Blood of Hercules: Chapter 12

Alexis

“Wake up!” a voice demanded.

I groaned and pulled the warm covers over my head, but the slight movement made my arms burn with pain.

I deeply regretted being alive (more so than usual).

“It’s almost noon,” a voice ranted. “You need to wake up right now. We have to fuel your body and strategize. Our future hinges on you getting the fuck up.”

A man was speaking, so I stopped listening.

Dreams beckoned me.

The toasty covers were ripped away. It was freezing cold, so I pressed my face into the pillow, searching for warmth—it, too, was ripped away.

Screaming through gritted teeth, I debated waking up, but it seemed like too much work. Sleep reclaimed me.

Hands wrapped around my legs and shoulders roughly. I was lifted into the air, and mint filled my nose. Someone had picked me up.

Drool dripped down the side of my face, and I prayed Carl Gauss was embracing me. Please let him have a normal-shaped penis. I can’t handle any more trauma.

I groaned loudly as I was jostled.

“Everyone, shut up!” Nyx yelled from somewhere nearby.

My unsupported neck jiggled, and bright warmth suddenly heated my face.

There was a strange splashing noise.

Abruptly the hands released me.

I was free-falling.

Splash.

I screamed out bubbles.

Underwater and disoriented, I flailed.

Kharon is near, he’s going to kill me. Swim. Swim as fast you can before he kills you and⁠—

I burst out of the surface of the water.

Bright sunlight burned my eye as I struggled to catch my bearings and get away from the evil ferryman who was coming after me in the circuit.

Panic intensified.

I splashed harder.

My vision focused. I stood (half keeled over, flailing) in hip-deep turquoise water that was warm and tranquil, nothing like the River Styx.

A lush green hill contrasted with the brilliant sea, and a sprawling white home was nestled among the plants on the island’s edge.

French doors were open, leading into a familiar room.

Either I was having a hallucinogenic episode, or I was back in Corfu at the Crimson Duo’s home.

The Aegean Sea was peaceful around me.

Sparkling and serene.

If I’m back with my mentors, then it must be the beginning of August.

The bright summer sun warmed my face. In the shadows of the deck, a figure moved. Achilles cut an imposing figure, dressed head to toe in black. A cigarette protruded from the grate of his muzzle.

He puffed out a cloud of smoke.

Shadows moved at his legs—Nero wagged his tail, and Poppae glared.

Water rippled as another figure blocked my sun.

Patro stood over me.

He looked pissed.

I opened my mouth to ask why he’d dumped me in the sea, but a groan left my lips. My head throbbed, and white spots dotted my vision.

The world spun.

Every muscle in my body ached.

I rested my hands on my knees and coughed raspingly. Red droplets of blood sprayed from my lips, then sank into the clear waters.

It was all too much.

I collapsed backward into the sea and spread my sore arms.

In my head, I floated peacefully. In reality, I partially drowned because I couldn’t find the strength to lift up my sore hips.

A tear streaked out of the corner of my eye.

If I didn’t know any better, I’d have assumed I’d been hit by a Spartan truck. It felt like a driver had slammed into me from the side, then backed over my body, then got out of the vehicle and stomped on my⁠—

“Why are you scrunching your face like that?” Patro interrupted my spiral.

I grunted as I tried to breathe. “I’m profiling the imaginary driver that hit me with his truck.” I squinted as I thought about it.

A bird squawked as it floated across the cloudless sky, and I studied it suspiciously. Is it spying on me?

“Next time,” Patro said slowly, “don’t share.”

“Next time,” I whispered, “don’t ask.”

“How about next time, you wake up like a normal person,” Patro snapped. “Then I won’t have to dump you in the sea and watch you drown in shallow water.”

I rolled my suspiciously moisture-filled eyes. “Just let me sleep.”

Patro clamped his hand around my ankle and dragged me through the water so I was right beside him.

“No, you need to refuel your body after the academy. That’s what these three days off are primarily for. I’ve been trying to wake you up for hours, Alex,” he growled. “Nothing worked.”

I loathed that name.

His grip tightened, red ink spelled out “LIAR” across his knuckles, and his thumb scraped against my shin bone.

We both stared down at where he was touching me.

It hit me, harder than my imaginary truck driver: he was touching me. Another person is touching me.

I shrieked and kicked him in the groin.

