Blood of Hercules (Villains of Lore Book 1)

Alexis

“Take the drugs,” Patro ordered for the millionth time.

He glared down at where I was sprawled lifelessly on the bed, imitating a corpse.

A sheet was draped across my torso, preserving my nonexistent modesty (I still couldn’t believe I’d stood half-naked in front of a stadium full of people), and a wood ceiling towered at least three stories above me.

I didn’t know rooms could be so tall?

I was lying on the biggest bed I’d ever seen in my life. It had a masculine black headboard and a fluffy white comforter that felt like silk. Nyx was asleep under one of the pillows.

The bed was decadent, a luxury I’d never experienced.

It was also covered in my crusty dried blood.

“No w-way,” I said forcefully because there was no chance in hell I would be knocked out around strangers. For all I knew, they could try to harvest my organs.

No one’s taking my kidney. Especially not for free. I could get at least ten food vouchers for it.

Patro raked his hands through his disheveled hair. “You’re being impossible.”

I tried to shrug, but the movement made me ache.

Instead, I hummed softly (manically).

The adrenaline they’d dosed me with had worn off as soon as we’d leaped away from the coliseum, so when the doctors had finally arrived, I’d been writhing in pain.

The last few hours had been a blur of torture.

“Hold her still,” said the Spartan doctor who looked like a middle-aged man but was likely hundreds of years old. The fish of the House of Hermes was embroidered on his breast pocket, and a snowy owl perched on his shoulder. “Don’t let her move.”

Achilles grabbed my legs and held me down.

The urge to scream at him to release me bubbled up my throat—I forced it down and hummed louder.

Patro tentatively grabbed either side of my waist, like he didn’t want to touch me.

The feeling was mutual.

Across the room in front of the fireplace, a jaguar raised its head off its paws and stared at me with icy emerald eyes. It hissed in my direction. Next to it, a wolf with red eyes flattened its ears and bared its teeth at me.

Opening my mouth, I asked if⁠—

The doctor rudely jammed my dislocated shoulder back into my socket, and throbbing pain radiated down my side.

I whimpered.

A wolf’s deep growl vibrated through the room.

Sharp feedback burned my left ear.

The doctor glanced back at the animal and took a step back from me. “All her dislocated bones have been reset. I just need to wrap any fractures.”

As if she heard him, the other doctor walked in. She had a green crow on her shoulder and a clipboard with a long page in her hand. The winged abomination (I’d never liked birds) glared at me as she held up the page to her colleague.

They both gaped at it, looked down at me, then stared at the paper.

“What is it?” Patro asked with annoyance. The doctors had been stitching and setting my bones for hours, and he was clearly losing his patience.

She turned over the sheet. It was an X-ray of my body—they’d scanned me with a fancy handheld Spartan machine—and there were red arrows drawn on it in permanent marker. “The arrows are where her bones are fractured,” she said.

There were a lot of arrows.

My wrists and forearms were practically covered in red.

“How the fuck are you still alive?” Patro asked softly.

I’ve been asking myself that for years.

Achilles stared at me from the end of the bed. Since he couldn’t speak with the muzzle, it was unclear what he was thinking.

I was jealous.

If I had a muzzle, then people wouldn’t expect me to talk to them.

I wonder if he’ll let me borrow it.

“Do you know how many broken bones Achilles and I had—between the two of us—after our massacres?” Patro asked through gritted teeth. “Guess how many.”

Both doctors backed away from the bed and glanced anxiously at the men.

Achilles crossed his arms.

He’d taken off his suit jacket and tie and unbuttoned his cuff links. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing an intricate tattoo on his right forearm. A weapon holster hung loosely across his wide chest.

“Guess how many,” Patro repeated harshly.

He snapped his fingers in front of my face.

I glared at him.

Green eyes flashed.

“Zero,” he enunciated slowly. “We survived because we broke everyone else’s bones—that’s how it works.”

I gritted my teeth, sweat dripping down my brow as another wave of pain coursed through me.

Turning, Patro slammed his fist into the wall next to the headboard and breathed roughly like he was trying to get control of himself.

Across the room a clipboard clattered, and the Nemean jaguar rose to its feet.

