Page 13 of Crown of Serpents

“Really? Are you only brave enough to lay your filthy hands on women when you are three against one?”

The man on the floor whimpered. Her snakes hissed, hungry for the taste of blood.

“Alright, you first, then.”

She lunged for the man with the dagger. He tried to stab her, but she grabbed his wrist and smashed it into the brick wall behind him. The dagger clattered to the floor.

“Pathetic.”

Swiftly, Medusa sliced his carotid artery and released him. He fell to his knees, gurgling blood and clutching his throat.

Finally, the tall one awoke from his shock. He roared and swung his sword for Medusa’s head. She ducked, and it got stuck in the brick wall behind her instead. As he desperately tried to pull it out, Medusa ripped out his heart and threw it in the same puddle as the first perpetrator’s cock.

The man with the beard was still groaning on the floor. Medusa smiled and licked her fingers — savouring the metallictaste of fresh blood. She had known that emasculating him would not kill the bastard immediately. She nudged him over with her feet so he lay on his back.

The man spat at her feet, so she kicked him again.

“One day, you will pay for your sins, you monster,” he groaned, tears glinting in his eyes.

“Maybe one day. But you will pay for yours now,” Medusa responded and slit his throat.

When his chest stopped heaving, Medusa turned to the girl. She was still cowering on the floor, her eyes closed. She took a steadying breath, attempting to clear her vision from the blood haze. Yet, her serpent refused to retreat, lapping greedily at the splatters of blood on her face.

Carefully, she approached the whimpering figure, the acidic scent of vomit filling her nose. She must have spilt the contents of her guts out of terror. Medusa kneeled next to the barmaid, lifting her hand to touch her shoulder in comfort, but the woman recoiled from her.

“It is over now,” Medusa murmured with a raspy voice. “You can open your eyes again.” She moved to help the girl to her feet as blinding pain shot through her abdomen.

“This is for my brother, you bitch!”

A warm wetness spread across Medusa’s rough-spun dress. She looked down, stunned,as the barmaid pulled free the rusty dagger dropped by one of her attackers. Blood dripped onto the floor as Medusa stumbled, grabbing the wall for support.Confused, she looked at the barmaid, hatred burning in her eyes. Hatred, wrath, and grief — but not fear. Then, her expression froze, her emotions forever etched into her gaunt face as the dagger clattered to the ground. The fire in her eyes died, replaced by the cold gleam of marble.

CHAPTER TEN

Perseus sagged against the cabin door, exhaustion seeping into his bones. Three days at sea, and yet the familiar tranquillity of his fishing boat eluded him. The crew’s watchful eyes followed his every move.

He had spoken to Aetos, insisting he be assigned to a watch so he might help sail the ship. Atticus begrudgingly accepted him into his watch, his eyes bulging in surprise when Perseus had tied a perfect bowline knot. The sailors didn’t seem to grasp that Perseus had spent his life tying knots and mending nets, not wielding swords at vicious monsters. Yet, they insisted on calling him “Sir”, especially blond-haired Mikis, who bowed to him whenever they passed each other.

He sighed, closing his eyes for a few heartbeats. Perseus rubbed his temples, the mounting pressure of his mission making his head throb. He didn’t know how Kleos did it. Save for the first day at sea, when his face had turned green, and he emptied his stomach over the railing, his friend remained awhirlwind of energy, challenging the crew to rowing contests and regaling them with his infectious laughter. Kleos was particularly enthralled by Orestes, the grizzled veteran who had served in Polydectes’s army until he injured his leg. When they had camped on Naxos, Orestes had told tales stories of his youthful escapades during dinner. Kleos had soaked up every tale, his bellowing laugh echoing across the beach.

When Perseus’s eyelids fluttered open again, he jolted upright, his hand instinctively gripping the rusty sword at his hip. Before him shimmered a woman, her eyes glinting like polished steel. Full battle armour, radiating silver light, enveloped her form, casting an ethereal glow upon the darkened cabin. The sword’s hilt trembled in his hand as Perseus gaped at the goddess.

“Be at ease, Perseus,” she spoke, her voice smooth and cold, her stare roaming over Perseus’s body, “for I am Athena, goddess of wisdom and warcraft and protector of heroes. I have come to bestow the blessing of the gods upon your mission to slay the gorgon.”

Perseus blinked at Athena, dumbfounded. He must be hallucinating. There was no way in Hades that one of the twelve Olympians had bothered to leave Mount Olympus to seek him out. He was merely a fisherman, a fact he clung to despite the electric pulse of divine power running through his veins.

The familiar icy wrath, long buried, clawed at his mind. “Why?” he rasped, teeth clenched. “Why would the gods bestow their blessing now?”

Athena narrowed her eyes, the disdain in his words not lost on her.

For a few agonising seconds, Perseus wondered whether he should have chosen his words more wisely. Olympians were infamous for their pride and vengefulness against mortals who insulted them. Perseus half-expected lightning to strike him down, even though there was no open sky above him, and Athena did not wield her father’s lightning.

Instead of divine wrath, the goddess merely tilted her head, her gaze piercing through Perseus like a spear. “You have no idea whose blood runs through your veins, do you, younghero?”

To his dismay, Athena's words stirred something within him, a faint echo of the fatherless boy he had once been. A muscle flexed in his jaw. He did not want to know which god had abandoned him and his mother, leaving them to the mercy of the sea in a flimsy wooden crate. He told himself that it didn’t matter who had sired him; he would never be able to demand justice for Danae’s suffering. But his heart pounded in his chest, and his clenched fists were slick with sweat as he waited for the goddess to continue.

“You, Perseus, are not only the son of Danae, the lost princess to Argos, but also the son of Zeus, king of the gods and lord of the skies. I come to aid you in your quest, for we are kin, and our father has seen your determination to protect your beloved mother. He wishes you to succeed, to slay the beast that has ravaged the Aegean coast for too long, and claim glory in his name.”

Perseus almost laughed at Athena. The goddess had descended to assist him in becoming a testament to Olympian might. It took all his willpower not to curse Zeus’s name — hisfather’sname. He was the offspring of the king of the gods, the most powerful being in existence. Perseus’s stomach churned. That explained the electric fire that coursed through him in moments of unbridled rage.

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