Chapter Thirty-Eight Hera
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Hera
Hera had to admit, the island was beautiful. It really was a shame that so few of the wedding guests would get to see it.
She glanced over at Aphrodite, who was, to Hera’s discomfort, in the driver’s seat, guiding their rental car down the winding island roads. Hera would have been content with a mortal chauffeur, but Aphrodite had insisted that she found driving “fun,” something Hera couldn’t comprehend.
Her gaze slid back out the window. Gorgeous trees stood to either side of the road, Spanish moss draped from their branches as if they were old ladies waving handkerchiefs.
In the distance, sunlight gleamed on the white-sand beaches that led to the Atlantic.
The air was heavy with the scents of salt and mud and early morning sunshine.
Aphrodite turned the opposite direction, toward the ferry that shuttled guests back and forth between the island and the mainland of Georgia.
There was no bridge, something Julia had worried about, but Hera had assured her that it didn’t matter.
Most of the guests would arrive by private jet anyway.
“We’re here,” Aphrodite murmured, pulling into a gravel lot before a sign that read The Rusty Hook.
Hera huffed out a disbelieving breath. “Why would Poseidon come here?” she demanded, though she knew the answer.
His worshippers were here, and gods always found comfort among the mortals who honored them—who poured their time and passion, their brief mortal lives, into the things those gods stood for.
Inside, the bar had sticky floors and dim lighting. The walls were hung with old nautical relics that looked like junk, buoys and nets and one of those tacky singing fish that wagged its tail.
A figure with sandy blond hair and bright blue eyes stood at the bar with a cluster of coarse-looking sailors, wearing a breezy guayabera shirt, leather sandals, and cargo shorts.
Hera was oddly startled by the sight of Poseidon’s bare legs, though she couldn’t have said why.
They were perfectly normal legs, if a little hairy.
As the two goddesses walked in, every man present turned to stare. Hera tried not to be irritated by the way their eyes skimmed over her to linger on Aphrodite.
“Can you get me a dark and stormy?” Aphrodite asked.
The question was directed at Hera, but the men at the bar immediately clamored for the bartender’s attention, jostling to be the one who brought Aphrodite her drink.
Smiling, Aphrodite made a show of wandering over to the jukebox in the corner to examine the song selection.
The other men immediately stumbled along in her wake like fish pulled on a lure.
Hera waited until they’d started playing “Margaritaville” before sidling to the lone figure who remained at the bar, clutching his beer. The god of the sea sighed at her approach.
“What is it, Hera?”
It’s a little early in the day to be at a bar, Hera wanted to say, but she stuck to the script, using the old, formal language. “I would ask something of you.”
Poseidon made a show of stretching his fingers before him, cracking his knuckles. “Really? Because I’m still pretty tired from the last favor I did you. Do you know how hard it is to raise an island from the sea?”
“I can only imagine,” Hera said placatingly. “And you’ve outdone yourself, Poseidon. It’s beautiful.”
The Resort at Ismene, this island on the stretch of coast between St. Simons and Savannah, hadn’t existed three months ago.
Poseidon had pulled it from the depths, shaping it as he went, Jack Nicklaus–designed golf course and all.
The whole thing had been Ares’s idea, actually.
He had wanted to throw Julia a wedding close to home.
When Hera replied that nowhere in the South could fit their party, Ares didn’t back down.
He just stated that they would need somewhere new.
To Hera’s astonishment, Poseidon had granted his nephew’s request and pulled an island from the sea.
Something he hadn’t done in centuries. But then, Poseidon had always harbored a soft spot for Ares.
The two of them both lived in Zeus’s shadow, and while they seemed resigned to it, Hera imagined they must have shared the same frustrations.
Then all it had taken was a liberal application of mist, an old magic made of droplets of Mnemosyne’s tears mixed with Zephyr’s wind.
Suddenly, the humans in the neighboring area shifted the very fabric of their memories.
They all believed, without question, that this island had always been there.
And now that the Ellenes had filled in the swamp, landscaped the golf course, and built a luxury hotel and spa, it could finally realize its potential as a luxury destination. And wedding venue.
Not that Hera had any intention of letting this wedding take place.
She remained unconvinced that Julia had found Ares by chance.
Julia herself might not have known the truth—that her mother had been involved with Zeus, that Hera was responsible for Claire’s death—but she must have been here for a purpose.
Surely some god had brought her here, as…
what? A threat to Hera? A bomb that might explode at any moment?
Which of the gods would do such a thing?
Perhaps the Titan Theia, goddess of sight, who had always despised Hera.
Or Phoebe, goddess of wisdom, who still blamed Hera for her attempt to harm her grandchildren Apollo and Artemis.
She briefly considered Hades, but what reason would he have for hurting Hera?
Perhaps, Hera admitted to herself, Athena was behind this. She hated to think her own daughter would hurt her like this, but Athena had always, always taken Zeus’s side over Hera’s. And she was certainly clever enough to have put the pieces together.
“As lovely as the island is, I can’t have all the guests arriving tomorrow,” Hera explained. “I need this wedding to be called off.”
Poseidon stilled. “Called off?”
“Ares cannot marry her.”
Over by the jukebox, Aphrodite was dancing, shimmying suggestively while Madonna blasted from the speakers. Hera highly doubted that “Like a Virgin” had ever played in this bar before.
Poseidon sighed. His jaw was shaded with the slightest hint of stubble, which Hera found oddly distracting. “Hera, if you want to break up the wedding, there are easier ways to do so than sinking an island—one that I pulled from the depths for you with great effort.”
“I’m not saying you have to go full Atlantis,” she hastened to clarify. “I was just thinking you could call up a seasonal hurricane?”
“A hurricane,” Poseidon repeated flatly.
