Page 9 of Flame and Fury

That’s when the beatings started.

She would tie me up and let the elites of society or higher-ranking clerics take turns striking me with their fists, thrashing me with canes, lashing my back with a whip. All in exchange for Hera’s favor. The goddess enjoyed the sight of my humbling so much that all she required was a small token of appreciation laid at her feet. For that minor fee anyone could beat the son of a god who couldn’t fight back.

Zeus would snarl at me and call me a weakling. I’m not sure what part he disapproved of, that I didn’t fight back? It was practically impossible when chained up with unbreakable cuffs forged by Hephaestus.

At the end of the day, the servants would unhook me and leave me in a crumpled pile on the floor of my room. Or if I’d exceeded the arbitrary amount of time I was required to stay at the Olympus house, I’d be dumped back at the training compound. There was never anyone to see to my wounds or care that I was hurt. I still only saw Kat on the rare occasion at this point in my life, but it’s not like she could have taken me and ran.

During the games, the clerics and gods act like being invited to the Olympus House is an honor for the champions, but I’d love to burn this place down to the ground. Only one good thing has ever happened to me in this house. That brief moment of stolen time with Wren, and even that was tainted by the gods. Fucking Aphrodite meddling and influencing us, draining our ability to make a choice about who we touch. At this point, that night is probably the least of my crimes against Wren.

The car pulls to a stop in front of the massive structure. It’s constructed completely in white marble and looks like a museum. There are over a dozen marble steps that lead up to the massive arched double doorway, with half-moon windows above. I fix the reserved look back on my face as I open the door, chagrined that I let it slip while I held Wren in my lap. The temptation to keep her in my arms as we exit the car is hard to fight, but that would make Wren appear weak. That’s the last thing she needs in this game.

Her story about the cleric in her classroom was a jab to the gut. I can imagine a five-year-old Wren, with dark hair and big eyes fighting to keep such a big secret. One that I just fucking passed along to Kat, convincing myself that I was putting the greater good ahead of Wren’s privacy.

Wren’s been pushed and pushed, and I just witnessed her snapping. She slipped out of the car and ran after those clerics like a…well…Fury. It was glorious to witness, even if it was reckless as hell. She moved so fast, and I took out the other clerics before they realized they were under attack. I’m pretty sure the only ones that recognized us were the kids. Since I can’t go back in time, I have to hope that’s the case.

I reluctantly set Wren on the seat next to me and slide out of the car first. Turning to face the door, I offer my hand to help her out. There’s a moment of indecision when I think she’s going to slap my hand away, but she tentatively sets her fingers in mine. My hand twitches at the contact. Even something this minor, something that should be a harmless touch, is dangerous with Wren. She makes it nearly impossible to keep my head on straight.

I drop her hand as soon as she’s out of the car. Reginald opens the door before we set foot on the first step of many stairs leading up to the entrance. My father’s butler is dressed in full regalia, with slicked back white hair, and a permanent scowl on his face. He may simper and pretend to cow to me, but he is my father’s man. He’s never once lifted a finger to help anyone other than himself.

I don’t necessarily blame him for not leaping to my defense as a child. There were many people in this house who could have helped me over the years, simply by bringing me water and food when I could barely move after a beating. Even hearing a kind word from them would have been welcomed, but those aren’t the kind of people who work here. You don’t end up in Zeus or Hera’s employ by being a sympathetic and decent person.

Because this is Zeus’s Olympus home, he can make it appear anywhere he pleases. He moves it on a whim and rarely leaves it in one place for more than a few days. Having it here in Chicago for so long might be a record.

“Master Morrison.” Reginald drawls in a superior tone. “The other champions are waiting for you inside.” The butler doesn’t even glance in Wren’s direction. It’s his not-so-subtle way of telling her she’s inferior. From the amused look on Wren’s face, I don’t think she gives a damn what Reginald thinks about her.

“Thank you. We’ll find them.”

There’s a small chance that my father is currently in residence. It’s more likely that it’s Billy and the rest of the champions waiting on us. The first floor has a series of meeting rooms that are used when Zeus doesn’t want anyone in his personal domain. That’s where I head now.