Patro groaned and doubled over. “What the fuck—” He grunted in pain. “—was that fucking for?”

Splashing, muscles cramping, I scrambled toward the shore. “Don’t t-touch me,” I called out weakly.

Patro stood up to his full height, broad shoulders imposing—the sparkling sea did nothing to soften him—and his green wet T-shirt stuck to his chiseled chest like a second skin. It brought out the color of his eyes.

If I didn’t know better, I’d have sworn the statue of David was modeled after Patro. He really was sinfully handsome.

Not that I noticed.

“What the fuck is actually wrong with you?” he yelled.

“Anger is a secondary emotion,” I pointed out helpfully with a dry croak as I backed away toward the land. “You should work on expressing your p-primary emotions . . . and not swearing.”

Nostrils flaring, Patro cracked his knuckles. “Genuine question—what in the fuckity fuck fucker is wrong with you?”

I winced.

Why do I keep engaging with the psychotic killer?

Patro narrowed his eyes. “Got something to say?”

The wounds on my feet stung as I kept backing away over the pebbled seafloor, and I shook my head.

The momentary courage was gone.

I should never have spoken.

“You just kicked me, Alex.” Patro’s voice was cold. “You spoiled little brat.”

The irony of him calling me spoiled while using the name they used was not lost on me.

“Please don’t call me that name,” I whispered quietly.

“Kick me like that again,” Patro said as he stalked forward through the hip-level water, “and I’ll break your fucking leg. Alex.”

How the world worshipped the cruel man in front of me was beyond my comprehension. Sure, he was interesting to look at, but so was magma before it burned you alive.

Widening my sore legs, a scarlet cloud rising in the water from the open wounds on my feet, I tried to look like I wasn’t five seconds away from passing out and drowning.

Vicious memories played on a loop at the edge of my subconscious.

Patro took another step forward so he was within lunging distance. Retreat, retreat. Turning, I sprinted (hobbled slowly) over the pebbles on the shoreline back up to the deck.

There was a trail of red behind me.

Grabbing a towel off the chair farthest from Achilles, I angled myself behind the furniture and Nero, with my head tilted so I could keep my right eye on both men.

I prepared to scream for Nyx.

When Patro charges, I’ll bash him over the head with the chair.

The son of Aphrodite stalked onto the deck, and I plastered myself against the wall next to the French doors.

Nero turned his head to the side and looked back at me like he was asking, What is wrong with you, woman?

So much.

He bared his teeth and growled, like he wanted to maul me.

I grimaced.

“You’re such a drama queen—I’m not going to attack you, Alexis.” Patro rolled his eyes as Achilles handed him a towel. “Not right now.”

Patro lunged in my direction, and I screamed.

He chuckled as I clutched my chest.

The jerk is taunting me.

Suddenly the old beliefs that women had “hysteria” problems didn’t seem so far-fetched.

I could see it.

Case in point, I was a woman, and I was hysterical.

Seemingly done taunting my frayed nerves, Patro leaned on the wall next to Achilles and whispered something in his ear. He stood on his toes to talk to him, and their body language almost seemed . . . tender.

Almost being the key word.

I cowered as the men stared at me with disappointment, and I tried to act nonchalant (unfortunately, I had not been relaxed a single day in my life).

“When did I get here?” I asked in a pathetic attempt to break the tension, but as I glanced inside the breezy cottage, doubt filled me.

Did I imagine everything at the mountain?

Was it all a bad dream?

Patro’s eyes flashed as he ran the towel through his short wavy hair. “Last night, you finished your first two weeks at the academy,” he spoke slowly like I was an idiot.

I started to make a face and mock him, but self-preservation kicked in, and I kept my expression blank.

A soft melody played in my mind, and I hummed.

Patro gave me an unimpressed look like he could see through me.

“We picked you up yesterday at noon,” he said. “After you’d run the circuit, you were delirious and caked in mud and didn’t recognize anyone—so we hosed you off out here.” He held his palms up. “Don’t freak out. You were fully clothed.”

He raised his eyebrows, like I should be grateful I’d been hosed down like a wild animal (I was).

However, since I’d been tortured into a comatose state, gratitude only got you so far.

“You’ve been asleep for over twelve hours.” Patro scowled. “We only have two and a half days to plan before you have to go back to the academy.”

My stomach dropped.

“I don’t want to go back,” I whispered.

