A Touch of Malice (Hades x Persephone Saga Book 3)

Persephone arrived at Talaria Stadium with Sybil, Leuce, and Zofie. From the outside, the arena looked more like a marble building with stacked columns and archways of reflective windows. On a normal July day, they would mirror the beauty of the setting sun. Instead, they were packed with ice. Despite the weather, people were everywhere, making their way through the snow toward one of many entrances around the stadium.

“It says here there are eight heroes competing,” said Leuce, looking at her phone. The glow made her white eyes spark. “Three women and four men.”

“There should be more women,” Zofie said, who sat beside Leuce and still towered over them. “We handle pain far better.”

They laughed.

“Does Hades have a hero in the games, Persephone?” Sybil asked. Her hair was pulled back into a curled ponytail and she’d changed into something a little less formal after work, now sporting jeans and a pink New Athens University hoodie.

“Not that I’m aware,” Persephone said. Hades had never chosen a hero—not in the games and not in battle—though, he had resurrected them.

“Chariot races were never my favorite,” Leuce said, wrinkling her nose. She was probably recalling something from her life in the ancient world.

“Why?” Persephone asked.

“Because they’re bloody. Why do you think they begin the Games with them?”

“To weed out competitors,” Zofie said, a menacing gleam in her eyes.

That filled Persephone with a sense of dread, and she worried for the competitors, in particular Ajax. She knew he was skilled, but if anything happened to him, Apollo would be devastated.

“Do not worry,” Sybil said. “They train for this.”

“Training means nothing when it comes to animals,” said Zofie.

Antoni pulled around to the back of the stadium and parked at a private entrance where only a handful of people lingered. They left the comfort of the limo and stepped into the chill evening. Persephone had chosen to wear a white dress, a black blazer, and thick black stockings. Still, the wind cut through them. Once inside, they were led into an elevator, to the top floor, where they were taken to a private suite. It was a modern, monochrome space with a bar, black leather couches, and large televisions on display in every corner of the room that played footage from previous games and interviews with heroes. A platform of seats were positioned near a large floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the arena which looked exactly like the practice area at the Palestra of Delphi.

“This is nice,” said Leuce, approaching the windows.

“Can we not sit closer?” Zofie asked.

“I do not wish to eat dirt, Zofie,” said Leuce. “Or die. Have you not seen how those chariots crash?”

Persephone’s eyes shifted to Sybil, wondering if she would be comfortable here given that the space was so reminiscent of Apollo, but the oracle smiled.

“I am well, Persephone,” she said.

The four ordered drinks from the bar.

“Whiskey, please,” Persephone said. “Neat.”

“Whiskey?” Leuce asked, raising a brow. “Aren’t you a wino?”

She shrugged. “I tried some of Hades’ whiskey the other night and I liked it.”

Their orders came, and Persephone sipped her drink, enjoying the flavor and the smell and it made her wish Hades was here already.

“Sephy!”

She spun, finding Hermes approaching dressed in a white blazer, slacks, and a light blue shirt. He looked comfortable and handsome.

“Hermes! I did not know you would be in this suite!”

“Looks like it’s you, me, some Olympians and any playthings they choose to bring,” he said, and Persephone’s eyes widened. “You’re sharing, Sephy!”

She almost groaned. The last thing she wanted to do was be in the same room with Zeus, Poseidon, Hera, and Ares. Suddenly, Zofie’s idea of sitting on the frontlines despite its dangers, sounded like the better option.

Persephone took a bigger drink.

Soon, gods began to arrive with their favored in tow and the room grew warm and fragrant with magic. The first to arrive was Artemis—beautiful and athletic, she wore a short dress and her hair slicked back into a tight, straight ponytail. As she entered, she halted, frowning at Hermes and then at Persephone.

“It’s you,” she said.

“She has a name, Artemis,” said Hermes. “Play nice.”

“I am playing nice,” she said, but her approach was predatory. “I find you intriguing, goddess.”

“Persephone,” Hermes said. “Her name is Persephone.”

“Still determined to marry Hades and let the world die?” she asked.

Persephone cocked her head to the side and asked, “Aren’t you the Goddess of the Hunt?”

Artemis lifted her chin. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“I would think you could use your exceptional tracking abilities to locate my mother instead of insulting me.”

Her lips flattened. “You have an insufferable mouth, goddess.”

Persephone’s lips curled. “I think that is the only thing you and Hades would agree on.”

Artemis rolled her eyes and stalked away.

“Ignore her,” said Hermes. “She has a stick up her vagina.”

Persephone looked at the god. “It’s ass, Hermes. Stick up her ass.”

He shrugged. “They’re close.”

She tried not to laugh.

