Chapter Forty-Seven Hera
Chapter Forty-Seven
Hera
Hera knew she sounded shrill and hysterical, but for once, she let decorum fly out the window. She was just so angry: With Aphrodite, for being unbearably selfish, yet again. With Ares, for being stupid enough not to realize that the woman in his bed wasn’t his fiancée.
And mostly with herself, for setting all of this in motion.
If she hadn’t joined forces with Aphrodite to get rid of Julia…
If she’d kept Ares from running away after he’d slept with Aphrodite the first time…
If she’d never given Aphrodite that potion, which had backfired and sent her straight into Ares’s arms…
Better still, if she’d never killed Julia’s mother, turning Julia into a ticking time bomb that could implode her marriage…
There were so many ways this mess could have been avoided, and yet here they all were. Dealing with the consequences of their many mistakes.
“I should have kicked you out of this family three years ago,” Hera hissed at Aphrodite. “How dare you drive a wedge between my sons, again? Get out!”
Aphrodite’s cheeks were bright with color. “You don’t have the authority to kick me out. Only the full Olympian council can do that.”
“Call the council, then!” Athena cut in. “I’ll start gathering votes against you!”
“Where is Julia?” Ares bellowed, but no one answered.
Hephaestus was the only one who sounded reasonable. “Mother, Athena, this isn’t your battle to fight. Please stay out of it.”
Hera whirled on her son. “You can’t possibly be defending Aphrodite after what she’s done. Why would you forgive her a second time?”
Her son’s reply was quiet, dignified, in stark contrast to the savage fighting that surrounded him. “How can you ask me that question, when you have forgiven Father more times than any of us could count?”
The three of them fell silent at his audacity. No one ever, ever spoke to Hera of Zeus’s infidelities. She wasn’t a fool; she knew that the other gods were all aware of his cheating, even her children. But it was one of those things that was never discussed.
Hera was surprised to feel herself blinking back tears.
What could she tell Hephaestus? It’s different between me and your father?
When it wasn’t different at all; it was brutally, painfully the same.
I put up with it because I love Zeus and keep hoping he will change, even though he proves me wrong every time?
Hephaestus would understand that better than anyone.
She remembered how he’d been as a child: the way his small body would cling fiercely to hers, his head nodding onto her shoulder as he fell asleep.
I love you, he would whisper, words that Ares and Athena rarely spoke.
But Hephaestus had been different from the beginning, gentle where his siblings were aggressive, subdued where they were loud.
None of her children had ever needed Hera all that much—that was the nature of gods—but Hephaestus lingered near her while the other two ran off.
Hera had always thought that he was the best of her, the best of all of them.
Humble, kind, warm, empathetic. She would never forget the first time he’d come to her with something he’d invented: a tiny bird that she could wind up, so that it walked on little bronze legs.
She had been upset about Zeus’s latest affair, and Hephaestus, still a child, had climbed into her lap and held out his present.
He never said that he made it to cheer her up, but she knew he’d sensed her sadness, even if he was too young to know its source.
Her brilliant, creative child, who had spent his life quietly building things that were useful and lovely all at once.
The only thing Hera had ever created was the occasional flower arrangement; she didn’t even cook, could hardly boil water.
Well, the best thing she had created would always be her children.
It hurt to realize that Hephaestus hadn’t just absorbed the best of her; he’d also absorbed the worst. Her pliancy, her self-abnegation. Her decision to forgive, over and over again, no matter how much Zeus hurt her.
This was the cruelest part of being a parent—being forced to see your flaws, the qualities you despised most in yourself, coming to life in your children. Being unable to fix them, as you were unable to fix them in yourself.
“Aphrodite won’t change, Hephaestus,” Hera said, her heart aching.
Her son’s eyes brimmed with sympathy. “Neither will Father.”
She felt like such a fool, suddenly, for believing in—what? A second act of her marriage to Zeus? A new chapter where he was now devoted to her and never strayed? Where he took her to bed in the afternoon, swept her off for a romantic trip to the lake in France?
This wasn’t some fundamental change in him. Zeus was the same as he always was.
Right now, he just happened to be having an affair with his own wife.
Hera hated herself for being so willfully blind.
