Chapter 27
The Art Of Negotiation
LYRA
As I join the others, I glance back at the replica of the god of death, who is standing at the entrance to his Lock, not twenty feet away, watching us with narrowed eyes.
There’s a now-familiar swish of air, and the archway connecting this room to Hades’ Lock turns back into a solid rock wall. It stands a full pie piece over and slightly around the bend from Hestia’s arch. A glittering symbol, this time in blue, etches into the center of the stone arch.
Hades’ bident.
Which is when our powers return.
The sensation is still a thousand kinds of unpleasant, like ice shooting directly into my spine and then outward, turning every nerve to a screaming point of pain. I hear Boone breathe beside me when the ache leaves as fast as it came.
I let out a long breath. “That really sucks.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m so sorry.” Persephone comes from nowhere to wrap her arms around my shoulders. “I’m so glad you made it out okay.”
She doesn’t seem to notice how stiff I’ve gone or the fact that I’m not hugging her back.
I pull away from her. “If you think a hug is going to fix what you just did, think again. Luring me out so that Iapetus could fling me into the abyss was a dick move.”
Instead of stiffness or guilt, Persephone sighs. “It’s so hard to be patient sometimes,” she says softly, more to herself than me. “You’ll want to negotiate now, I expect.”
As she steps away, I frown, because she’s right. Boone and I talked out all the possibilities we could think of while we were in the earthen pillar, and we came up with several plans.
“We would, but not with Iapetus.” I seek out the Titan’s face to find him regarding me with something close to pride.
“You always come out with more of an understanding of what’s happening.” He indicates Hades’ Lock with a nod. “He always tells you, and it never resets anything.”
“Yeah. Well, fuck you.”
Iapetus rocks back on his heels, and Cronos apparently can’t decide what to do with his face. Is he grinning? Is he scowling? Who can really say. The Titan is back among them now, though his skin has a gray tinge to it, like he’s been sick.
I turn away from both of them, taking in the others, trying to identify them.
Their unusual coloring and markings help.
If Iapetus was once the pillar of the western sky, the other three Titans must be the other three corners.
One has an aura around him like northern lights.
One’s skin reminds me of a sunrise, or maybe that’s just the glow coming off him.
And one is as colorless as moonlight, except his black, black eyes, which are filled with pinpricks of light that might be stars.
Koios. Hyperion. And Crius.
I try to remember more of what I know about them, but my head is starting to hurt. I turn my attention to the three Titanesses in the room and draw a blank.
Never mind. Screw identifying them. I’m tired.
“So, what is it that you want?” Mnemosyne asks, her owl mask opening and closing its beak in time to her words. I still can’t tell who’s speaking.
She sounds… They all sound…not bored, exactly, but like this is a tedious exercise. I cast my gaze over the gathered Titans. How many times? How many times have they had this discussion with me?
I exchange a glance with Boone. He shrugs. We made several contingency plans.
What I’m about to do is one of them. “I will try to open the rest of the Locks. But I have—”
“Conditions,” the sunrise-glowing Titan supplies. “Go ahead. Name your terms.”
On the lean side with golden hair, a thick beard, and, of course, the sunrise skin, it clicks finally that if this is Hyperion, he is the Titan of order, light, and the heavens.
“Not here,” one of the Titanesses says.
Among the painful beauty of the others, I’d almost say she is plain and pale, with small features that seem to pinch together.
Still more beautiful than most mortals. And I love the moving tattoos of the oceans on one arm, the giveaway that her powers are over the seas, winds, and weather—Eurybia, probably.
“I’m not going anywhere until you all agree,” I say.
She blinks but doesn’t argue, sort of shrinking in on herself. Do they not listen to her often?
“Tell us what you want,” Cronos says.
This is going to be interesting. “I want you to prepare me for the Locks. No more tossing me in and hoping I survive.”