Please don’t make me. Please. I’ll do anything.

“That’s not an option. Grow up.” Patro threw his towel to the side. “Let’s eat, I’m starved.” He walked away into the house, like the conversation was over.

I whimpered.

A cloud of clove-scented smoke billowed out the grate of Achilles’s muzzle as he followed Patro inside the house.

“That habit could k-kill you,” I said as I followed him. Years of warning Charlie about the dangers of drug use had ingrained the response into me.

Achilles looked back over his shoulder. Up close, his eyes were an extremely unsettling shade of red.

“Patro” was also tattooed in scarlet ink down the side of his neck.

I wrapped my fingers around the “C+A” tattoo on my forearm.

It was a strange coincidence that all three of us had names of people on our bodies, but it didn’t make me feel closer to them. If anything, it highlighted the different worlds we came from.

Charlie was a human.

He was homeless.

In a cardboard box, lonely, probably missing me like I was missing him.

I was dealing with billionaires who couldn’t die.

Achilles made a scoffing noise and turned forward.

I’m never speaking aloud ever again. It’s really not worth it.

I followed them both down a narrow hall.

The ceilings were low, and the floor was a rich walnut color that reflected the sparkling sunlight through arched windows. We entered a sprawling rustic kitchen that had an expansive glassless window overlooking the turquoise sea.

I’d never known a house could be so pretty.

At a wood counter, a young woman in an apron was putting chopped fruit into a bowl. She smiled coyly at the men, looked at me curiously, then hurried out of the room.

Warm aromas filled the air; piles of foods that I didn’t recognize were spread across a long stone table. I blinked, but the spectacular feast didn’t disappear.

I wanted to cry.

On the other side of the world, Charlie was counting food vouchers and rationing a single box of cereal over weeks. He was lying awake under a tarp, trying to ignore the gnawing sensation of constant starvation.

But here I was, standing in front of enough food to feed a village.

Eat the rich.

There was no justice in our Titan infested world.

“You need to consume as much as possible to fuel yourself for the next two weeks of starvation,” Patro said as he and Achilles sat down and served themselves in a casual display of gluttony.

Head dizzy, aching limbs tingling like I was having an out-of-body experience, I hobbled slowly across the room.

A muffled noise on my left side made me jump.

Another young woman was smiling, cleaning the floor where I walked. She frowned at me, like she was waiting for a response, but before I could figure out what to do, she hurried away with her bloody mop.

I sat down at the table next to the men (fell toward a seat and somehow landed in it).

All thoughts left my brain as my hunger took over, and I shoveled food into my mouth as fast as I could as I tried to consume every delicious⁠—

I blinked.

Time shifted.

Stomach churning, I hugged a garbage bin in the corner of the kitchen and wretched into it. Tears streamed down my face. Someone said something, but I couldn’t hear.

I’d never eaten a big meal before, and my stomach punished me for it.

Eventually, I made it back to the table.

Light-headed, queasy, unwell, exhausted, depressed, and catatonic—exactly how I’d felt after the one gym class I’d attended in high school—I stared at the food.

With shaking fingers, I grabbed a small purple fruit and chewed on it slowly.

Tentatively, I grabbed another fruit, then another.

Three hours later I’d consumed enough fruit, cheeses, and meats to sustain me for months.

When I finished gorging myself, Patro and Achilles were still sitting across the table, and they wore annoyed expressions. Well, I assumed Achilles was annoyed—it was hard to tell with the muzzle.

I still wanted to borrow it.

Sighing, I slumped low in the chair (almost fell out of it, but the corner of the table kept me upright).

“What?” I asked as they glared at me.

Patro snorted. “You have the weakest stomach of anyone I’ve ever met and even worse table manners. You need to stop being so dramatic and gluttonous.”

I stared at him numbly.

The audacity of man persists.

Patro clapped his hands and nodded like he’d come to a conclusion. “We’re fucked—how in all of Kronos’s creation did we get stuck with you as our mentee? It must be a sick joke. You’re the most pathetic Spartan I’ve ever seen.”

A sharp sensation pierced through my heart.

I was tired of everyone labeling me inadequate.

Something snapped inside of me.

Clasping my shaking hands together, I rested them on the table. “Must be so tragic,” I whispered, “that your fate as generals rests in my pathetic hands.”