The doctors plastered themselves against the wall, as far from the raging beast (Patro) as they could get. Relatable—take me with you.

The jaguar slunk lazily toward them, its long tail swishing back and forth. Every few seconds it hissed in my direction. The doctors stared at the animal with wide, panicked eyes, and their birds flapped their wings.

Patro gritted his teeth. “How the fuck did you qualify for the crucible?” he asked slowly.

I sighed, and my lungs rattled audibly.

“I’m good at enduring,” I whispered. It was half-true, after all, and I wasn’t about to tell them about Nyx and put her in danger.

For some reason, even among overpowered Spartans, I was the only one who could hear her.

“Check-fucking-mate. Stupid, conniving, weak Olympians,” Patro said as he looked down at me with disgust. “You win this round, Zeus.”

What is he talking about?

Heaving, he loosened his tie and made eye contact with Achilles.

They stared at each other for long moments, and the silence between them was electric.

“We’re fucked,” Achilles signed with long fluid hand motions.

“Should we kill the doctors?” Patro signed back. “They know how weak she is. If the other Houses find out, it will be used against her.”

My heart leaped in my chest. It took every ounce of control I had to keep my expression blank and not show that I understood sign language. It was perturbing how casually they talked about cutting people into little pieces.

I held my breath and waited for his response.

“Yes,” Achilles signed. “We’ll kill them later.”

I swallowed a scream.

Evil.

Chthonic.

Monsters.

I would definitely not be asking if I could borrow his muzzle.

My mentors turned toward the cowering doctors at the same time.

“Wrap her breaks,” Patro said coldly. “Now.”

The doctors nodded and bowed their heads, then they hurried to my bedside. The jaguar chuffed at them as they passed.

A cool paste was rubbed across my skin, and a strangely flexible but firm white cloth was wrapped around my arm.

The woman looked over at Patro and said, “The good news is not all of the arrows were fresh breaks. About a quarter of them were older fractures.”

I didn’t react.

The foster parents had been cruel, but the Montana winters had been crueler. Snow and ice made your bones brittle.

“How,” Patro said slowly, “is the fact that she has a history of being weak supposed to make me feel better?” His words dripped with venom.

The doctor opened and shut her mouth.

Patro took a step toward her like he was going to attack, and she cowered. Achilles shook his head, and Patro rolled his eyes and leaned back against the wall, which had a hole in it from his fist.

He stayed there while the doctors wrapped my right forearm, both shoulders, left femur, ribs, three toes, eight fingers, and my head.

When they were finally done, the doctors didn’t waste time fussing over me. They said it would take about two weeks for my bones to heal, and after a week I was supposed to take the bandages off to let the bones breathe, which made zero sense.

Then the doctors sprinted out of the room, and there was a boom in the hallway as they leaped away.

Smoke billowed in from the open door. I would have yelled, “they’re going to cut you into pieces,” but my mentors would probably snap and kill us all in a fit of rage.

Although, at this point, that might be preferable.

I resumed staring at the shockingly high ceiling while Patro launched into a lecture about how to block punches; at least, that seemed to be the gist.

I tuned him out.

I’d reached my daily limit of interacting with people.

If broken bones made Patro think I was weak (his disgusted expression made it clear he thought that was why I’d been abandoned), then he was going to lose it when he found out about my blind eye and deaf ear.

Not that they held me back—I’d adapted to my new reality—but something told me Patro would not see it that way.

He’ll kill me. I’ll never tell him.

The paste tingled pleasantly, and the numbing sensation penetrated deep. Everything got hazy.

Floating on clouds.

My eyes closed, and I fell into a deep healing sleep, cradled in the luxury of a bed.

Days blurred.

I was lost in a fever dream.

I woke up gasping for air, covered in a cold sweat, but fell immediately back asleep.

The process repeated.

Scales slid along my neck and whispered that everything would be okay. During a rare moment of lucidity, Nyx said something about Medusa.

“But she’s in the underworld,” I rasped quietly, my throat like sandpaper. “She used the Titans to attack the House of Zeus.” I tilted my head up.

Nyx hissed, “I don’t believe it.” She snapped her teeth with a click.

I opened my mouth to ask more, but my head dropped back.

