Chapter 22
Rafael's fingers moved through my hair in slow, careful strokes. He thought I was still asleep.
In reality, I'd been awake for ten minutes, memorizing the rhythm of his touch, the warmth of his palm against my scalp, the way his fingernails scraped lightly, almost hesitant, like he was afraid I'd break.
I was pathetic for wanting this, for staying still so he wouldn't stop.
The cabin smelled like pine smoke and Diego's terrible coffee. My shoulder throbbed with each heartbeat. The eagle wounds on my back pulled tight every time I inhaled, but Rafael's hands had been keeping me tethered for three days.
My mother's face flashed behind my eyelids, the spray of red, the sound of the gunshot. I shoved it down.
"We can't stay here forever," Jasper said from somewhere across the room. "Constantine knows we're in the area. It's only a matter of time before—"
"Lorenzo needs more time to heal."
I peeled my tongue off the roof of my mouth and tasted old blood. "I'm not dying. And I'm not an invalid. We can move whenever we need to."
Rafael's fingers stopped, then started again, gentler.
"You're supposed to be resting," he said, and his voice did things to my nervous system that had no business happening when I had holes in my back.
"I've been resting for three days. I'm going to develop bed sores.
" I opened my eyes and Rafael's face filled my vision, inches away, with dark circles under his eyes like bruises and stubble darker than usual, past the point of attractive.
"Besides, Diego keeps making terrible coffee. I'm suffering."
"My coffee is fine," Diego called from across the room.
"Your coffee tastes like gasoline mixed with regret."
"That's called 'strong.'"
"That's called 'a crime against humanity.'"
Rafael's mouth twitched, almost a smile, and his thumb traced my cheekbone.
"Someone’s here." Jasper stood at the window, one hand on the curtain. "We've got someone on the northeast ridge. Possible sniper, two hundred meters."
I tried to sit up, but Rafael held me firmly against him and shook his head.
Diego drew his gun. "Where?"
Jasper pointed. "Look. Fucking amateur doesn’t see him coming. How the fuck did he get that close without—"
The crack of bone echoed in the silence.
“Damn,” Diego let out a low whistle. “Fucker just walked right up and broke that sniper’s neck like he was snapping a twig.”
"Who is he?" Rafael's hand found my wrist.
"Can't see his face yet, but..." Diego squinted. "There's a second person approaching from the south. Suit. Moves like..." He exhaled slowly. "That's Rhadamanthys."
I relaxed, but only slightly.
"They're walking toward the cabin together," Diego said. "Like they're taking a fucking evening stroll after killing someone."
We waited in tense silence as footsteps approached. Then there were three sharp knocks at the door.
“Open the door," Rhadamanthys called through the door. "If we wanted you dead, you would be. And the Constantine operative on your ridge won't be reporting back."
Diego glanced at me, and I nodded even though my hands wouldn't stop shaking.
He opened the door.
Rhadamanthys walked in first, not a hair out of place, like he hadn't just hiked through the Catskills to witness a murder.
The man behind him filled the doorway, tall and broad-shouldered, with skin the color of the sky at midnight.
His hair was going silver at the temples, and he moved like the world rearranged itself around him instead of the other way around.
There wasn't a speck of dirt on his suit, no blood on his hands, nothing but calm confidence and the faint scent of expensive cologne.
"Lorenzo Vasquez." His voice was deep, rich, his West African accent making every word sound like a story waiting to unfold. "I confess, I expected someone... taller."
My mouth had gone dry. "You should see me when I'm not bleeding all over someone else's mattress. I'm very impressive. At least five-foot-seven."
His laugh was warm and rolling like thunder.
"This is Director Hades of Lagos," Rhadamanthys said, and there was affection in his voice underneath the formality.
Oh fuck.
Hades pulled out a chair and sat down slowly like we had all the time in the world. “Stay as you are. There is no need for formalities here and now.”
"Why are you here?" Rafael asked. "If you're here to execute Lorenzo—"
"Then you would never have seen me coming.
" Hades folded his hands on the table. "I have built something over forty years, Father Oliveira.
An organization of very capable people who handle such matters with efficiency and discretion.
I am an old man who has learned to treasure his hours. I do not spend them on simple murders."
“We are here as allies,” Rhadamanthys supplied.