For being so addicted to Zeus, to the rush of reckless energy she felt when she was with him, that she’d put up with the rest. It would have been easier if she could stop loving him, if she could hate him for the affairs—but somehow, each time he strayed, she felt a renewal of that pull toward him, as if the fear of losing him only intensified her need.
The thing was, after so many years of marriage, her love and anger were so intertwined that she didn’t know how to separate them.
And now she had unwittingly taught her son to love in the same way, with a love that forgave all hurts, a love that didn’t expect trust.
Before Hera could voice any of this, a wild roar of anger resounded through the ballroom.
The four of them all looked back to where Zeus stood with Hermes.
What were they doing over there? Hera had thought Hermes was long gone, that he’d left with the other minor gods who were off searching the grounds for Julia.
“Hera!” Zeus bellowed, and began to stalk down the aisle in her direction.
With each step, he seemed to grow taller, the edges of his body glowing with otherworldly light.
Sparks flew off him as if a million electrical fires danced over his very skin.
But the change went beyond what was visible; it was the sensation of Zeus’s immense, immeasurable power, the vast magic that he normally kept on a tight leash, breaking loose into the world.
It felt like the room was full of highly combustible gas, and any minute someone might light a match.
It had been a very long time since Hera saw her husband’s powers in full force.
“Hera!” Zeus’s voice vibrated through the air in some register outside normal sound, low and deadly, like the thunder they had heard these past few days. “Is it true? Did you kill Claire Henningsen?”
“I don’t…” Hera swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. Julia was gone. How had Zeus found out? Then her eyes drifted to Hermes skulking behind him, and in a flash she understood.
This was why Hermes had pounded on her door yesterday, demanding to discuss Julia with her. He’d known the truth, and Hera had unknowingly snapped at him to leave—thus ensuring her downfall.
“Do you deny that you killed her?” Zeus was halfway down the aisle now, a figure composed entirely of rage and hurt, a black hole sucking all oxygen from the room.
Oh, she wished she could deny it. But to lie about this would only make things worse. She had to tell her husband the truth, no matter what it cost her. For the sake of Hephaestus’s marriage, if not her own.
To show him what it looked like, to hurt your spouse and be honest about it.
“I didn’t mean to kill her.” Hera’s words were soft, but she knew that every god in the room heard them.
“I set the fire by accident. The woman wouldn’t listen to reason!
I told her that she was sleeping with a married man, and she said she didn’t care, that his wife was a shrew and a harpy and he was leaving her—”
Lightning snapped from Zeus. It curled toward Hera like an angry fist—there was a flash of flame, and a row of wooden folding chairs exploded in a confetti of splinters. Hera flung up her hands to protect her face. The air smelled like brimstone, like sulfur.
“Please, Zeus.” Hera forced herself not to tremble as he stalked forward. “You need to know how much I regret what happened. As I said, I never meant for her to die. The house was so old and flammable, it went up like a pile of kindling.”
“Does Ares know?” Zeus demanded, looking to his younger son. “That you killed his girlfriend’s mother?”
Ares looked at Hera in shock. “What is he talking about, Mother?”
“I’m so sorry, Ares.” Hera reached a hand toward him, but her son flinched back.
“Why would you kill a mortal woman?”
“Why do you think?” Zeus demanded, seething. “I was in love with Claire, and your mother murdered her.”
At his words, Hera’s guilt rekindled into a blaze of anger. How typical of Zeus to stomp about throwing lightning bolts like a spoiled child. He hadn’t been in love with Claire; it was ridiculous for him to even make such a claim.
He was angry that Hera had defied his authority and hurt a mortal he considered his.
This wasn’t the howling grief of a heartbroken lover; this was the petulant tantrum of a little boy who’d had his toy snatched away.
“As I said, I regret that she died. I never meant to take her life,” Hera repeated. “But, Zeus, don’t insult our family by claiming you were in love with her. She was a passing fling, nothing more.”
It was the wrong thing to say.
The rage that crackled through the room was like a physical thing. Dimly Hera wondered what the mortals downstairs thought of this, if they were even aware of the noise.
Then Zeus took another step forward. His power swirled palpably around him, pressing down on them all, suffocating them.
Hera’s eyes shut as she braced herself for what would come next.