More people arrived. Zeus came with Hera, and Poseidon with a beautiful ocean nymph who sported blue hair. Hades’ brothers smiled at her but only Zeus spoke. He made her uncomfortable and she found herself tensing at his approach.

“You look well, Lady Persephone.”

“Thank you,” she said, though the words felt awkward and insincere.

“I trust Hades will be along shortly,” he said.

“Yes. We look forward to an update on your progress toward finding my mother and ending the storm,” she said.

Zeus’s face hardened, and then he gave a curt nod. “Of course.”

As he walked away, she got the impression he had not thought twice about the mortals on Earth while he lounged upon Olympus.

Aphrodite and Harmonia arrived a while later. It was Harmonia she noticed first as the goddess made a straight path toward their group, smiling as she stood close to Sybil.

“It’s good to see you Harmonia. How are you?”

“I am well,” she said and smiled. “I’m sorry I had to leave…”

She let her voice trail away as Aphrodite joined them.

“Persephone,” she said and nodded to the others. “Everyone…else.”

There was a beat of silence that followed her approach. Usually, Persephone was quick to begin a conversation, but all she could think of was what Aphrodite had looked like in the basement of Club Aphrodisia—bloodied, holding a demi-god’s heart in her hand. She wondered how the goddess had found out about the rally. Was she satisfied with the bloodshed? They were questions that would have to wait as a loud burst of music and cheers interrupted their mingling.

“Oh, the games are starting!” Zofie said.

They took their seats, and Persephone was relieved when Hermes dropped into the one to her right—Sybil was on the left. They watched as the Opening Ceremony began below. The first announcement was for Apollo—the chancellor of the games—who was carried out upon a litter—or an open chair—which was hoisted by four very strong men with oiled and bare chests. They wore white tunics, gold cuffs, and laurel leaves in their hair—the same outfit Apollo sported. He grinned and waved at the crowd, no sign of his agony present. He was followed by a group of women who danced and threw petals upon the ground.

They made a lap around the field and then returned to the stadium.

“Will Apollo sit with us?” Persephone asked.

“No, he has his own box,” Hermes said.

After, the gods’ heroes marched into the center of the field below as they and their sponsoring god were announced. She recognized several who had trained at the Palestra, including Hector and Ajax.

“Do you have a hero in the games?” She asked Hermes.

“I do,” he said. “Third from the left. His name is Aesop.”

Persephone found him in the lineup—a strong yet lean man with sandy blond hair.

“You don’t seem particularly excited,” Persephone pointed out.

He shrugged. “He has gifts, but he is not strong like Ajax or forceful like Hector. Those two are the real competition.”

There were others, too—Damon who belonged to Aphrodite, and Castor who belonged to Hera. Anastasia to Ares, Demi to Artemis, and Cynisca to Athena. As they marched onto the field, they flexed their muscles in a posing routine which made the crowd cheer louder.

“Ladies and gentlemen, Gods and Goddesses, Royal Divine among us—give another round of applause for our New Greece Heroes!”

Persephone leaned toward Hermes and spoke over the roar of the crowd.

“You said Hector was forceful,” Persephone said. “What does that mean?”

“You’ll see.”

At the sound of a trumpet, she sat forward, and eight chariots emerged from the shadows of the stadium, each drawn by four, powerful horses. They were mighty steeds, their coats silken and of varying colors. Their hooves pounded the earth as they converged upon the track, sending up dust and clumps of dirt as their handlers—the heroes—urged them on.

“How does this work?” she asked Hermes, her heart already racing from the thrill.

“The charioteers must make twelve laps around the hippodrome. They will keep count there,” he said, pointing to a mechanical system at the center of the arena—a series of dolphin statues that would nose-dive once the first lap had been conquered.

“Why do they use such an ancient form of score-keeping?” she asked.

He shrugged. “We pick and choose what we wish to keep from antiquity, Sephy. Haven’t you noticed?”

While they spoke, her eyes remained on the field, watching the race—a battle between beast and man to be the first to the turning post. There was so much dust, so much speed, so much power, it had to be dangerous.

Just as that thought crossed Persephone’s mind, one of the chariots flipped.

Her shocked inhale caught in her throat as the chariot landed and shatter, the broken body of Castor crushed beneath, but what made her blood run colder still was the laugh that escaped both Zeus and Poseidon at the mortal’s immediate death.

“No victory for you, eh, Hera?” Zeus taunted.

She glanced at Hermes, who quickly reached for her hand and squeezed.

“It is a game to them, Sephy.”

She bit her lip hard, recalling why Triad protested the games—this is what they objected. There was more movement on the field as a group of people ran onto the track to remove the debris from the broken chariot, wrangle the horses, and carry away the body.

“Why aren’t they stopping?” Persephone asked. “That man…Castor…he’s dead.”

