Page 19 of The Mortal Trials

Hermes hears him, no doubt, but doesn’t acknowledge it.

My eyes cut to him in a silent reply. Neither do I.

Sweeping staircases lead to landings, and we ultimately end our climb at a veranda so vast you can’t see across to its opposite side. People cluster here and there in small groups, talking, sipping from champagne flutes, and sampling food proffered by a multitude of servants who energetically flit between them like Abuela’s bright quetzals.

The atmosphere is relaxed and easy. I mark the exits and the visible threats. The effort is fruitless when I realize Hermes was right. There’s no way off this island except for the préachán circling overhead.

Everyone here is a threat, even if they seem friendly. Because none of the gods are friends of mortals, and the Olympian people are fiercely devoted to their pantheon.

The people are finely dressed. Men are either in suits tailored to perfection or worn loosely, as is the current fashion in Olympus, while the women wear flowing gowns, chiton tunics and himation wraps, and sleeveless peplos garments to honor Greek tradition.

I recognize some faces from broadcasts I watched at Abuela’s before I tore out the screen.

Too soon, my name is whispered behind hands and people turn to watch Niall and me pass by.

Panels of ivory silk billow from where they hang between the palace’s columns. One swath brushes my arm as Hermes ushers us inside, past a lute player and the small crowd enjoying his sweet music.

The crackle of magic sparks in this place. Like it’s a tinderbox and the divine might obliterate us all with just a flash of their power. Lingering scents of lush fruit and honey permeate the air. We pass tables laden with cups brimming with pale lilac liquid. Ambrosia has a distinct, sweet smell. Perfumiers have tried and failed to replicate it.

How many gods are here?

Pantheons, Aisling had said.

Athena strides into the temple interior between two silk panels, her shoulders back and head held high. She marches past us wearing a flowing cobalt dress beneath a scarred golden breast plate, her strategizing gray eyes sizing us up without a flicker of emotion. Her cape is a curtain of long, dark hair, slick as oil.

If Ares’s sister is here, he likely is, too.

My skin crawls under her scrutiny, and at the thought of his. When I turn to watch her pass, I meet the cold stare she tosses over her shoulder.

I jolt when a thunderous voice booms, arcing from the center of the enormous, hollow room and spreading over the space like forked lightning over the sky. Everyone knows that voice by heart.

“Zeus is here,” Niall breathes.

Zeus, King of the Greek pantheon as well as the father of half-siblings Athena and Ares, among many others.

He has only descended from his home on the great, sky-bound mountain in rare circumstances over the past several years. Not that it’s a bad thing for him to stay aloft. None of his descensions were fortunate for the mortals who stepped into his tempestuous path.

I edge around the room until I glimpse him.

Zeus is as regal and chiseled as his statues’ likenesses depict. White haired and bearded, he stands with a possessive arm snaked around Hera’s waist. Like her husband, she only deigns to descend from her perch in the clouds to wreak havoc on people who likely don’t deserve her ire or attention. Usually, it is to clean up the messes her husband leaves behind.

At first glance, the king of the Greek pantheon is everything he’s supposed to be. But a second one reveals who he truly is. His eyes track the movements of a shy servant girl holding a tray of sparkling drinks, smiling as she offers refreshment.

Zeus’s wife is painfully, bitterly aware of his focus. Her lips pinch and her spine straightens as he pulls away from her for a better view of the young woman as she turns to leave.

Hera is radiant despite his inattention, donning a pale blue gown that flows off her lithe form like water. She tightens the grip on her scepter, a long, golden lotus flower, like she might use it on her husband as she makes a clever quip, laughter ringing out from her loyal subjects.

Her golden crown is comprised of twisted branches with leaves unfolding around the artful braid, the warmth a sharp contrast to her dark waves. She notices Hermes a split second before her eyes tighten on me.

“The last of our esteemed guests has arrived,” the messenger breezily delivers.

Zeus abandons the flitting servant and leaves his sycophants to greet us. “Welcome!”

Despite his pleasant tone, there’s a cruel gleam in his eyes. Somehow in my marrow, I know he is much worse than Ares, and that what he would do would pale in comparison to how Ares punishes me for simply existing.

Niall stands up straighter at my side. “Thank you,” he graciously answers when not a single word will crawl up my throat.

Zeus’s gaze dips to search for my prosthesis.