Chapter Eight
Naively, I’d thought the biggest mental hurdle of the evening would be keeping my composure around Sebastian. But that was only because I forgot to factor in being accosted by everyone’s favorite golden-haired despot.
I’m seriously considering begging Zeus to let me break my ‘no drinking’ rule, but the stern look I get as I’m eyeing the decoy glass in his hand says he knows exactly what I’m thinking and to put that errant wish to bed.
“What the fuck was that?” he mutters darkly as he reluctantly hands over the flute.
“I think he’s got someone watching me at the Academy,” I wince.
“ Fuck ,” he spits before draining the rest of his drink.
“Yeah,” I agree, every inch of my exposed skin still crawling from the encounter. “Where’s Orbison?”
Zeus’s jaw ticks. “On your six, keeping Sinclair and Rhodes occupied.”
“What? Why?” I ask, my voice weirdly high. There’s an odd thrill of excitement skating down my neck at the thought of these two sides of my life finally colliding.
“It looks like the two of them were about to storm over here,” Knox remarks, watching with amusement while I rotate in my unwieldy gown as casually as possible. As Midas left to meet with the Arbiter, it occurred to me that I’ve yet to clock a single identifiable Suit so far tonight—but that doesn’t mean I’m not being closely watched.
As I finally finish painstakingly rearranging my skirts, I glance up to where Dionysus is busy manhandling a stony-faced Apollo and Hades, and my entire expression slams shut with an Oscar-worthy display of nonchalance.
I was so right. Apollo does look pornographic in a tux.
The newly revealed Grayson wears a traditional black tuxedo suit, cut well to his athletically broad shoulders, and paired with an ornately embossed black tie. His dark hair is neatly styled to the side. Even with his identity partially obscured by a simple, metallic gold half-mask, the resemblance to his older brother is unmistakable. Not for the first time do I wonder how the fuck I didn’t notice the connection sooner.
D still has him pulled up by the nape, alongside Hades. Hades, who’s out here exiling souls from bodies left and right with how criminally good he looks in that brocaded corset vest of his. In head-to-toe black, with his long hair slicked back in a neat bun, he’s wearing a gold mask that perfectly matches his best friend’s and is no doubt hiding a grade A scowl.
The two Rox Boys might be slightly taller than D, but with how flushed Apollo’s neck looks and how rigid Hade’s shoulders are, there’s no doubt about who has the upper hand there.
Unfortunately, seeing the three of them together is proving hazardous to the scrap of silk masquerading as my lingerie, and as much as I’d love to sit back and enjoy the show—discretion remains key.
We don’t need any opportunistic Gray Men reporting back to Lexington that the Rox Boys have my inner thighs doing their best impersonation of a Slip ’N Slide.
Or— fuck —back to Midas, for that matter. He seemed entirely too interested in my ‘academic life’.
No, I can’t have anyone thinking my fledgling Pantheon remains anything but a mandatory recruitment project for the Suits, so I instead fix my attention back onto the three Concordia agents I’d noticed during my earlier room sweep.
Baron Teague, 29, Maddox Williams, 28, and River Lee, 28.
There’s nothing particularly scandalous to be found inside any of their modest Gray Men dossiers.What initially had the trio snagging my interest was the way in which they’ve each been obsessively tracking Medusa from the moment they came on shift.
I chuckle lightly into the champagne glass. Either the infamous bounty hunter’s facing disciplinary action, or these Peacekeeper boys are nursing three massive, stalker-level crushes.
Can’t say I really blame them, though.
The things that woman can do with the right paralytic.
“What’s so funny, troublemaker?” Zeus murmurs as he leans in, his voice a low, husky kiss behind my ear.His large hand caresses down the length of my spine, gently soothing over the ghostly afterimages of Midas’s touch.
My lashes flutter as it settles back onto my hip.
Any minute now, and I’ll wake up to find this newly blossoming dynamic of ours has all been nothing but a blissful dream.
Before I can formulate a mostly mature, mostly non-horny response, however, the massive, red-lit chandeliers overhead begin to dim, and an expectant hush falls over the entire gathering.
A frown pulls at my brow. I’d hoped to have finished getting a lay of the land before the opening ceremony, but I realize I still haven’t laid eyes on Hermes or Ares.
Or our Gray Man Council, for that matter.