Nightmares pulled me under.

This time, death himself hovered over me with his hand possessively on my ankle. He had pale skin and hateful bloodred eyes, and he watched me without blinking. A foreign sensation of intrigue and curiosity filled my chest; it was obsessive.

I’d never felt anything like it.

Death stayed for hours.

At some point, he left.

Everything warped and shifted. Black painted nails dabbed a cold rag across my forehead. A raspy male voice whispered insults about pathetic abandoned Olympian mutts.

I raised my bandaged middle finger into the air, delirium making me bold.

He laughed darkly.

At least Satan finds me funny.

His insults got meaner, but I sighed with relief as the cloth cooled my fevered flesh. He dragged it softly across my face, like I was made of glass.

Darkness twisted.

“I’m glad you’re back, but what are you going to do?” a harsh, raspy male voice asked.

There was a long pause, then another voice said, “She’ll perform for us—we’ll make sure of it.”

“Good fucking luck. A pathetic waif like her?” There was a dark, raspy laugh. “You’re gonna need my help.”

The other man sighed and muttered, “You’re a lucky bastard already being a general, not having to deal with this bullshit.”

I drifted away.

A piano played in another room, and the haunting melody resonated like honey. Tears gathered in my eyes. It was so beautiful. The music vibrated through me and chased away the nightmares.

Time passed.

“Nero, Poppae, stop growling at her. Really—you’re going to ignore me?”

I dreamed of falling from the clouds.

Plummeting.

Right before I hit the ground, a faceless man caught me. He was cruelly beautiful with stunning blue eyes—it was death again.

A fallen angel.

He placed his thumb roughly against my tongue. Fingers gripped my chin and kept my mouth open as they put pills in my mouth. He tilted my head back and tipped water down my throat.

I choked and sputtered.

“Go—to—hell,” I coughed as I tried to open my watery eyes.

The thumb dragged out of my mouth. “Where do you think I came from, carissima?”

A deep, raspy chuckle echoed as sleep pulled me back under.

Two animals growled, and the sound was deep and vicious. Otherworldly.

A tall figure hovered over me.

“Charlie?” I asked. “You—here too?”

The voice muttered something about fools, and I tried to reply, but the dreams pulled me away.

A piano played.

I woke up with tears leaking out of my eyes.

In the dark, I sat up gasping, covered in sweat. A breeze caressed my skin, and I flopped back with my eyes closed, unable to hold myself up.

My vision unfocused.

Voices whispered.

A cup was pressed to my lips.

Familiar callused fingers wrapped around my jaw and tipped my head back, then they traced along my cheekbones. Icy water soothed my ravaged throat.

“Thanks,” I whispered.

“Don’t thank me yet,” said the raspy voice. “I have a gut feeling we’re not going to get along. An innocent like you should be very afraid of a monster like me.”

Opening my mouth, I tried to ask what he meant, but nothing came out.

The nightmares smothered me.

Blood was everywhere. Fists and cigarettes against my skin. My chest hurt as she died. Was I hurting her? Crimson eyes glowed as a hand touched my leg, and a foreign curiosity burned inside my chest.

The urge to devour filled me—it felt like someone else’s emotion. A dagger was pressed into my sternum, and I waved bloody hands. A man screamed.

Sitting up, I clutched my frantic heart.

Wide awake, I heaved as I rubbed the throbbing scar on my chest.

Bright sunlight burned.

The crusted sheet from the doctors was still draped over me, and the high-ceilinged room was warm. A breeze filtered through open French doors that led to a patio. I hadn’t noticed them before.

Morning rays streamed in with blinding brilliance.

Water lapped.

I squinted—my right eye adjusted to the light.

Holy crap. Past the deck, turquoise-blue waters filled the horizon. Lush green leaves framed the windows.

The never-ending sea was close enough I could walk out and fall into it.

It was breathtaking.

Divine.

I’d seen pictures of large bodies of water, but nothing could have prepared me for real life. The scents of salt water, the sounds of lapping, the way it stretched across the horizon to eternity.

The door squeaked, and I clutched the bloody sheet to my chest.