“Keep all the guests stranded on the mainland. You’re Poseidon Stormbringer,” she cajoled.
“I’ve seen you drown islands and call up tidal waves, I’ve seen you freeze the ocean into sheets of ice and shatter mortal ships until nothing was left but splinters.
Can’t you keep everyone away so that this wedding doesn’t happen? ”
It was, perhaps, not the most sophisticated plan, but it was the best she and Aphrodite could come up with at this late hour.
For weeks they had discussed other options.
Aphrodite had suggested they engineer a reunion between Julia and one of her exes, then find a way to make Ares misinterpret it all.
But the only ex she could find was Preston, and his unexpected appearance at the engagement party had only seemed to bring Ares and Julia closer.
Hera had considered bringing Eris’s golden apple to the wedding, letting it sow discord among the couple, but then, that hadn’t succeeded in breaking up Thetis and Peleus, had it?
All it had done was launch the Trojan War.
But Hera had refused to let Aphrodite dig into Julia’s past. I’m sure Julia is hiding something, Aphrodite kept insisting.
Of course she was, even if Julia wasn’t aware of her own explosive history. No one knew, except Hera, and Hera needed to keep it that way.
So here they were, about to stop the wedding with the oldest form of divine intervention in the books: sheer force of nature. It wasn’t a permanent solution, but it would keep Julia and Ares apart for the time being.
Would give Hera a chance to find another, better way out of this mess.
“What does Zeus think?” Poseidon’s blue eyes fixed on hers. “If you wanted a storm, the logical person to ask would be the Bringer of Thunder.”
Zeus had no idea, of course. And Hera needed it to stay that way.
Things between them had shifted over the past month.
They were like two hormonal teenagers, mooning after each other, seeking each other out at truly dissolute times.
Why, just last week they had been at breakfast, and Hera had felt Zeus look up from his poached eggs and study her.
So she had taken a long sip of her tea and then licked her lips.
He’d stood abruptly, pushing back his chair, and grabbed her around the wrist to tug her upstairs.
When they’d reached the door to their bedroom, one of the maids was already there, making the bed.
One glance at the two of them and she’d reddened, stumbling back with profuse apologies.
“You’re scandalizing our staff,” Hera had laughed as Zeus pulled her onto the half-made bed.
After, they had lain there together, Hera’s head tucked into Zeus’s shoulder as he traced lazy circles over her back. “Don’t you need to get to work?” she’d murmured, but Zeus had already emailed his assistant to clear his morning.
“I texted him while we were walking upstairs,” Zeus explained, chuckling. “I’m very fast when I’m motivated, you know. Except, of course, when I need to be slow…”
Texted him. It was true, Zeus’s new assistant was a man. That, in itself, marked the change in him more than anything else.
“Zeus doesn’t need to know every little detail,” she told Poseidon. “His mind is troubled with his many cares; I hesitate to bother him with this. But I need to ensure that Julia and Ares don’t get married.” That Ares doesn’t then try to make her a goddess.
The sea god hesitated. “I don’t want to go against Zeus.”
“You wouldn’t be going directly against him. He has said nothing to you on this matter,” Hera pointed out. “And of course, we would never ask a favor of you without compensation.”
With impeccable timing, Aphrodite sidled over with a velvet drawstring pouch, the kind that very expensive earrings came in. “I have something for you.”
Hera glanced behind Aphrodite. The sailors were still clustered around the jukebox, arms slung around one another, swaying drunkenly as they sang along to Journey. Impressive, Hera thought, but wouldn’t give Aphrodite the satisfaction of saying it.
Poseidon opened the pouch and shook its contents onto his palm. “Pomegranate seeds?” he asked skeptically. Three small red seeds gleamed there, bright as droplets of blood.
Aphrodite smiled. “I enchanted them to amplify the physical aspects of passion. Eat these, and I promise you’ll have the best night of your life.”
This ridiculous bribe had been Aphrodite’s idea, of course. Hera hadn’t argued, assuming that Aphrodite knew what men wanted better than she did.
Though she would never have admitted it, a depraved part of her was curious about the potion. Wondered what it would be like, to consume a pomegranate seed herself.
Poseidon said nothing. Hera cursed herself for listening to Aphrodite. They should have offered the sea god something else, an artifact of destruction or a protection charm. Anything but a love spell.
“Thanks, but I’m not interested.” Poseidon lifted his hand to return the seeds.
“No, wait—” Hera protested, but he’d already shrugged and dropped them on the surface of the bar. Three divine objects, practically glowing with enchantment, right there amid a residue of sticky spilled beer.
“I’m not interested in this pomegranate nonsense,” Poseidon said gruffly, “but I’ll do it. I’ll summon your hurricane.”
Aphrodite made a little noise of surprise, but she might as well have been absent. Poseidon’s blue eyes were locked on Hera. An odd shiver traced up her spine.
“What will we owe you?” Hera asked, because nothing ever came for free. Not among the gods.
Poseidon gave a deceptively casual shrug. “Don’t worry, I’ll come to collect when the time is right.”
A heated silence descended between them, one that Hera forced herself to break. She didn’t like owing anyone a favor, least of all a god as powerful and inscrutable as Poseidon, but what other choice did she have? “Fine,” she declared, retreating a step. “You begin tonight. Aphrodite?”
The goddess of love cast one final glance at her admirers before following Hera to the door.
The two of them weren’t heading back to the resort, not just yet. They had one more stop to make, at the private airstrip just a few miles away.
Hera forced herself to put her interaction with Poseidon out of her mind.
She reached into her tote bag, where the comforting weight of Pandora’s Jar clattered against her leather Chanel wallet.
She was going to the air traffic control tower, perhaps even the pilots’ lounge.
And she was going to unleash horrors there.