Page 143 of Crown of Olympus
“Are you alright?” I asked quietly.
“Daughter,”my father sang from the next mirror. I refused to look, suppressed the urge to shudder.
Through gritted teeth, Aros said, “I saw my father… and my mother…” He left the sentence unfinished, clenching and flexing his fingers repeatedly.
“It’s okay,” I said gently. “You don’t have to say any more.”
“Oh, but he does,” Hera said, grinning delightedly frombehind us. Her fingers were splayed before her face, their tips drumming together in rapid rhythm. She reminded me of a spider tapping its legs across a freshly woven web.
Somehow, I knew the comparison would prove true. We were all insects caught in her twisted web of games and deceit, masquerading as truth.
“The mirrors will make him,” she explained vaguely.
No sooner had the words left her mouth than the shards of broken glass began to vibrate against the floor. They scattered backwards with a soft hiss, and I watched, transfixed, as they lifted themselves into the frame — like an invisible hand was piecing them precisely where they belonged.
The glass sealed seamlessly, as though the shattering had been rewound before our eyes.
“Creepy,” Aros breathed.
I was inclined to agree.
Unfortunately, now that the mirror was whole again, my father glared at me from within its surface. Aros appeared to be able to see him too; rage ignited his long locks as he growled, “Don’t fucking touch her.”
I placed my hand atop his raised fist, only to hiss and recoil — his skin burned with the same intensity as Hephaestus’ forge. To his credit, Aros winced slightly.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” I narrowed my eyes just as Caelus appeared at my other side, frowning at Aros.
“No, you definitely should be,” he snarled.
“Stop it, both of you. We don’t need a dick-measuring contest right now.”
But a new question had formed in my mind.
When would Aros have ever had dealings with my father? Especially to have evoked such visceral hatred.
The answer: likely, never.
“What do you see?” I asked Aros softly.
“My father. Don’t you see him?”
I shook my head. “I seemyfather.”
“And you?” I asked Caelus.
“I don’t see Ares. Or Hades, for that matter,” he answered vaguely, refusing to look directly at the mirror.
Aros quirked a ginger brow. Just as he opened his mouth to reply, a sharp sting slashed across my cheek, and I gasped in the duality of shock and pain. Both gods snapped their heads to look as I pressed a hand to my face, wincing at the freshly raw skin.
When I pulled my hand away, my fingertips were bloodied. Caelus leaned in to inspect the wound.
“How?” he asked softly.
A flicker of movement in the mirror caught my eye. I looked up to see Hades’ manic grin. He waved a blood-coated shadow dagger in wicked greeting. My head cocked to the side. This wasn’t a version of my father I’d ever seen myself, though I’d heard the stories — the horrific tales of what the King of the Underworld had done before Persephone softened him.
Caelus hissed. A fresh gash on his thigh trickled blood down his breeches, dripping onto the arena floor.