Zeus’s grip on my hip tightens expectantly and I wince as I feel the first dull throb behind my eyes. A sign I’m starting to approach the limits of my forced sobriety.
In my periphery, Dio’s massive form rejoins Knox just as the sound of curtains being drawn back dramatically has everyone’s focus moving to the black-marbled dais. The crowd shifts in anticipation, and I lose sight of Apollo and Hades.
When the velvet drapes part completely, it’s to unveil the towering form of an ornately carved hourglass on a low marbled rostrum. The supporting framework of the massive structure is crafted from dark cherry oakwood, with each of its pear-shaped bulbs spanning dozens of feet in both directions and only separated by an extremely narrow and delicately blown stem.
The top half still contains each one of its crimson ‘grains’—but everyone knows the grains of ‘sand’ aren’t sand at all. They’re a mixture of metal oxides, slate, and most notably, the pulverized bones of fallen Underworld leaders. Each ‘grain’ has then been carefully stained the same deep red as Concordia ’s signature color: the unmistakable color of blood.
It’s no secret that the entire tableau has been designed as a macabre reminder of the nature of our world. A symbol of the fleeting lifespan of man versus the everlasting legacy of the Imperium in Imperio . The belief that it will endure no matter the discord between North and South—an eternal empire within an empire.
Seeing the Green Knight’s final resting place up close has those same soft fingers of dread brushing against the base of my skull as when I read the paternity results for the first time.
Because an hourglass only has one purpose.
But what exactly will it be counting down?
The crowd—already uneasy following the curtain’s reveal—shifts again when a lone, hooded figure steps out from behind the hourglass, cloaked in the same crimson as its bloody sands.
Their face remains in shadow, but as they take their place at the front of the dais, there’s no mistaking that air of power.
“Welcome to the 63rd Annual Symposium,” the Arbiter intones, her voice a somber lilt as it echoes across the open atrium. The solemn greeting is met with a scattering of polite but nervous applause. “I only wish the occasion could be marked by a more joyous state of affairs. Alas, I fear that we will soon have nothing short of civil war on our hands.”
This is it.
This is why we’re in Themis this year.
She’s never really been one to mince words, and true to her nature, the Last Word of the Underworld dives right to the heart of the matter. “It is no secret the former Southern Sovereign died without issue, nor that his estate has remained hotly contested.”
My jaw clenches when she clasps her hands before her, as only someone who has come bearing grim news would.
“In the absence of an heir, in both blood or name, suitable Sovereign nominations must then not only find a majority, but do so within a timeframe as deemed reasonable by the standing cohort. The Southern Crown has now lain in dispute for a total of one hundred and fifteen days.”
No. He wouldn’t.
Like an unwitting magnet, my eyes seek out Midas’s blond hair. He’s situated right next to the dais itself, nursing a new whiskey and looking entirely too fucking pleased with himself as the standing fucking cohort .
The trepidation that follows creeps along my scalp until it feels like all the hair on my body is standing on end.
Despite his leonine demeanor, Midas and the Gordian Knot are more akin to a pack of hyenas: always circling, testing the waters, stealing scraps—all before going in for the final kill.
In fact, he’s so well known for his risk-averse, hands-off approach to business, that I would’ve put actual money on his organization continuing to sit back and monitor the chaos in the South. Right until its explosive conclusion. Content to wait while we finish tearing ourselves apart from the inside first—leaving them free to swoop in and clean house in the aftermath.
For him to make the first move like this, means he knows something we don’t, and the realization lodges in my throat like a fishbone.
Whatever else the Arbiter says next turns to static in my ears as I scan the area around the platform and inadvertently lock eyes with the Gray Man. He’s standing opposite the stage in dark contrast to the golden Northern Sovereign.
“He’s here,” I breathe, not needing to elaborate on who he is, and trying to move my lips as little as possible. Sebastian’s penetrating gaze has not once left my face.
How long has he been watching us?
Unlike Midas, he does have a mask—a black-plumed replica of the ones my Crew is wearing.
“I see him,” Zeus replies, and I hate how empty he now sounds. Gone is the firm but flirty Jax. He’s shutting all the playfulness down and slipping the role of the indifferent son back on his shoulders like heavy battle armor. “Keep listening,” he urges.
I force my focus back to the dais. “And to see through this historic changing of the guard,” the Arbiter is saying, “the younger Southern cohort must now carry forth the burden of their fathers’ debts.”