Patro stood in the doorway with a glass of water and washcloth. His dark skin practically shimmered in the sunlight, and his high cheekbones were sharp enough to cut glass.

It was shocking how closely he resembled the statue of David.

Green eyes narrowed. “You’re awake.” He turned and left the room.

I blinked.

His voice was soft, chilly in its cadence—nothing like the deep rasp that had insulted me in my dreams.

I must have been hallucinating.

Nice, I’m already losing my mind. Nineteen is not my year.

A few minutes later, there was a loud explosion in the hall, and the same doctors from before hurried into the room. Achilles and Patro followed with their terrifying beasts at their heels.

At least they haven’t killed the doctors . . . yet.

“Have you been giving her the weight-gaining nutrient pill like we instructed?” the male doctor asked as he pulled supplies out of a bag.

Achilles and Patro glared at him.

“Right, of course you did,” the doctor said shakily. “Since it’s been a week, we’ll need to take the sheet off so we can remove her casts.”

“No,” I rasped loudly, clutching the sheet tighter.

Father grinning as he leered over me and pushed a cigarette against my stomach. Mother’s fists slamming against the side of my face.

My flesh was mine, and no person was seeing it unless I wanted them to.

Unlike Charlie—whose entire back was a mutilated twist of scar tissue, which he’d never spoken about—I had dozens of small, mostly unnoticeable scars. The raised ridges on my wrists were the most prominent.

My midsection was littered with the most marks.

Thin, faint scratches from moving tree branches with pointy ends. A puckered red circle from a cigarette. Tiny dots where broken glass pieces dug into my back as I scrambled across it. A jagged divot where I’d fallen on ice. Then there was the puckered scar on my sternum, the one I’d had since a baby.

But I still felt protective of my skin.

The events of the coliseum were different. I’d been pumped full of adrenaline and covered in enough blood that no one could see anything.

This was personal.

I was me again.

Achilles stopped at the edge of my bed and stared; his muzzle obstructed his expression.

I waited for the attack.

I’d seen what he’d signed to Patro.

He was vicious.

White-knuckling the sheet, I prepared to fight if they tried to take it from me. They would win . . . eventually, but I could make it hurt. Straightening my spine, I breathed in deeply. Tensed my thighs.

“Everyone out but you.” Patro’s voice whipped through the room as he pointed at the female doctor.

The male packed up and ran out of the room as fast as he could. Slowly, the Crimson Duo followed him out.

Patro stopped at the door and looked back. “She’s under the protection of the House of Ares and Aphrodite. Do anything to harm her, and no one will ever find you.”

The woman gulped.

“Understood?” Patro bellowed, eyes filling with blood, and I jolted at the ferocity of his voice.

“Yes. Of course. I’m from the Assembly of Healers. I’ve taken a healing oath,” she said quickly. “I would never do anything to⁠—”

Patro slammed the door shut and cut her off.

She exhaled and tipped her head to the ceiling like she was praying.

I would have joined her, but I was 99 percent sure God had abandoned me. Also, I was nervous about the fact that she’d be touching me. It was better than a man—but not by much.

There was one thing I’d learned over the years: most people didn’t like me.

The wolf and jaguar growled viciously at both of us, then sat down in the corner of the room.

After a long moment of collecting herself, the doctor gathered her tools and turned to me.

I stared at her with trepidation. Please don’t steal my organs.

The post-Titan world was full of people posing as doctors so they could harvest people without their consent and make money off their parts on thriving black markets.

The doctor smiled.

I tried not to scream for mercy.

She touched my arm, and I breathed shallowly through my nose. She cut off a bandage, and I watched her scissors like a hawk, waiting to see if she was going to go for my skin.

“Be careful around the Crimson Duo,” she murmured as she leaned across me.

I jolted at her close proximity.

“They’re dangerous,” she murmured as she kept cutting.

No way, they seem super nice.

“I mean—look at who they’re friends with.” She moved to my leg bandage and mumbled something about “heir psychopaths who everyone’s obsessed with” under her breath.

She shivered dramatically, then pulled the sheet down to work on my ribs.

I closed my eyes and pretended I wasn’t exposed before her.

She picked up my hand and went finger by finger. “Frankly, Kronos help us, I don’t think the muzzle’s enough for Achilles.”

