Chapter 37 Demons in the Flesh of Men
DEMONS IN THE FLESH OF MEN
A chilly breeze whipped through the coliseum and curls blew around my face in a tangled mess.
Dark clouds concealed the mountain peaks.
Not again.
I’d never view a thunderstorm the same way.
Mist rolled across the sand, and electricity hummed louder than usual, sputtering and sparking in the moisture-filled air.
I searched the stadium, but Zeus wasn’t present yet.
The day felt ominous—murmurs filled the arena—there was a strange anticipation bubbling.
Last night, once again, Kharon pulled me on top of him while he slept. He’d woken up with a flustered blush.
I didn’t look back at my husbands, but from the way my neck prickled, and my instincts screamed DANGER, they were staring at me.
Something was changing between the three of us.
The tension had returned—it was sweeter than before, but still volatile, if not more so. A dangerous chemistry.
Sometimes, I didn’t know if the three of us were fighting—or flirting.
I wasn’t ready to find out.
Charlie interlaced his arm through mine and leaned against my left side, his skin feverishly warm. I snuggled into him. Even back in the freezing depths of Montana winters, his blood had run hot. I used to have to beg him to wear a coat.
Poco was curled into a ball on my lap, looking like a fluffy obese cat.
Such a cutie.
I leaned down and gave his little gray head a kiss. He chittered contentedly.
Nyx’s scales tightened around my right arm as she raised herself up. “I want a kiss,” she demanded, her tongue flicking out near my ear.
“Are you serious?”
“Yes.” Nyx clicked her fangs together. “Kiss me.”
I quickly pecked her invisible head.
“Very nice,” she hissed.
Drex gave me a strange look. “You know—you’re actually a very strange person.”
I arched my eyebrow. “And you’re crap at math.”
A long beat passed, memories of the crucible spreading between us.
We grinned and elbowed each other.
“I still don’t understand how you enjoyed Thagorean.” Drex’s smile fell as he glanced at the empty seats beside Charlie.
Poppae lay in the aisle, looking despondent.
Where is Patro and why doesn’t he have his protector with him?
I hadn’t seen him at the symposium yesterday, since he’d been taken directly after his match to be interrogated.
“THE EIGHT LABORS OF ACHILLES—” Zeus’s crackling voice resonated throughout the arena as he stepped out onto the podium in a resplendent gold toga—please no—a familiar scepter clutched in his hand. “BEGINS NOW!” His lion roared.
The stadium errupted with cheers.
Charlie held me closer, and Drex leaned forward to get a better view.
“Achilles … Achilles … Achilles … Achilles!” Sparta chanted. Men and women wailed, half of them screaming, the other half crying.
Nyx joined them.
Humans weren’t the only ones who worshipped Achilles. Apparently, everyone on earth was obsessed. He only cared for one person—Patro—and people wanted what they couldn’t have.
Achilles stalked out onto the fog-covered sand to a standing ovation.
His short exercise toga bunched as he moved, and a small silver kitchen knife glinted in his fist. That was it. Nero stalked beside him with the scruff on his back raised.
He was heading into battle practically naked.
Achilles turned to look up at the crowd. His large body moved aside and revealed … Patro was walking beside him.
What the hell? Why is he down there?
Drex nudged me. “Is Patro limping? Is his ankle bleeding?”
A white bandage was wrapped around Patro’s right ankle—a maroon stain was spreading beneath the back of it.
“Why?” I asked dumbfounded. “Even while interrogating him, why would they ever feel the need to …”
Patro’s Achilles tendon was severed.
They’d severed it the day before Achilles’s match.
Just like with Agatha, the Olympians were making a statement—it was pure humiliation. A power trip.
I looked over at where Agatha was hunched beside Hermos, still covered in awful bruises. Zeus had been inches away from striking her dead.
Terror slithered down my throat.
Charlie rested his head against my shoulder, and I held him close, inhaling his clean scent.
My little brother was safe beside me. We were well fed. Showered and clothed. We’d both survived much worse than this.
Everything would be okay.
Achilles’s eyes shone a shockingly bright shade of scarlet as he glanced down at Patro’s bleeding leg. Veins protruded from his neck.
The Son of Ares, the Beast of the Crimson Duo, the Killer, had never looked so feral.
Zeus pointed his finger down at them—it looked like he was pointing a gun—and announced, “In compliance with his Spartan oath, the federation grants Patro permission to … REMOVE THE MUZZLE!”
The crowd went wild.
Zeus pointed his scepter at a section of the crowd I hadn’t noticed before. “TURN OFF THE CAMERAS!”
People screamed with fright, but no lightning struck.
