then days into weeks. My nights sleeping while my snakes frolic pass in a haze of tossing and turning, worries invading every dream.
Serving Dionysus settles into a rhythm. For all of his unpredictable behavior, he sticks to a rigid routine dictated by the court. Summons from Zeus, meals with Aphrodite and her husband Hephaestus, an array of feasts and parties and events centered on wherever Zeus’ whims fall each day.
Sometimes, staring at Dionysus’ lounging on a chaise in his rooms, I wonder if he ever bores of the monotony, the false conversations, the people-pleasing necessary to survive, or wearing a mask. He’s not a drunk. For all the wine he drinks, for all of his stench and staggering, his eyes remain sharp.
No one else notices.
And sometimes, I’ll glance only to find him staring back, gaze shrewd.
I’m quick to duck back to my work during those moments.
One day, with the scent of decaying leaves filtering in through the windows along with a damp smell promising rain, he has us line up in front of his chaise. One by one, he assesses us from head to toe, telling us to tuck in a fold or cinch our leather belts tighter or looser. Two attendants to my right share a look. “Another court gathering,” one mumbles.
The other rolls her eyes while an improperly tied sandal distracts Dionysus.
His assessing passes over me. I’m careful to dress perfectly, knowing anyone noticing me for too long could spell disaster. Stam, confined to her night hours, grows restless. She’s ready to sink her fangs into someone even now, with wane daylight weaving through the room and Atia holding her back by tightening around her body. With any luck, her time will arrive soon. Poseidon’s bound to grow bolder in his advances sometime soon. The hunger in his expression grows with each gathering.
I shift my wrist, glad for my bracelet hiding a flexible dagger.
We trek to the throne room in a neat line behind our master, like young birds following a waddling parent. He waves us off once we’re through the doors, settling himself beside Aphrodite while we settle into a cloister behind him with our jugs of wine at the ready.
“Where’s Hera?” he asks Aphrodite.
I glance around to find her throne empty. Strange. She’s always here before us, ready to survey the crowd with thinly veiled contempt.
Aphrodite sighs. “I don’t know, but I bet the woman on Zeus’ arm has something to do with it.”
Zeus, as if sensing their talk, strides our way. A woman clings to his arm, her hips swaying with each step. She leans close enough for their shoulders to touch. Despite Zeus’ significant height, her willowy form reaches his chin. Her auburn hair shines in a long braid swinging over one shoulder, thick like a giant snake. Her skin, dark and smooth, flushes beautifully beneath Dionysus’ attention.
There’s something odd about her, something I can’t place.
“My lord,” she says, bowing low. “My lady.”
I know her voice.
Aunt Euryale.
Aunt Euryale?
Everything but her height is wrong. My aunt’s hair is black and made of tiny snakes, her skin pale as a polished white pebble.
She catches my eye, and while Zeus remains distracted with talk from Aphrodite and Dionysus, she winks.
I start to croak her name, then cover it with a cough. Zeus’ stare slides over to me, then past. Whatever lust he felt for me dissolved with my aunt’s arrival and her beautiful mask.
Whatever powers Nyx siphons from Erebus, combined with her own, transformed my aunt into someone else. Someone capable of seducing Zeus faster.
Nyx doesn’t trust me.
The thought hits hard. Tears prick at the corner of my eyes. I lift my jug, bowing my head to become the picture of subservience. Yet inside, my heart lurches in painful beats, and my throat aches with swallowed tears.
Aunt Euryale giggles, luring Zeus’ attention away from Dionysus. She leans more into his side, tucking her head into the crook of his neck, close enough to whisper, her smiling mouth moving fast.
He throws back his head in laughter, drawing her away by their joined arms.
“Something about her is odd,” Aphrodite says when they’re across the room.
Dionysus glances first at Hera’s empty throne, then at the velvet chaise beneath him. “Hush,” he says. Then, loud and slurring, “What a lovely woman! Did you see her breasts? Quite perky!”
Nearby, Artemis snarls, the two dogs lounging by her feet joining with growls of their own.
Aphrodite groans. “Stop. I’ve had enough of you bickering with Artemis. She’s your sister, you halfwit.”
Dionysus shrugs. “So? Sister or no, I can appreciate a good backside.”
Artemis stands, shoulders bunched with restrained violence.
“Oh, dear,” Aphrodite mumbles in her cup.