Apparently, she took my lack of response as encouragement to continue.

Picking up her bag, the doctor moved to the last bandages on my head. “You know”—her voice dropped to a whisper, like she was afraid of being overheard—“rumor is they were going to send Achilles to the underworld after his performance in the SGC . . . a Chthonic mutt like him, with that type of power—you’re just asking for a repeat of the Great War.”

She shook her head and leaned closer, scissors snipping along the side of my head.

“I mean, they founded that horrible weapons company with Augustus and Kharon—who are actual sociopaths. I’ve heard they’ve even been diagnosed. I mean, look at what they chose to represent themselves.”

Her nose scrunched with disgust.

Something tells me the D and L of WSDL don’t stand for “dazzling” and “lovely.”

I was too afraid to ask.

She brushed hair off my forehead. I tried not to wretch while she grinned down at me like we were besties.

Help?

This friendship was upsetting.

She continued, “The fact that Patro took a Spartan oath to only take the muzzle off Achilles if necessary is pure insanity. Everyone knows that bad things happen to people who take Spartan oaths outside of marriage and animal bonding.” She smiled down at me. “I’m probably boring you, since you already know all this.”

Actually, madam, I know nothing, and I can’t tell if you want my kidney or not.

Also—please kidnap me away from here. I’d really appreciate it if you did it quickly, before my mentors come back. Thanks.

I desperately tried to find the courage to speak.

The bandage fell off my head, and she clapped. “Now your bones are mostly healed, but they’ll still be very weak for the next seven days, so take it easy.”

She squinted down at me.

“You know it makes sense that you break easily—the House of Zeus is known for its fertility issues. All the recent mutts have . . . struggled. Thank goodness for Theros—he’s the first heir they’ve born in centuries. The Olympian Houses have all had—difficulties with their progeny’s strength after the Great War.”

Thank God, there’s hope yet. Maybe Sparta will fall and I can live in peace.

“But the new marriage law is going to fix all that, thank Kronos.” She beamed. “Everyone’s talking about it. It’s genius, making all citizens of Sparta take a marriage oath when they turn twenty-six. Well, everyone but the house leaders—obviously. No one tells them what to do.”

I frowned.

Excuse me? A marriage law at twenty-six? I’d be a child bride.

I never wanted to get married.

Having to touch another person sexually.

Hard pass.

“The best part,” the doctor continued, oblivious to my mental breakdown. “They put in a clause that listed out all ten of the Chthonic names, and stated they were restricted from only marrying someone on that list. Chthonic leaders refused to comply if Chthonics were wholly forbidden from marrying each other, so the federation compromised and added the ‘only.’ Either way they must marry an Olympian.”

She scoffed.

“The technicality doesn’t actually matter—the next generation of Chthonic blood will be diluted with Olympian blood. There’s no way for them to find a loophole. The federation claims the law is for Sparta’s fertility struggles, but everyone knows it’s really to force the Chthonics into alliances with the Olympians—it’s brilliant.”

She moved to brush more hair off my forehead, and I dodged her hand.

Her eyes narrowed.

“Well,” she huffed. “I tried to help you.” As she packed up her supplies, she mumbled under her breath, “Even though you’re just a filthy abandoned mutt.”

Short friendship.

“Be c-careful,” I said in a rush, as I gripped the sheets tightly. “They’re going to hurt you.”

She scoffed. “You don’t know anything about the ways of the great Houses. You’re the one in danger, not me.”

The door slammed open, and my mentors entered.

She jumped with a yelp. “Pleasure to assist the great Houses,” she said with her head lowered as she bowed to the men. “Please tell the House of Hades about my services to the great Chthonic families, and let the Assembly of Death know if they ever⁠—”

“Get out,” Patro cut her off, his demeanor cold. Achilles stood at his side, arms crossed and vermilion eyes glinting with danger.

Guilt filled me. I tried to warn her.

She gasped and scurried away.

“Nero, get out of the room,” Patro snapped at Achilles’s wolf, and it reluctantly walked away after giving me a side-eye. “Poppae, you too,” he said, and the jaguar obeyed.

The three of us were left.

Alone.

Help.