Wait, is all of this being recorded?
What felt like a lifetime ago, I’d watched snippets of the gladiator fights in homeroom before school started.
Dissonance tore through me—past and present collided—the human world was watching.
I felt woozy.
Patro lifted a silver key to the back of Achilles’s muzzle. Hand visibly shaking, he inserted it, turning, unlocking the mechanism at the back of the thick leather straps.
The stadium held its breath.
Achilles turned and grabbed Patro’s wrist midair, stopping him from pulling the muzzle fully off.
The lovers stared into each other’s eyes.
No words were spoken, but Patro’s expression fell, his handsome features full of distress for his beloved.
Achilles shook his head, stepping back.
He put space between them, the muzzle still plastered across his face.
Achilles’s posture was different—crueler than normal. Even from afar, his countenance was harsh.
Patro turned his head, wrenching himself violently away from Achilles, like it physically pained him to leave his side.
Staggering away, tripping over sand and wincing as blood poured from his wound, Patro looked distraught.
Achilles reached to help him, but Patro batted him away and righted himself.
Patro limped away.
Achilles watched him go—his gaze lasered on Patro’s severed tendon—eyes flashing.
Cool wetness splattered across my face.
Hisssssssss.
The network of electricity sputtered above the arena.
I tipped my head back—droplets peppered my skin—the gray sky opened up, drenching all of us in a deluge. Sparks popped in the air, but the force field held.
The gate lifted up, but Achilles was still watching Patro retreat.
Rain fell faster, pouring down Achilles’s face like tears. The muzzle was still on, and for some reason, he wasn’t removing it.
Menacing growls echoed as four Nemean wolves slunk out on the far side of the arena. Their coats were a shiny black and each of them was Nero’s size or bigger.
It was just like Patro’s round.
Nero spun and growled at the incoming threat, his teeth bared as he crouched low in the rain.
Achilles still didn’t turn around.
He was watching where Patro had disappeared.
The wolves sprinted, puddles splashing beneath their feet, as they headed straight for Achilles’s exposed back.
“What’s he doing?” Drex shouted.
The crowd screamed with warning.
Rain pounded down.
The four mammoth wolves pounced—long yellow fangs bared, ears flattened to their skulls—they soared through the rain, straight toward Achilles.
I screamed with the crowd.
Achilles turned.
He dodged in a blur.
Two of the wolves overshot him, and Nero clashed with the third, rolling in the wet sand.
Chilling growls echoed as the two beasts fought.
Achilles didn’t pause to watch.
Moving with shocking speed, he drove his kitchen knife straight through the fourth wolf’s neck, then he slammed the creature down into a puddle with his other hand.
Blood and water sprayed across his muzzle.
A few feet away, Nero ripped out the neck of the wolf fighting beneath him.
The stadium cheered, but there was no time to celebrate.
The remaining two wolves were already back on their feet, sprinting toward Achilles—one crouched low in front of the other, protecting its neck.
Achilles watched them approach, the knife spinning between his fingers. Nero bared his teeth as he stood over the defeated wolf.
Neither man nor protector moved.
They waited.
Yet again, the two beasts leapt straight at them—Achilles shot up into the air, kicking one at Nero as he grabbed the other with his bare hands.
Crack. The wolf fell limp beside Achilles as he landed in the sand. Its neck was snapped.
Nero once again rolled through the sand, teeth snapping, as he fought the last one.
Achilles stalked over, and quicker than my eye could follow, he slammed his tiny knife straight through the last wolf’s skull.
Nero got to his feet and howled.
Achilles stood heaving beside him, leather concealing his face.
The fight had barely lasted a few minutes.
Stones vibrated as the stadium leapt to its feet. “Take off the muzzle … take off the muzzle … take off the muzzle!”
Nyx hissed in unison as she slithered around my stomach.
I gave Drex an incredulous look as he also joined the chant.
“What?” he shouted over the screams. “I’m intrigued.”
Rain roared as it fell harder, painting the world dark.
The stomps increased. “Take off the muzzle … take off the muzzle … take off the muzzle!”
Again, the trap door slowly lifted—the second round had begun.
Tall pale skin flashed as four blond men walked out, each wearing an oversized brown garment that was much too large for their lithe frames.
They walked out onto the blood-splattered sand.
They stood silent and soaking wet as they watched Achilles with inscrutable expressions. Something was off about them—none of them have a weapon.
Twenty feet of sand, and four dead wolves, stretched between them.
Nero backed up, his tail tucked between his legs, and Achilles moved to stand in front of him protectively.
The stadium went quiet as murmurs of confusion spread.