Wren’s at least a foot shorter than me. I slow my strides so she can keep pace without having to jog. Neither of us speaks. I’ve got my stone facade back in place and there’s no conversation worth having with Wren in this place.

Raised voices down the hall tell me we’re headed in the right direction.

“Where was your security? You’ve got the most brutal trained champions in the country at your disposal. And they can’t stop the peasants from throwing a tantrum for the whole world to see.”

Wren nearly trips beside me, her steps faltering. I recognize the voice, and from the sour expression on her face, she does too. It’s Nathaniel Rogers, the High Priest of the Heralds of Olympus. He and Zeus were the originators of the Olympus Games.

Nathaniel is known for being the one who raised the gods from their sleep over forty years ago and then founded the clerics. The onetime southern preacher turned his sermonizing talents to singing praises to the gods and created an entire organization revolving around their worship. Or rather, the enforcement of that worship.

The clerics rule the cities in Zeus and Hera’s territory. They determine the laws citizens need to obey, they manage the jobs people can get, and they control the pipeline of food and resources that are available to average people. Let’s just say they aren't big on equality or compassion.

Power. Control. Those are the pillars that prop up the clerics’ beliefs. Nathaniel is their leader, and the face of the organization, but he’s also constantly manipulating things behind the scenes. I don’t know how many times over the years he’s been at my father's side, scheming and plotting how they can keep the people under Zeus’s rule controlled and reliant on the clerics and the gods. The long and short of it is that I hate him nearly as much as I hate my father.

The door to the large meeting room is open. Inside is a forty-foot-long table created from carved wood. The tree had been at least four hundred years old when Zeus split it down the middle with a bolt of lightning. The scorch marks fork out from the main impact point like infected veins. The black spider webbing has been captured forever in layers of shiny shellac.

This room is named the oak room because of the lightning struck oak tree table, but I always call it the ego room. There are dozens of massive paintings hanging on the walls, each twenty feet tall and just as long. No surprise, they’re all depictions of the gods, with Zeus and Hera the centerpiece of each work. Unlike the cold white marble of the rest of the house, this room has gold filigree ceilings, and ornately carved crown moldings that match the ostentatious frames of the paintings.

Our fellow champions, at least those who are still in the game, are sitting around the table. On the far side of the table is Drake, one of my only friends. Next to him is Nico, who’s a red-headed beast of a man. On Nico’s other side is Athena’s son, Jasper. The ballbuster, Greer, stands as Wren and I enter the room. On the other side of the table is the poisonous viper, Jade, and the shit stain Preston. There’s a mix of boredom on some faces and simmering anger on others.

Nathaniel, who we heard yelling from outside the room, is looming over Billy, the cleric who’s assigned as a wrangler for the champions during the games.Nathaniel’s a fit man in his sixties. He’s constantly patting his hair, making sure not one piece is out of place. The salt and pepper strands are naturally curly, but he brushes them back and must use a profusion of spray to keep it in place like a puffy hair helmet. The worst part about him are his beady eyes. Even when he tries to appear compassionate, he fails to hide the dark and mean gleam in them.

Wren is standing motionless beside me. I keep waiting for her to twitch or fidget, but she’s surveying the room as though this is the next challenge we’ve been set. I don’t look at her. We may have come into the room together, but that doesn’t mean anyone needs to think we’re working together.

Greer is eying us with too much cunning. She and I have been at some of the same training centers over the years. She’s a fierce competitor, smart, strong, no-nonsense. I’d even go so far as to say I like her if I allowed myself to have friendships. It’s possible Drake is the only other being on this planet, besides my aunt, that I’ve allowed myself to have a real relationship with. And that’s just because he’s so damn dogged. He wouldn’t take no for an answer, inserting himself into my life until I finally gave up trying to push him away. He was tenacious until one day we were simply friends.

Greer might have been my friend too, but we’re both the kind of people who mind our own business. Without the persistence of someone like Drake, there was no way either of us would offer up friendship.

“Where the hell have you two been?” Billy snaps as soon as he spots us. His face is red and sweat dots his brow. He crosses his arms, glaring as he takes out his anger on us. Nathaniel made him feel like a little kid being chastised, so now he’s going to do the same to us.

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