Page 38 of Flame and Fury

“I thought his insides were all rotted and putrid. More of a greenish yellow.”

“That’s a visual I didn’t need,” Drake says as he comes to stand behind Greer.

“Come along.” Billy was talking to another cleric who had opened the door for us. Their conversation now done, his patience has also reached its limit. With a clap of his hands, he spins and starts down a hallway.

We stay on the main floor, even though there are at least three stories to the house. Just like all of the homes we’ve been to for parties, this place is enormous. As far as I know, Nathaniel Rogers lives alone. He’s not married, but I suppose he could have a girlfriend, or a boyfriend, for that matter. He could have a whole harem for all I know. I’ve never actually seen reports of him being with someone in a romantic way. Not that I follow the tabloids for life updates on Nathaniel Rogers. In the past, I actively avoided learning about the man. All that to say this is a really big place for one person to live alone.

We follow Billy to the end of the hall. An archway of black stone leads into a ballroom. It feels like I’m walking through a portal to the Underworld. Except I’d prefer to hang out with Hades any day of the week.

The dark aesthetic continues into this room. Although the walls are far more ornate, with carved wood paneling and wainscoting. There are large portraits that decorate the walls on both sides of the room. I stare at them in awe.

Or maybe horror is a better word.

They’re all portraits of Nathaniel. Nathaniel on the back of a black stallion. Nathaniel sitting on what can only be interpreted as a throne. Nathaniel on a hill preaching to a crowd of rapturous devotees. It’s disturbing. If I thought the man had a sense of humor, I’d say this was a joke, but it very clearly isn’t.

I cock my head as I follow the line of paintings. Nathaniel looks almost exactly the same in every one. Now that I think about it, Nathaniel has had the same salt and pepper hair and too smooth skin for years. A gift from the gods? Are they keeping him young-ish?

The floors in this room are black marble tile with striations of gold running through them. Practically a burst of color compared to the entry and hallway. Seating options are scattered around. Small slipper chairs are set up in tight clusters, black velvet settees that match the one in the entryway are staged at random intervals, and multiple chaises have women draped over them looking indolent and bored.

One thing that’s immediately apparent; this party has way more clerics than any of the others we’ve been to so far. I guess that makes sense since Nathaniel is head of the Heralds of Olympus.

“Stop dawdling.” Billy stands in the archway, waving us all in like we’re going to be late for school.

None of the gods have arrived yet, at least none that I can see. Which means this is just some stuffy, elite party. Essentially, it’s a bunch of people who think highly of themselves and are disconnected from the real world. There’s a color theme happening as well. All the champions are in white, the clerics in red, and everyone else is in black. I wonder if Nathaniel requires all visitors to dress to match his house.

Billy takes off the moment we set foot inside the gloomy room. The rest of us congregate just inside the doorway, except for Preston and Jade, who go off on their own to mix with the crowd. This is going to be a long night.

A gong sounds, and a servant marches into the room wearing a stuffy suit that buttons so tightly around his neck I wonder how he can breathe. He must be able to suck in air somehow because his voice booms out over the crowd as he announces dinner.

The people rise from their seats and leisurely make their way out of the room. Is this a normal occurrence? Everyone seems well versed in this process. More servants sweep through the room, ushering anyone who’s taking too long toward the door. It’s a bit like cattle being herded.

We follow the crowd back into the hall, and into another room. This one is just as dark as the rest of the house. There is a sleek black table that runs the length of the room. It must seat over a hundred guests. The table is set as though we’re about to feast with royalty. I guess if the gods are here, then they’re more important than kings and queens, but I haven’t seen a single one yet.

Running down the center of the table are flower arrangements and candles, both so tall it’s impossible to see who’s sitting across from you. Each place setting has three stacked plates and a bowl, as well as five crystal goblets. Two delicate porcelain cups, which are probably for tea or coffee, finish off the collection.

I have no clue why we need this many dishes.

And the silverware. Holy shit. There are thirteen individual utensils perfectly lined up on either side and above the plates. Of course, because Nathaniel’s decorating encompasses all the colors of his soul, everything is black.

Little placards with names written in fancy lettering sit in front of the stacks of plates. People begin taking their seats while I continue to search for my name with growing dread. Nathaniel is sitting at the head of the table, and I note that there isn’t a seat at the opposite end. No one else gets that place of honor.

More and more of the seats fill up and I’m forced to move closer to Nathaniel with each card I pass. When I finally find my name, it’s hard to hold back the groan. I’ve been placed on Nathaniel’s right-hand side.

A servant swoops in as soon as I pull my chair out from the table, taking over the task for me. As though I’m incapable of dragging the furniture back a few inches. It’s unnecessary and really strange, but I keep my mouth shut and sit down. Scanning the length of the table, I spot the other champions mixed in with the rest of the diners. I guess I’m just the lucky one. Who wouldn’t want to be this close to a man who loves to spew hate and is the leader of a group that routinely objectifies, belittles, and controls others. And let’s not forget, whips people into a frenzy about the Furies and the need to erase them from this Earth.

As soon as everyone is seated, servers stream into the room, pouring wine into goblets without saying a word to the guests. Nathaniel taps on the side of his glass, and everyone falls quiet.

“A toast.” He raises his glass in the air. “To the almighty gods of Olympus, may their reign be long and tenacious. May we continue to enjoy the rewards of their benevolence and accept punishment when they find us unworthy.”

That’s not off-putting at all. Nathaniel lifts his glass even higher, and the rest of the table follows suit. I pick up my wine, but I can’t bring myself to even fake a toast. Other clerics and the elite guests call out words of agreement and then there’s a collective movement of people drinking their wine. I put my glass to my lips, but I don’t swallow. Ever since the Hydra challenge, I’m wary of trusting food and drink from these people. Let’s not forget the whole marooned to a garden of poisonous food and water incident either.

Nathaniel sets down his glass, and as if that was a signal, servers rush in from the hall bearing trays of food. I can’t see what’s on the plates until a dish of oysters is set in front of me. Listen, I don’t consider myself a picky eater. Years of not having enough food has made me appreciate what I can get when I can get it, but I don’t want to eat this. It looks like a bunch of slimy boogers.

Nathaniel picks up one of the mini forks and loosens the oyster from the shell. He proceeds to stick the whole jellied mess into his mouth with a satisfied look on his face. I pick up the same fork, but I don’t have any intention of eating this. I shift things around on my plate while I count down the minutes until we get to go back to the compound. Who knew I’d be longing for the place. Remember that time when Preston and his flunkies beat me up in the middle of the night? What I wouldn’t give to be back in that moment and away from here.

Nathaniel is talking to the man on his left. He’s in a custom-made suit and I imagine he’s one of the elites of society. The servers come around and remove plates only to replace them with bowls of soup. I can’t tell just by looking what kind of soup it is, but the broth is rust colored. I pick up my spoon and stir the broth, peering down the table to observe the rest of the party guests. Everyone looks like they’re having a great time with the exception of the majority of the champions. Atlas has his cold face back on. Greer looks like she’s about to stab her neighbor with one of the tiny forks she’s fisting, and Drake is failing to hold back a yawn.

“Is the food not to your liking?” Nathaniel’s question has me slowly turning my head toward him.

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