I glance around. No arguments, no surprise. They already knew that one. “Second, you will all swear an unbreakable oath—”
“You mean to not harm the gods or humans or anyone, really, when we’re released?” Crius is holding Eurybia’s hand, his voice as cold and crisp as the rest of him. I remember now—the father of the constellations, so…the starlight eyes make sense.
“Crius,” Eurybia murmurs, confirming my guess with her gentle warning.
“What?” he says. “She always asks for that.”
I blow out a frustrated breath.
He’s right—I have zero intention of letting the Titans out, and it wouldn’t hurt to have a backup plan in case I fail at that—but I don’t love this feeling of them knowing everything and just waiting for me to get through it. It’s…creepy.
Cronos waves a hand at the Titans. “We need to be able to defend ourselves if the gods attack us.”
“Our children tend to act first and think second,” a Titaness says.
Phoebe. Midnight-black hair hangs straight and sleek past bony, honey-colored shoulders to her waist. The black is interrupted by a patch of silver hair that forms what looks like a crescent moon shape around the crown of her head.
That’s…sad. “We’ll build a clause into the oath for that possibility,” I offer.
“In that case, agreed,” Cronos says.
I glance around. The thing is…no one argues or protests. I don’t trust it. I don’t trust any of them. They must be playing along for the moment to get what they want from me.
“And we want better living quarters,” Boone adds.
I choke down a laugh. He must also be frustrated by this odd feeling they know everything we’re going to say, so he’s messing with them, testing their patience, seeing how far they can be pushed, how much they need me.
“Don’t we all.” Mnemosyne rolls her eyes.
“Done,” Cronos says again at the same time.
More than one of the Titans tosses him a frown. Iapetus, of course, is the one to open his mouth. “But—”
“We can glamour them,” Cronos says over his shoulder.
Iapetus’ jaw works. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, brother—”
“I’ll do it,” Cronos says.
“But we need to conserve your strength—”
Cronos slashes a hand through the air, and even Iapetus closes his mouth. Damn. I had no idea a request like that would set them off.
“No glamours,” I say. I’m already questioning reality too much. “We’ll deal with the living arrangements you have.”
They all go quiet.
“So…you’re agreed?” Cronos asks.
What? Do I usually ask for more things? He’s got me second-guessing myself. Another glance at Boone, who gives a brief nod.
“Agreed,” I say.
It’s as if the entire group takes a collective breath, all their shoulders dropping from around their ears. Do I not always end up cooperating or something?
They all gaze at one another until Mnemosyne holds out a hand, indicating a tunnel we haven’t been down yet. Not surprising. We haven’t been down most of them. “This way.”
“Where’s Rhea?” I ask. Did they think I missed how she wasn’t here? “Did the Pandemonium get her?”
Every Titan looks toward Cronos, who stares back with growing discomfort.
“Cosmos grant us peace,” Iapetus mutters. “Go get Rhea, Cronos.”
Go get her? Did they lock her up somewhere because she helped me? Hells no.
“We can wait,” I say sweetly. Then cross my arms. I figure I have a fifty-fifty shot of them tossing me down another Lock just to show who’s in control, but I’m banking on them wanting my cooperation. “Although between the Pandemonium, the earthquakes, and the cracks in the rocks, maybe not.”
Fear.
It’s rare for gods to show it, I’ve learned. I suspect it’s even more rare for Titans, but the emotion seizes every face in front of me. A slow tension starts at the base of my spine and creeps upward like a thief stealing any bit of warmth inside me.
Boone gives a low whistle, the signal for danger, and I meet his eyes briefly to acknowledge.
Just beyond him, I see the way Persephone’s eyes widen. Did she understand? Thieves’ whistles are complex—like Mandarin or Vietnamese, they aren’t just about the pattern or cadence but about the tone. Only thieves should know it.
“I’ll go get her,” Cronos says, distracting me. “Meet us in the map room.”
Then he runs off in a blur, and we follow Mnemosyne, the others trailing behind.
Please let this not be leading to disaster.