mutter.

The little girl is still staring at me. She tilts her head, pigtails swaying.

Her Father kneels to her level. “Selene,” he says. “Come greet our hosts.”

Selene.

That’s her name.

She lets go of her Mother’s hand and walks toward us, her tiny shoes sinking into the grass. She stops right in front of me, so close I can see her lashes. So close I can hear her small breaths.

“Hi,” she says.

Her voice is soft, like cotton candy, like nothing in my house. I say nothing.

She’s holding a rolled paper in her fist and unfurls it when she notices me looking.

She sticks her hand out. I glare at the rough strokes of paint brushed on the paper. But when I look at her face again, something inside my chest moves. I don’t like it. I don’t like her. But my hand lifts anyway. Our fingers touch as I take the painting. Her skin is warm. She smiles even more.

My throat goes tight. I hate her. I think. I’m not sure.

Phase One

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