Both men narrowed their eyes dangerously.

Smoke billowed out from the grates of Achilles’s muzzle. His vermilion eyes were on fire. “We’ll kill them later,” he’d signed so casually.

I wasn’t dealing with men.

I was dealing with monsters.

“Are you threatening us?” Patro asked softly.

“What’s my strategy?” I countered.

Patro’s nostrils flared, and he gripped the table like he was about to throw it at my head. “Seduce the other initiates,” he finally said. “Distract them so they fail.”

What?

“No—I’d rather die,” I said honestly.

“That can be arranged.” Patro lunged toward me threateningly, but this time, I didn’t flinch.

Hit me.

I dare you.

You’re not the first.

“Then d-do it.” My voice was unnaturally cold, and everything went numb. “Kill me right now.”

Please.

Patro inhaled through gritted teeth and flexed his hands like he was trying not to throttle me.

Nothing happened.

Coward.

“I want a real strategy,” I said softly.

Patro smacked his hand down on the table.

“There are only three strategies,” he said with a growl. “Fuck them, kill them, or beat them.” Green eyes flashed. “Since you can’t beat them, and refuse to fuck them, you’re going to have to KILL THEM.” He sat back, panting.

Achilles crossed his arms, biceps bulging obscenely. His gaze was sharp.

The urge to not exist intensified.

I gaped at them in disbelief. “What’s even the point of you being my m-mentors? You’re useless.”

“That’s rich,” Patro snarled. “Coming from an abandoned female mutt—it’s not like you shouldn’t even exist. Oh, wait.”

“Unfortunately, I do,” I mumbled.

Patro pulled at his hair. “Spartan heirs and mutts are raised from birth, training for the massacre and war academy. The only abandoned mutts that ever survive do so because their powers are insane.”

Drex holding out his hand, red glowing in the fog, three boys falling to their knees, screaming.

“But you”—Patro glared—“are powerless. Frankly, I’m surprised you survived the first two weeks, and I’m still not believing it’s all not been one big fucking fluke.”

My entire existence has been a fluke.

Somehow, my life defies all mathematical odds, and it always gets worse.

“Maybe,” I said slowly, “I won’t . . . survive the next week.”

A beat passed as my words sank in.

Patro’s eyes sparked with cruelty. “Are you still threatening us?” He leaned forward across the table. Achilles clenched his hands into fists.

An ominous melody played in my mind.

For the first time ever, I felt dangerous, like I was playing with a lit match over gasoline.

This is what power feels like.

I liked it.

Achilles unfurled his fist and put a hand on Patro’s shoulder. He pulled him back. The muzzled man drew soothing circles on his spine.

Patro leaned into his touch. “Don’t you fucking dare try to sabotage everything we’ve⁠—”

BOOM.

Smoke billowed from the hall into the kitchen.

Oh great, another Spartan leaped into the house. It’s probably the stupid doctors. Well, hopefully they’re still alive.

A towering figure in a tattered black cloak walked into the kitchen.

“Honeys, I’m home,” a scratchy masculine voice rasped sarcastically.

No.

I didn’t blink.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

The newcomer’s cloaked head brushed across the ceiling. He was tall and wide, rivaling both Achilles and Augustus for size.

“Well,” he chuckled darkly. “This looks cozy.”

Please God, kill me.

Do it fast.

Kharon—the Hunter, one of two Chthonic heirs in the world, the son of Artemis and Erebus, the half creature, the murderer of Christos—pulled off his dark creature hood.

A silver ruby-covered crown sat atop messy black hair.

I swallowed a gasp.

Glacial blue eyes were on fire. Pale skin stretched across razor-sharp cheekbones, and dark shadows filled out the perfect planes of his face.

Where Patro was classically handsome, Kharon was disturbingly attractive.

Gleaming white teeth flashed as he smiled, the same evil expression he’d worn as Christos drowned.

He smelled like a violent rainstorm—salt tinged with rain—a hurricane.

Like death.

“We weren’t expecting you,” Patro said with surprise. “Have you come to commiserate over the new marriage law? You and Augustus have to technically tie the knot this year because of your ages—what are you going to do?”

Kharon smiled darkly. “Oh—I’m not worried. I think I’ve found a . . . solution.”

“How?” Patro asked. “They listed all our names. There are no loopholes. You can’t just marry Augustus, either of us, or Helen—you’re stuck with an Olympian or a creature and all the eligible ones are in the Olympians’ pockets.”

