Page 87 of The Coven of Ruin
Zeus stood abruptly, somehow not spilling the contents of his goblet. Thunder sounded in the distance. “Remember your place,” he ground out. Lightning danced around the throne.
Ares was surprised it took as long as it did for Zeus to become visibly irritated by Grae.
Smirking, his brother drawled, “Come now, I know exactly where I belong, and that’s—“
Static, crisp and furious, formed between Zeus and Grae. A bolt struck his chest, causing him to stumble back with a low groan. From the corner of his eye, Ares saw Brune shift his stance. Usually, they were the ones who stopped him from doing something he would regret, but the look on Zeus’ face was completely worth Grae’s antics.
His brother swaggered back to where he had been standing beside Ares. Running a hand down the front of his fighting leathers, he whispered, “Invigorating.”
“It has been months since your last report, and this is the news you bring,” Zeus remarked, lowering himself back on his throne. He passively turned the dagger over, his attention back on Ares. “If there is a prophecy, I need it.Allof it.“ He massaged his gray and black beard as he contemplated something.
“Apollo.” The god’s name was spoken with all the power of a summons.
They waited. Zeus occasionally drank from his goblet, and Grae hummed a battle hymn beneath his breath. The sky hall was drenched in daylight, the twin suns of Olympus reflecting a thousand times on the mirrored marble. It made the back of Ares’ neck prick with heat. He hated his father’s hall. He hated that he had to be in it at all, summoned like a hound just to be disparaged.
Upon returning to Olympus from Witch Country, they had merely strategized and regrouped. But their presence had caught the God King’s attention.
It had been five days since the Convocation. They took Nero back to The Iron Coven with strict instructions to stay put for the time being, despite the mage’s protests. They had gated back, searching for the Legion. All their gathered knowledge of the group had only led to dead ends. Their every known location had been emptied as if they had never been there in the first place. The castle was blockaded, and any attempt at infiltration would only alert them to their arrival, giving them plenty of time to key away.
It was driving Ares mad.
When Apollo finally arrived, his footsteps echoed as he walked the length of the sky hall. The god halted some steps apart and ahead of Ares and his brothers. “Father.” His voice was a symphony, musical and smooth.
When was the last time he had seen him? Had it been an entire century? Ares wasn’t sure.
Apollo was golden. Where Ares held gold only within the confines of his irises, Apollo radiated it. The god was daylight personified. His hair was swept up in a bun, a gilded pin holding it in place. His tunic and pants were intricately designed with vines in all the colors of the sun.
The golden son.
“Apollo,” Zeus’ tone carried a familiarity that was absent when he addressed Ares. As if seeing Apollo was something that made him feel content. As if he loved him. “I need you to gather your oracles.”
Ares and his brothers left Zeus’ sky palace, refusing to standby for Apollo to consult with his oracles. They had better things to do, and the longer he stood before his father, the more fury collected within him. As they bided their time in their hall, he was forced to face an entirely different issue.
Ares deftly dodged the throwing knife. It flew true, passing through where his head had just been and instead burying into the wood with a‘thunk.’
Why was everyone so determined to cause him bodily harm when they were emotional?
“And you’re just telling me this now? I should finish what that mage started just for that.” The complex greens and blues of her eyes were absorbed by the black of her slitted pupils. Long, lacquered nails tapped against another knife as she contemplated whether to throw it. “Show me,” she demanded, gesturing with the knife at his tunic.
“Medusa,” Brune’s low timbre soothed.
Shooting him a glare that had the giant god dipping his chin in deference, she stepped closer to Ares with an air of impatience.
Ares pulled his tunic over his head, exposing the wound for her examination. The lithe gorgoness closed the distance between them, the throwing knife still a threat in her palm. Her eyes cycled through softening and hardening as she examined the wound. Several of the snakes intertwined within her dark hair moved to inspect it as well, forked tongues tasting the space between them.
The injury had lost some of the magic the witch had packed into it, her violet light dulled to a barely there pink. The creeping blackness in his veins had spread farther down his arm and side.
“How long do you have?” Medusa finally asked, her gaze flicking up at him as she stepped back.
“I don’t know, Dus,” Ares exhaled, marking the placement of her knife as he did.
“And there’s no way to stop it?” The question was aimed at Grae and Brune.
Grae’s tongue pushed out his bottom lip as he considered how much he wanted to say. There was no lying to Medusa. She had the uncanny ability to tell when one of them wasn’t being truthful. “There is one thing we found,” he said slowly.
“We?” Medusa crossed her arms over herself, jutting a hip out.
“Trista and I.”
