Page 2 of Flame and Fury

Kat’s halfway across the garage, but Atlas walks slowly, holding me back. He leans down, his mouth close enough to my ear that his breath heats my skin. I drag in a slow breath, forcing my body not to react. Screw him for having some kind of magical touch that makes me lose all common sense and melt like wax too close to the sun.

“Wren.” Atlas has the most lethal, sexy voice. It hums with power and raw masculine sensuality.

When I don’t say anything, he sighs and lets me go. His hand drags down my arm in the process, like he wants to extend the connection between our skin. Thoughts like that are why I’m in this situation in the first place. I shake my head. Atlas can’t even be bothered to give me a half-assed excuse for bringing me here. Does he really think I’ll forgive him because he says my name in a deep growl?

I expect Atlas to walk behind me, but he falls in at my side, not even bothering to pretend he’s not watching me. When we reach the elevator, Kat’s already inside. Atlas guides me in with a hand on my back, like we’re on a date. When he presses a button for one of the lower levels, my anger surges. Atlas knows exactly where we’re going, and that simple fact pisses me off.

I close my eyes, imagining ice running through my veins, just like my father taught me. It’s not working as well as it used to. My world has grown in the last month. I always knew things we’re fucked here in Zeus and Hera’s territory, but my focus was on my neighborhood. Maybe I was being willfully ignorant, but I didn’t want to worry about more than my small corner of Chicago. I can’t do that anymore. My Fury doesn’t want to be iced out. It wants to be unleashed.

We only go down one floor before the doors slide open with a ding. Once again, Kat goes first, and Atlas guides me out with a hand on my lower back. I step away from him with a frown. I think he makes a disgruntled sound, but when I turn and look at him his face is as stoic as ever. Huffing out a breath, I take in our surroundings. The elevator empties out into a dimly lit hallway with red brick walls and dark cement floors. There’s an oppressive feeling of being deep under the city, much more than there was inside the garage. Probably because we’re so much more enclosed. The distance between the walls is barely wider than my arm span. I’m not claustrophobic, but the air is stale and musty. The sudden desire to get outside and inhale a deep, fresh breath strikes me.

Kat’s heels click on the cement floor as she walks with determined strides. I don’t have much choice but to follow her. The hallway curves and twists until we move into another slightly larger corridor. This one has cream tiles on the walls, but the same cement floors.

She looks over her shoulder at me, eyes darting to Atlas for a brief second before they move back to me. “Did you know that Chicago has an entire set of underground tunnels beneath the city?”

I’m not interested in a history lesson, so I hum noncommittally. That’s not a deterrent for Kat. She proceeds to tell me all about the walkways under the city.

“Most of these were built in the 1950s and they stretch beneath forty blocks. Any public maps have been long lost, so most people don’t know how to navigate them. Some exits go right up into people’s homes or even into old department stores. It’s incredible really.” Kat sounds delighted by the history lesson, but I’m too annoyed to find any of it interesting.

Kat stops in front of a closed door, opens it, and steps inside. Fluorescent lights flicker on overhead, buzzing as they slowly warm up. Unlike the hallway, this room has painted walls instead of tile. The color is a stark white, but there are scuff marks marring the room from waist height down. A round table large enough to seat twelve occupies the center of the room. The chairs are mismatched. The wood is scarred and obviously well-used. An abused black leather couch is shoved up against one wall. A few folding chairs are stacked in a corner, next to a garbage can nearly overflowing with paper coffee cups.

The room doesn’t have any windows and the smells of past dinners and lots of bodies in one space have soaked into the furniture. This is a working room, not the lair of an evil villain.

“Please take a seat.” Kat gestures toward the table as she pulls out a chair and sits down.

Because it’s one large circle, there’s no head of the table. Still, I can’t help but think that Kat and I are sitting on opposite ends when I pick a seat directly across from her. Am I making a statement? Who knows. I’m still pissed at being brought here under false pretenses, but I also don’t have a plan. I’m basically winging it.

Instead of sitting down with us, Atlas moves over to the corner of the room. He leans against the wall, propping one foot against it. Well, that’s where all the scuffs are coming from.

Kat angles her body forward, folding her hands together and keeping them on top of the table. I slump back in my chair, elbows on the armrest and hands clasped together over my stomach.

“Would you care for something to drink?” Kat smiles at me and then looks at Atlas.

Is he going to fetch something for us? I huff out a laugh at the thought, but when Atlas rolls his eyes at me, as though he knows exactly what I’m thinking, I nearly fall out of my chair. He never shows that much emotion. Unless he’s trying to beguile someone. I narrow my eyes. Is he trying to lay the charm on me now? Or is this his actual personality? What version is the real Atlas?

I shake away the thoughts. It doesn’t matter. Atlas’s actions have made it very clear that I am a commodity. A tool to be used by him and lent out like a paperback book to his Underground buddies. Which, by the way, what the hell? How is Atlas part of the Underground? How does the son of Zeus, trained champion demi-god, get on a first name basis with the leader of the Underground?

“I’m fine. What is it you wanted to talk about?” Do I really want to know? No. But the sooner everything is out in the open, the sooner I can figure out what I’m going to do next.

Kat nods and offers me that practiced smile again. “Of course.” She inhales as though fortifying herself for a long talk. “How much do you know about the Underground, Wren?”

The way she says my name makes me think it’s a marketing tactic. Like she’s trying to establish a relationship so she can manipulate me into doing whatever she wants. It’s not that she’s disingenuous, but more that she’s been acting the role of an upright leader for so long that she doesn’t remember how to talk to people without presenting a specific image.

“Not much more than what the news reports.” I shrug. We all know that the media is about as reliable as getting information from Mrs. Schnelman, who lives down the street from me. She’s senile as a bat and often swears she’s seen Elvis picking through the dumpster behind her building.

Kat sighs forlornly. “Most of what they show is far from the truth.”

“I assumed as much.”

Kat rubs the pads of her thumbs against each other in slow circles, like she only allows herself to fidget in a thoughtful way.

“The Underground was started over twenty years ago. As these things tend to happen, it began with one person who needed to go into hiding. Then it became a network meant to get supplies to people who needed them. Sometimes we helped others escape if the clerics targeted their families. It began here in Chicago, but it has since spread throughout Zeus and Hera’s territory.”

I’m not surprised that a group formed to provide people help with basic goods and avoiding the wrath of the clerics. Even within my neighborhood, there are people who do this. They aren’t organized or capable of having a wide impact, though.

“And now?”

“The longer the gods are awake, the more distant they become from the people in their territories. They’ve allowed the clerics to oversee how we live our lives and have stolen our freedoms from us, one by one, until we are at their absolute mercy.”

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