Hades nodded once. "When Santino told me Dionysus Oliveira's son was involved in this mess, I became curious.
Your father and I, we had many conversations over the years.
Beautiful conversations, full of promises.
He spoke of honor, of protecting the innocent, of shutting down Project Icarus.
" His mouth curved, but it wasn't a smile.
"In my country, we say a man's words are wind unless they carry the weight of action.
Your father made the wind blow for decades, but when the moment came to act, he chose comfort over conviction. "
Hades leaned forward. "So you see, I am here because I want to know whether the son has more substance than the father. Whether you, too, will speak beautiful words and then run when the cost becomes real."
Rafael's whole body tensed. "My father made mistakes. I'm not him."
"Perhaps." Hades tilted his head. "But words alone will not convince me, young priest. I have heard too many beautiful promises from too many beautiful liars."
Hades leaned back and reached into his jacket.
Diego had his gun in his hand so fast I barely tracked the movement, already aimed at Hades' skull.
Hades pulled out a small leather case and set it on the table while the gun stayed pointed at his head. He didn't even blink, just smiled slightly, like he found the whole thing mildly amusing.
"This contains my Director's seal," he said, calm as if discussing the weather. "One of three you'll need to challenge Minos in the labyrinth."
My brain stuttered, trying to process. "You're just... giving it to us?"
"Not quite." He opened the case, and a gold signet ring lay inside, ancient, with symbols I didn't recognize carved into the metal. "First, let me tell you a story. It is a simple story, with only two endings."
He closed the case, and the soft click echoed too loudly in the sudden quiet.
"There was once a boy who lived in a cage. It was a cold, unfriendly place where he hungered, and bled, and knew loneliness unlike any other. And then, one day, he was free of that cage. It cost him everything he held dear, but still… The boy was free to disappear into the ether. Tell me why, then, you want so badly to get back into your cage, Lorenzo?”
I swallowed hard. “I don’t want to go back into any cages.”
“No?” He crossed one knee over the other.
“Is the Pantheon not just another cage? A big, powerful cage, but a cage nonetheless. You realize that if you collect all three seals and challenge Minos, if you somehow win, that’s all you’re getting.
A ticket back into the Pantheon at whatever level you occupied before. Nothing changes.”
I looked at Rafael, really looked at him. The crease between his eyebrows had deepened.
I shook my head. "It's not about the Pantheon."
"Then what is it about?" Hades leaned forward. "Because if you don't know why you're fighting, you will lose. Constantine knows exactly why he fights. He fights for power, for control, for his vision of order. What do you fight for?"
The question hung in the air like smoke.
I thought about seven-year-old me, gripping those rusty bars until my hands bled. I thought about kids somewhere right now, learning the same lessons I'd learned. That screaming didn't help. That mercy was weakness. That they'd never be anything but weapons.
"I fight so other kids don't have to live in cages," I said quietly. "So they get a choice I never got."
Hades studied me for a long moment. Then he turned to Rafael. "And you, Father Oliveira? What do you fight for?"
Rafael's hand tightened on my shoulder. "The same thing."
"Is that all?" Hades' voice was gentle, but the question cut deep. "You would die for children you've never met, in a place you've never seen, for a cause that isn't even yours?"
"It is my cause," Rafael said firmly. "My signature is on the checks that kept those schools running."
Hades sat back. "Good. Then perhaps you are ready to hear your options.” He paused briefly, considering each of us.
"I can give you new identities. Clean documents, clean histories.
You could vanish like morning mist. Constantine would never find you.
You could live quietly, peacefully, die old in your beds surrounded by the small comforts of ordinary men. "
I swallowed and looked at Rafael, trying to gauge his reactions.
"It would be a good life," Hades continued. "There is no shame in choosing peace after so much violence. Many would call it wisdom."
He turned to Rafael. "You, Father Oliveira, could return to the Church under a different name. Serve in a parish somewhere far from Constantine's reach. Help people. Be the priest you were meant to be, before all of this."
Rafael leaned forward and licked his lips.
"But," Hades said quietly, and the word carried weight, "you cannot be together. New identities mean new lives, lived separately. You would never see each other again. No contact, no visits, no way to find each other even if you wanted to. That is the price of safety."
My nails bit into my palms. Never see Rafael again? I couldn't imagine it. I didn't want to. The very idea was offensive.