“Are you proposing?” Kharon asked Patro with a sinister laugh. “No offense, but you aren’t my type. I prefer my lovers a little more bloodthirsty.”

Patro shoved at his shoulders, but a dark blush stained the tops of his cheeks.

I gaped.

Patro is not bloodthirsty enough for him? Who does he want to marry—Satan?

Kharon leaned his hip casually against the edge of the counter and picked up a pastry. “Let’s just say there’s a loophole in progress. I’ve got my eye on someone. One might even say I’m becoming—obsessed.”

Uh, why is he looking at me?

His cloak parted, and the Latin word “Furia” was tattooed across his throat.

It meant fury, but I’d seen another translation of it somewhere; I just couldn’t remember what it was. Some slang use.

It was going to drive me crazy trying to remember.

A silky white button-down pulled across his wide chest, and blue diamond buttons glinted in the sun, barely holding the straining fabric together.

Similarly, weapon holsters stretched over his bulging thighs, holding guns and a wicked-looking knife. Expensive trousers were perfectly tailored.

His dagger was coated with fresh blood.

Whoever he’s obsessed with should immediately kill themself.

“So what did I miss?” Kharon asked slowly.

“Alex here—” Patro said slowly.

I looked over at my mentor in horror. Why is he drawing attention to me? Help?

“—was just threatening us.” Patro smirked at me meanly as he spoke to Kharon. “She was saying that she was going to purposefully die so we couldn’t become generals.”

I bit down on my lower lip and tasted copper.

Kharon chewed carefully.

“Is that so?” he asked slowly, his raspy voice reverberating through the room like a warning. “How—interesting.”

Images flashed of blood splattering as a predator feasted on my carcass.

Kharon’s expression was blank, too blank. Something evil bubbled beneath his surface.

There was a ferality about him, like he was one wrong move away from shedding a facade of civility and going on a killing rampage.

“I was j-joking.” I forced out a pitiful laugh.

Kharon swallowed, and the words on his throat bobbed. “I would hope so,” he said softly as he licked sugar off his thumb.

His nails were painted black, and a skeleton was tattooed across the top of his right hand.

Ice-blue eyes held my gaze.

Goosebumps exploded across my body.

For some reason, he was staring at me with laser focus, like he was trying to see into my soul.

I stared down at the table, neck prickling under the weight of his cruel gaze as my life flashed before my eyes.

“Hades,” Kharon said softly, “wants me to go over intel and strategy with you two about Titan movements before we go on our next mission.”

He’s talking about the Assembly of Death.

“I’m gonna crash in my room here at your lovely shed for the next few days,” he added. “While my partner is otherwise occupied.”

Shed? This is the nicest house I’ve ever seen. He should see where I live.

Chairs squeaked as my mentors stood up.

I tilted my head to the side to keep them in my peripheral vision as I remained seated.

Patro bowed deeply to Kharon. “We’re delighted by your company—we live to serve you, oh great fearsome one,” he said, voice full of deference. “Not all of us can live in a villa like you.”

My jaw dropped.

Do they worship him because he’s an heir? Isn’t Kharon twenty-six, only a few years older than Patro?

Patro burst into laughter, and Kharon rolled his eyes.

It was a joke.

Who would ever jest with that monster?

“How’s the honorable heir life treating you?” Patro asked sarcastically. “I heard you’re the most eligible bachelor in high society this year because of the fucking marriage law. How’s all the desperate Olympian pussy and dick? I’ve heard there are even some creatures following you around.”

Kharon clenched his jaw. “They’re all powerless, simpering fools—too afraid to look me in the eye—but they want the crown and fortune. Also, the thrill of fucking an Assembly of Death member helps. As if I’d ever marry one of those sniveling cowards.”

Not looking you in the eyes seems very reasonable.

Also, so does marrying rich so you never have to worry about starving.

I’d do it.

“No.” Patro gasped mockingly. “But their Olympian mommies and daddies told them they were special.”

Both men laughed.

I squinted, trying to figure out if parents really did that or if that was the joke.

Kharon gritted his teeth. “I’m gonna start stabbing the Olympians who approach me at the next moronic society ball.”

The men chuckled louder.

I sank lower into my chair and hoped he would forget I ever existed.

