Chapter Eleven Hera
Chapter Eleven
Hera
Hera had always loved hosting a formal dinner.
She relished the choreography of it all, the intricate dance of making sure everything ran smoothly, down to the very last detail.
And she’d put in so much work for tonight’s event.
There were the new linen cocktail napkins, monogrammed with the family crest in sage green to match the floral arrangements.
Thomas Keller himself was in the kitchen making his salmon cornets, simply because they were Zeus’s favorite.
And the seating chart was a masterpiece, particularly given how many gods were feuding, or flirting, or—like Aphrodite and Ares—had to be kept apart for their own good.
Tomorrow afternoon the Olympian Twelve would retreat to the council chamber on the mountain and begin their endless annual discussions.
Hera secretly dreaded it. She much preferred this part of the weekend: all the gods together, celebrating their own immortality.
At least here everyone pretended to get along.
When dinner had ended, the guests all drifted to their feet once more, clutching espresso martinis or glasses of wine.
The moon was a pale sliver overhead, but the stars were especially bright on Olympus, and scattered lanterns cast a flickering glow over the lawn.
A lone violinist played beneath an archway woven of flowers that Hera was certain she hadn’t ordered.
Persephone’s work, most likely. Hera would have scolded any other goddess for interfering in her décor, but it was too lovely to complain about.
As always, Hera and Zeus lingered near the elaborate stone firepit at the edge of the terrace. Minor gods flocked around them, showering the couple in flattery and thanks.
“Mother?” Ares came forward, bowing his head like a supplicant in a temple.
“What is it?” she asked.
“I’d like to request an audience with you.”
Hera blinked, caught off guard by the formal language. It wasn’t like Ares to use the old protocols. Athena and Hephaestus, yes, but never her youngest.
Zeus was a few feet away, talking to Poseidon, swirling the wine in his glass with casual nonchalance. But Hera knew he was tracking their conversation in his peripheral vision. Zeus was always aware of what happened around him—and usually, what happened far from him, too.
“Why don’t we take a walk?” she suggested. Her husband didn’t need to know everything.
Hera led her son across the grassy lawn, where servers had already cleared the remnants of dinner. Olive trees stood sentinel around the entrance to the gardens, which were lit only by scattered torches.
The shadowed path was lined with sculptures every few yards: marble busts, and fountains, and a sundial carved from a single block of marble, shaped like a massive seashell. Hera paused, noticing a jagged crack that traced along the curve of the shell. When had that appeared?
She rested her hand on the fracture and closed her eyes. Ares shuffled his feet restlessly behind her but remained silent. He knew how much Hera loved this—using her powers for good, to fix what was shattered. To heal what was broken.
When the marble gleamed once more, smooth and perfect in the moonlight, Hera stepped back and gave a satisfied nod.
She led Ares around another corner, then paused at a gate and pressed her fingers over the lock. The gate hummed in contentment at her touch and swung open. Hephaestus had created the lock, which opened for Hera alone.
“I’m so glad you’re back, Ares,” she said as they stepped inside. “I worried about you.”
“I’m fine, Mother,” he assured her.
It was true that she’d worried about Ares, but if she was being honest, Hera had feared for Hephaestus more.
She still feared for him. He was the one with a cheating wife.
Ares had made a mess of things, had nearly broken their family when he betrayed his brother, and then he’d run away.
Leaving the rest of them to pick up the pieces.
If only hearts could be mended as easily as a fragment of marble.
Ares met her gaze, his blue-gray eyes intent. “I wanted to talk to you about Julia.”
That mortal woman? Hera had hardly spared her another thought since she’d banished the girl to the bird room. Which had been a little petty of her, perhaps, but Hera had never cared for beautiful mortal women.
They all reminded her of Zeus’s paramours.
“All right,” Hera said slowly.
Her son hesitated, choosing his words carefully, and Hera realized with a start that he had changed. The Ares she knew was always speaking—or acting—without forethought. But there was a new steadiness to his movements, as if the sharp edges that once defined him had been smoothed over.
“I was planning to ask Julia to marry me, and would like your blessing.”
Hera drew in a breath, surprised. Most gods conducted their mortal affairs without the added complication of marriage, primarily because most gods moved on rather quickly.
Occasionally, though, a god did wed a human.
It signaled to the other gods that this was more serious than a typical dalliance.
In marrying Julia, Ares promised to provide for her for the rest of her mortal life, to love her even as she grew old and wrinkled while he stayed forever young.
He would recognize the demigod children they had together, grant them whatever powers and status he could.
“I realize you haven’t had a chance to get to know her yet, but she’s really wonderful,” Ares was saying. “When she met me, I was still in a dark place, after—…”
“Of course,” Hera said quickly, to keep Ares from speaking it aloud.
“Julia drew me out of it,” Ares went on. “Even after everything that’s happened to her, losing her mother at a young age, she’s got an innate and contagious sense of joy. She’s strong, and brave, and she makes me happy.”
Happy. What a mortal word. The gods didn’t speak of happiness the way humans did, as some kind of goal to be reached. They sought pleasure, certainly. And they were motivated by many of the same things as humans: power, vengeance, passion, anger. But happiness was a human word, elusive to the gods.
Or perhaps it had always just felt elusive to Hera.
“Then I’m happy for you,” Hera forced herself to say.
“Julia will sign a prenup, of course. And you know that once you reveal the truth, you’ll need to bind her under one of Apollo’s unbreakable vows.