The cold shock of seeing my guardian in the flesh for the first time in months is met with a new wave of existential dread.
Fathers’ debts?
“Fuck , ” Dio hisses at the possible implications of those cryptic words. Zeus’s fingers dig reflexively into my hip bone beneath the edge of my bodice, right as my own go numb against the delicate stem of my champagne glass.
Jackson.
The perfect pawn for whatever price the Red Court has in mind for determining the next leader of the South.
Either he comes out on top for the Gray Men—or he dies trying.
Again, a win-win scenario for Sebastian.
The ominous pronouncement seems to have been all the signal needed for a second figure to approach the stage, this one in a hooded white cloak. The Herald quickly takes up position by the massive base of the hourglass before beginning her own rehearsed speech.
“It is by request of the Northern Sovereign that the Red Court formally intervene in the matter of succession for the Southern Crown. It is thus the decree of the Red Court and her esteemed Grace, the Arbiter—that the issue of Southern succession now be settled by participation in and completion of”—a dramatic pause—“ The Twelve Labors .”
The room immediately comes alive with a mixture of excited and intrepid conversation. The last time the Labors were initiated was in 1968—after both Sovereigns and their heirs were assassinated during the opening ceremony of that year’s Symposium. The attack had sparked an all-out war between the Northern and Southern factions at the time and was the reason the Law of Hospitality was invoked in the first place.
Twelve weeks of increasingly difficult tasks in an officially sanctioned Hunger Games between vying factions.
Twelve weeks of every man for himself.
“To formally place a bid for the Crown, representing factions may nominate no more than three legitimized heirs for participation in the Labors.”
Wait.
Heirs, plural?
A second Grayson heir.
“ Shit. ” I feel like my corset has crushed the last remaining air from my ribs.
“Don’t look,” Zeus warns, “he’s still watching.”
I swallow roughly. I couldn’t, even if I was feeling ballsy enough to risk it. I don’t know where Apollo ended up during the opening address, and aside from the little bubbles of space afforded to the most influential players standing closest to the platform, the rest of the throng is impossible to see through right now.
But this throws a major fucking spanner in the works.
There’s no way we can risk waiting until we get back to Rox City to have our conversation with Tristan. Not if there’s even the slightest chance an allowance for multiple nominations might have Sebastian pushing up his timeline—and dropping that bombshell tonight .
“No limits have been placed on the number of auxiliary team members, however, alliances with both Northern and Neutral entities will be strictly prohibited for the duration of the Labors,” the Herald continues, her loud voice cutting cleanly through the rising chatter of the crowd.
“Although inter-faction interference during the execution of a trial is permitted, participants may not wilfully conspire to cause direct harm to another. Harm befalling participants during the natural execution of a Labor—while unfortunate—will not be considered a punishable offense,” she further clarifies, and the excitement swells once again.
“Nominations are to be officially submitted within seven days. The Labors will begin following the release of the roster, and will continue until the last grain falls, or a single participant remains—whichever transpires first.”
The room sobers a little, faced with the real possibility a significant portion of the next generation will be heading home from the Labors in a cushy pine box.
“The encrypted details of each Labor will be relayed electronically, one trial at a time,” she continues. “Transmissions will be sent at 7pm, Pacific Standard Time, on the Sunday following the conclusion of each Labor.”
So potentially, this whole ordeal could be over in as little as three months.
Unless, of course, not every heir makes it through to the end and they don’t need to run all twelve trials.
Fuck.
Without staying to take questions from the increasingly agitated crowd, the Herald turns and disappears back past the curtain screen. The Arbiter, left standing vigil on the dais, raises a single hand and the murmurs of the crowd fall completely silent.
“Thank you, everyone. You may now move through to the next hall. The dinner service will begin shortly.” And then she too turns, retreating from the stage in a flourish of crimson robes.
Released from her hold, the atrium once again explodes with a mixture of heated opinions and excited conversations. When the lights brighten again, I warily scan the nearby crowd, but the noise is quickly becoming deafening and does absolutely nothing to help my burgeoning headache.
No doubt the Fates are already doing the rounds, drafting up a list of projected nominees, and handing out their death pool odds. There’s only one thing more universally loved throughout the Underworld than mutual bloodshed—and that’s betting on it.
And right now there’s at least one crime scion in the room who has no idea his hat’s about to be thrown into the ring.