“Alex, we’ll resume our conversation tomorrow,” Patro said.

Why is he talking to me after they were just talking about stabbing Olympians? Why was he looking at me? STOP LOOKING. DON’T TALK TO ME.

Of course, he kept going.

“You should get more sleep now that you’ve stopped being dramatic and have eaten,” Patro said. “Also, you might want to take a proper shower—you smell.”

I’m going to end him.

I stared at the table, skin crawling from the weight of all their attention. Finally, a bazillion years later, all three of them walked out of the kitchen.

I let out a sigh of relief and rested my head back.

Kharon reappeared in the doorway.

I froze.

He stalked over to where I was sitting.

Glacial blue eyes burned with fury. “If you dare harm yourself,” he rasped softly, high cheekbones glinting like razor blades, “I’ll bring you back to life and torture you for all of eternity.”

My breath hitched.

Long fingers wrapped around the column of my throat like he was demonstrating how he’d do it.

His thumb hovered over my fluttering pulse.

A strange queasiness cramped my lower stomach, and my head spun.

Blood pooled over the whites of his eyes.

The sensation in my stomach quadrupled, and I gasped for air, overwhelmed by the foreign feelings. Something alien and obsessive swirled in my lower gut.

Is he going to use his powers and kill me like he did Christos?

I waited for the pain.

Kharon pulled his hand away and took a step back, eyes returning to normal.

Sweat trickled down the side of my face as I watched him warily.

“Chthonic lives are important,” he whispered harshly, still leaning toward me. “Patro and Achilles will become generals, and you will survive the crucible to make it happen. If you try to deviate from that plan in any way, I’ll kidnap and torture you for the rest of your immortal life. Just for fun.”

I blanched.

Long lashes fluttered over the dark shadows that rimmed his piercing eyes. “I promise you—you’ll never recover,” he said raspingly as he backed up and put more distance between us. “It will just be me and you—for all eternity.”

Wait, what are we talking about?

“Don’t worry—the two of us are going to have a lot of fun in the future,” he said cryptically.

I was beyond worried.

His smile was feral. “But if you let yourself get hurt, you’ll become my mortal enemy.”

I inhaled swiftly.

“Do you know what I do to my enemies?” he asked, voice rough and menacing. “Have you heard the rumors?”

He bared his teeth. “Tell me—do you want to find out?”

“Uh, n-no,” I said shakily.

“I know what you did to Christos.” He smirked. “I know you were killing him.”

I blanched and shook my head frantically. “No. No. I was trying to save him and⁠—”

“Stop with the fucking lies.” He made a slashing motion with his hand. “Don’t you dare try to play games with me,” he said darkly, as if my dishonesty was a foregone conclusion. “I’ll back you into the type of corner that you’ll never see coming.”

Why did he say I was killing him? We both know he did it. Is it because Christos was splashing around and I was trying to save him? How could he misinterpret it that badly?

Kharon’s words were saying one thing, but his depraved tone was saying something else.

There were layers of context I was missing.

I opened my mouth to respond (plead for mercy and beg for a quick death), but he’d already disappeared down the hall.

Well . . . that was a lot.

My head fell forward, and I slammed it against the table.

Kharon’s threat was nothing like Patro’s; it was infinitely worse.

I could already feel his fingers tightening around my throat, squeezing the life out of me while he smiled.

Long minutes passed as I sat at the table, trying to find the courage to move. When I finally did, I was half-delirious by the time I’d made it back to my bedroom.

In a daze, I stripped out of the stupid toga and staggered into the shower. The water scalded my skin, so I turned it up hotter. Then I yanked it up more, hating that it felt so heavenly.

Sitting down on the tiles, I sobbed under the scalding flow.

A high-pitched ringing stung my left ear.

Head throbbing, vision blurry, my abused throat burned from the force of my grief.

I didn’t want a mortal enemy.

I just wanted to listen to eighteenth-century music and solve obscure math equations. Maybe lie in some flower fields during the summer and swim in a warm lake. Marry Carl Gauss and bear his children in the afterlife.

Is that really too much to ask for?

After partially waterboarding myself, I crawled out of the shower on all fours like a wounded animal and collapsed naked into the bed. I pulled the thick cover up over my head until I was cocooned in darkness.

The dreams came quickly.