You are going to tell her before the wedding?
” she added, watching her son’s expression.
“Julia should know what she’s committing to. ”
“I’ll tell her when the time is right,” Ares promised. “It’s just been a lot for her, learning that our family is wealthy. I don’t want to overwhelm her.”
Hera understood Ares’s desire to put off a painful conversation. But if he really wanted to marry this woman, he would need to tell her the truth sooner or later. Eventually, Julia would realize that her husband wasn’t aging at all.
Ares would tell Julia who he was, and then Apollo would seal her tongue with one of his spells, silencing her from ever revealing what she’d learned. The alternative—wiping Julia’s memory of their entire relationship, if she refused to accept the truth—would hurt Ares far more.
“You can have the villa in Italy, if you think Julia would like it,” Hera went on. “Surely you don’t mean to live in New Zealand forever? It’s hardly a place to raise children. I imagine that Julia would enjoy Italy as she grows old, surrounded by grapes and fresh air and sunshine.”
Ares’s expression darkened. “I really care about Julia. I don’t want to lose her.”
Hera’s heart ached for him. “I know. And I’m thrilled that you’re committing to marriage.
But, sweetheart, you are going to lose her,” she said gently.
“That’s what will happen in the end. Just try to enjoy the time you do have together.
” It was something countless gods and goddesses had faced over the centuries.
Athena, in particular, was known for falling head over heels for intelligent men—Newton, Cavendish, Montaigne—and setting them up with inventions and wealth, then wildly mourning them once they passed. As they all did, in the end.
Ares stared down at the roses that lined the garden beds, his brow furrowed.
“What if I could have forever with Julia?” he asked softly. “What if I could make her a member of the family?”
Hera swallowed against a sudden dryness in her throat. “You can’t mean…”
“I was hoping to make Julia a goddess.”
Deify a mortal. The last time they’d done it was for Aphrodite.
Hera fumbled to reply, unable to hide her shock. “Ares. You do know that apotheosis is a massive undertaking? It requires great power, and a vote of all the Olympians in council. You’d need two-thirds agreement to make it happen.”
It was rare enough to get half the gods to agree to something, let alone eight of the Twelve. They were often of a dozen different minds on any given topic.
Ares nodded emphatically. “I know, but we got the votes before.” For Aphrodite, he meant.
Hera stared at her son, blindsided. He didn’t understand the sheer magnitude of what he was asking.
It was one thing for Hera to bless their marriage—not that she had much choice in the matter, as the goddess of marriage. It was another thing entirely for her to agree that Julia should be with them forever. She knew nothing about the woman.
“You do realize that if Julia joined the Olympian Council, someone would be demoted,” Hera reminded him. There was only ever room for twelve gods or goddesses among the inner circle.
“I assume that Father will make that decision,” Ares replied, apparently unperturbed.
They both knew that he wouldn’t be the one demoted—that, if history was any precedent, a goddess would have to step aside for another goddess.
Perhaps Artemis, Hera thought; she had grown irrelevant in recent centuries.
Or perhaps, given all the trouble she’d caused, Aphrodite.
“You’ll support me in this, won’t you?” Ares pressed. “When it comes time for a vote, you’ll help?”
“Oh, Ares. Of course I want you to be happy.” Hera chose her words carefully. She wouldn’t lie, not to her son, but neither would she make a promise that she had no intention of keeping.
“Thank you,” he said softly.
Then, to Hera’s surprise, Ares stepped forward and hugged her.
Hera closed her eyes, relishing the rare moment of closeness between them.
Mothers weren’t supposed to admit to having favorites, but of her and Zeus’s three children, Hephaestus had always been the one she cherished most, just as Athena had always been Zeus’s favorite.
Perhaps it was strange for Zeus to lavish attention on their only girl, but Athena had been utterly unlike Hera from the moment she was born.
She was Zeus’s through and through, as if she really had sprung from his head, the way the old myths claimed.
Ares, though, had never quite belonged to either parent.
And since he drifted in and out of their lives—always disappearing to some far-off place to fly fighter jets alongside humans, or fling himself out of those jets in a parachute—it didn’t matter.
If there was a conflict within the family, they usually ended up at a stalemate: Hephaestus aligned with Hera, Athena aligned with Zeus, and Ares nowhere to be found.
But that didn’t mean Hera felt any less protective of him.
“I was wondering if I could go to London,” Ares asked when they pulled apart. “Can I get a ring from the safety deposit box?”
“I’ll have Martin bring some options here,” Hera said quickly. She had her own reasons for wanting Julia to select a ring from the family heirlooms.
Hera didn’t share Ares’s belief that he’d met Julia by chance. Cruise line workers didn’t just happen to start dating the son of the CEO. Like so many of the mortals who got involved with the Olympians, Julia was likely another gold digger.
One thing was certain: Hera needed to know more about her. Only then could she decide what to do about Ares and his outrageous plan to deify her.
Hera had allowed the wrong human woman into their family once before.
She’d cast the deciding vote in Aphrodite’s apotheosis, admitting her to the Pantheon—not for Aphrodite’s sake, of course, but for Hephaestus’s.
Like every mother in history, Hera wanted to give her children everything their hearts desired.
Look how that had turned out.
Hera had no intention of repeating her past mistakes. After all, she wasn’t just the goddess of marriage. She was the goddess of family.
And there was nothing she wouldn’t do to protect her own.