“It is the nature of the game,” Hermes said.

Not long after the first accident, there was another. Two chariots collided in a tangle of horses and reigns. Aesop was thrown from his chariot while Demi’s leg was crushed beneath hers—her screams reached them from the floor. Still, they were both alive.

Persephone was torn from continuing to watch and fleeing this place entirely, but she stayed because Ajax was still in the race and in the lead—beside Hector. The wheels of their two chariots were inches from one another, their horses charging on. Of the two, Hector seemed the most desperate, urging his steeds on with the use of his whip—lashing over and over until he used it on Ajax.

“He can’t do that,” Persephone leaned forward, looking to Hermes. “Can he?”

The God of Mischief shrugged. “There aren’t really rules. Is it fair? No.”

She suddenly understood what Hermes meant when he’d described Hector as forceful.

Her attention returned to the track.

Hector continued to lash Ajax until he managed to latch onto the whip and jerk it from Hector’s grasp—but Hector’s cheating came with a price as his chariot strayed too close to the wall, hitting with such force, it broke into pieces and sent him flying. Persephone did not even see where the mortal landed, she was too focused on Apollo who had appeared on the field just as Ajax finished his final lap, winning the race.

Ajax drew his chariot to a stop, his wide smile on display for the crowd. As he dismounted, Apollo approached and hesitantly reached out, touching the mortal’s bloodied face where the whip had split his skin. Then, all of a sudden, the two kissed. Ajax cradled Apollo’s face between his hands, his mouth devouring, his body overpowering. Their display of affection was met with cheers—even from Hermes.

“Yes! Get it, brother!”

Persephone tried not to laugh.

When the crowd began to boo, Apollo spun to find Hector rising from the dust, cradling his arm against his chest. He spat blood, a gush of crimson coming from his nose and mouth, hatred gleamed in his eyes.

It was then Persephone noticed something strange—a group of spectators breaking from their place among the crowd and making their way down the stadium steps.

“Hermes…who are those people?”

Just as she posed the question, Ajax seemed to take note, and in the next second, he was drawing Hermes behind him as shots rang out and screams filled the air.

“Get down!” Sybil shouted, but Persephone could only watch the horror as Ajax push Apollo to the ground, taking bullet after bullet.

“No!” Persephone’s scream was raw and painful, scraping against her throat as she stood and slammed on the window.

“Persephone,” Hermes reached for her. “We have to go!”

Apollo screamed beneath Ajax’s convulsing body. Finally, he managed to roll and the bullets that raced toward them stopped mid-air, dropping to the ground.

“There are others here who will fight,” Hermes argued. “But not you.”

Hermes had his hand wrapped around her upper arm as he dragged her away from the window. Then, there was a terrible sound—a cracking that sounded like Zeus’s magic escaping from the clouds—except it wasn’t. Part of the stadium had exploded.

“Get the mortals out!” someone commanded, and there was a sudden rush of magic. Persephone watch as Harmonia vanished with Sybil and Leuce. Zofie stood, hand outstretched toward Persephone.

“Go!” Hermes pushed her toward the Amazon.

Then there was another defending explosion and Persephone found herself floating through the air, landing hard at the center of the track amid flying debris and dust. As she hit, there was a sharp pain in her ribs, and it felt as though her breath had been sucked out of her body. She rolled onto her back, gasping for air just as a shadow loomed overhead.

A mortal man holding a rock aloft.

Persephone screamed, her magic stirring, and from the ground, great thorns rose, piercing the man. He dropped the stone, run through with the vine, blood dripping from his mouth.

She rolled and crawled away, getting to her feet amid the chaos of desperate screams and death. People lay motionless while others climbed over the bodies to escape the ruined arena. There were hundreds of these masked attackers and even as the gods descended, they continued to take aim. She did not understand this—but knew it for what it was—hate.

Magic ignited the air in a stream of bright light—lightning bolts struck, and energy pulsed. Artemis unleashed a spray of deadly arrows while Athena ran others through with a spear and Ares with a sword. Zofie fought, too, having landed across the arena. A streak of blood ran from her head down her face, but her blade was drawn, and she was nimble, quick, and dangerous.

It was bloodshed. It was a battle.

“Persephone!” Her name tore from Apollo’s mouth. She whirled, but it was too late. A bullet struck her shoulder.

“No!” Apollo’s eyes glowed as he ran toward her.

She staggered a couple steps, shocked, the left side of her body numb. She managed to look down, and as she saw the blood seeping into the white fabric of her dress, she began to fall but before she could land in the dirt, strong arms surrounded her. The catch jarred her, and she gave a guttural cry.

“I’ve got you.” Hades said. She stared into his dark, stormy eyes for only a second before he teleported.