The devil stood at the end of my bed staring at me with glowing crimson eyes. He touched my ankle and morphed into two skeletal monsters that whispered darkly. The foreign curiosity was tinged with mania. The devil wanted to know more about me.

“Why are you lying about who you really are?” he asked.

I woke up screaming, clutching at my chest.

Sanity was slipping away from me.

The Ionian Sea sparkled mockingly picturesque outside, and nature sounds washed over me peacefully.

Blessedly, I was all alone.

Hours passed, and my mentors didn’t make an appearance, but I could hear Patro’s voice all day as he talked with Kharon (the devil) somewhere in the house.

Grateful for the time alone to contemplate my impending doom, I spent the hours slowly eating small portions of food from the kitchen, floating in the tranquil sea, and chatting with Nyx.

Every few hours, I took a scalding shower and scrubbed myself raw.

Sometimes I cried in the water, sometimes I laughed, and once (three separate times) I flipped my curls over so I looked like a founding father and pretended to give a revolutionary speech—but each time my speech was too good (the town sheriff shot me for insurrection and I flailed dramatically in the shower—died—while my fellow rebels watched in horror).

During the day, the feminine urge to lead a fictional revolt plagued me.

At night, nightmares once again tore me to pieces.

It was always glowing crimson eyes and a man watching me cruelly. He touched my leg possessively, and again I felt foreign emotion: compulsion to watch, fascination, a dark obsession.

When I woke up the next morning, the cycle repeated.

I cautiously ate food; sang a depressing song that I made up on the spot, extremely off-key; lay face first in the sea and half-heartedly tried to drown; told Nyx in detail the plot of my favorite Emmy and Carl fanfic (yes, they whispered calculus problems to each other while riding off into the sunset . . . on each other); took another shower and fell asleep in it; woke up and chugged ice water; hummed Mozart’s Symphony no. 41 until my throat burned; then took another shower because I still couldn’t believe how luxurious it felt.

Yet, for all my rest (three showers in a row), the pounding ache in my head didn’t abate, and it still hurt to walk.

I tried to think about the Riemann Hypothesis, but it felt like I was soiling it contemplating it in my sorry state, so I gave up.

Later that night, my stomach burned with pain, and I sobbed because I was convinced I was dying from stress ulcers.

It was just cramps from eating too much food.

But the metaphysical pain persisted.

The strange grunts and knocking, squeaking noises that echoed against the wall all night didn’t help my mental state.

As it was, I woke up the last day before hell with a renewed purpose in life—I need to off myself before they send me back to that wretched place.

I ran into the sea dramatically.

Five minutes later, I floated on my back in the warm water with my eyes closed because I couldn’t bear to look at the glorious nature.

The sea is my favorite place on earth. I wish Charlie could be here to see it.

August on a Greek island felt like a dream within a nightmare.

It didn’t help that I could still hear the unnaturally deep vibrations of Kharon’s voice through the open windows. In contrast, Patro’s voice was lighter than usual, and he was constantly laughing. Since Achilles was muzzled, I heard nothing from him, but I could feel his malicious presence.

I flipped over in the water.

Face first, mismatched eyes wide open, I screamed out bubbles.

“Do you feel better, kid?” Nyx asked when I came up for air. The water rippled nearby like she was swimming in a circle.

“No,” I said honestly.

“You should try eating a freshly caught rat. I swear, nothing in the world tastes better.”

“Rats are actually highly intelligent animals,” I replied numbly. “They’ve been known to make good companions.”

“So?” Nyx asked.

I closed my eyes and pretended I was an astronaut in the early two thousands, floating peacefully through space at the International Space Station. Titans didn’t exist, and Spartans hadn’t emerged. An old astronomy book in the library said mathematicians often became astronauts—I would have enjoyed exploring the cosmos.

“Hunting is great fun, you should try it,” Nyx said.

The illusion shattered.

My best friend was a talking poisonous snake and all space missions were abandoned after a lone Titan massacred almost every person in Florida—including all the scientists at Cape Canaveral. It was one of the first places they’d attacked.

Apparently immortal monsters were against space exploration and warm weather. Disheartening.

Neck prickling like I was being watched, I lifted my head and looked around—but I was all alone.

Nyx rambled on about stalking, and a bad feeling washed over me.

Something told me a hunt had already started but I wasn’t the predator.

I was the prey.

Flipping over, I resumed screaming into the water.