Dionysus lurches to his feet, staggering from the room. Artemis pushes through the crowd at a gait no less terrifying for its slowness. The attendant to my side grumbles, leading us to our master where Artemis has him cornered against the wall beside one massive door. “Here we go again.”
“Should we help him?” I ask, eyeing his long locks tangled in Artemis’ grip.
“Just stay out of the way,” another attendant says, wincing.
She jerks his head into her lifted knee. His nose gushes blood within seconds, covering the floor by her feet where he lands with a thump.
The guards don’t so much as flinch from their positions on the fringes.
“It was a compliment!” he warbles.
She kicks him in the side. “Keep your compliments to yourself, you pervert.”
The dogs lingering behind her whine low in their throat. She snaps her head in their directions, grimacing. “He’ll heal.”
Dionysus flops onto his back. “I knew they loved me.”
Artemis rolls her eyes but doesn’t dispute his words.
I peer around at the other servants. All of them stare into the distance, eyes vacant, almost bored.
With a sharp inhale, I step forward, knowing I’m about to bring attention to myself in the worst way. “Excuse me.”
Artemis raises an eyebrow.
“It’s just—we need him in one piece.”
Dionysus laughs, the sound damp with his own blood.
She snorts. “You fancy him, then?”
I grimace. “No. Never.”
She laughs, head thrown back to expose the line of her throat.
“He’s our master, you see. I need this job.”
Dionysus pouts, dragging himself to rest by my feet. One arm wraps around my calves, another over my sandaled feet. “That’s all?”
“I understand.” Her smile drops. “It isn’t so easy for mortal women.”
“Right,” I croak.
But you’re nothing close to mortal, a voice whispers in my head, sounding oddly like Nyx. As if to prove my point, Stam stirs, slithering to the outside fringes of my hair in curiosity.
I swipe a hand over my hair, pushing her back.
Dionysus pushes himself to standing with a grunt. “You goddesses struggle too.”
Her face goes soft, almost fond. “Yes. Hera is proof of that.”
Hera’s empty throne. My aunt on Zeus’ arm, proof of his infidelity, flaunted before the entire court.
“Anyway!” Dionysus claps his hands with a crooked smile. “Would you care to join me for some wine, dear sister?”
She huffs but steps closer, her dogs following. “Yes, yes.”
Not for the first time, I marvel at Dionysus’ mask: the drunken exclamations, silly expressions, and meandering walk. Yet he’s not the only one wearing a mask. Artemis’ violence, Apollo’s rambling about his lyre, even Aphrodite’s saccharine smiles; all masks.
They head toward the depths of the palace. I fall into line far behind them, at the very back. Soft footfalls reach my ears. Glancing over my shoulder, I expect to see another god ducking from the gathering, only to spot my aunt lingering at the side of the door. The guards usually stationed there are inside, trailing Zeus.
Aunt Euryale waves, tilting her head toward the servant hallway, dark and twisting, to the left of the main hall. I lean down, pretending to re-lace my sandal until the last attendant turns toward our master’s rooms. Then I scurry after my aunt, following her into the cramped hall.
In the dim light, her eyes glitter like emeralds. “Listen well.”
“What are you doing here?”
She curses under her breath, hand closing tight around my forearm. “I said to listen.”
“But—”
Her nails dig deep. I close my mouth with a snap.
“You’ll help me be alone with Zeus, understand?”
“Aunt—” I begin.
She leans in close, straight white teeth bared.
Inky smoke curls above her head, then trails to stand beside us. In a single blink, it becomes Thanatos, face solid but the rest of him churning smoke.
“Unhand her,” he says, eyes narrowed.
She rushes to release my arm, her hand trembling.
I stagger, hand passing through Thanatos’ smoke-form, trying to regain my balance. His arm solidifies. His hand settles on my hip, helping with a gentle push. At my shiver, his eyes widen, and his arm vanishes into smoke yet again.
“What are you doing?” he asks my aunt. “Nyx’s orders were simple, gorgon.”
She snorts, looking down her nose at him, fear forgotten. “Her orders changed. Go ask her yourself, death.”
I bristle. “He’s the god of death, not actually death.”
Thanatos shoots me a wide-eyed expression, then shakes his head. “Why would she change her plan?”
“Chloe wasn’t advancing fast enough for her liking, especially with Poseidon tailing her like a dog in rut.”
“But why send you? It’s hard enough keeping track of Chloe. I can’t split between the two of you.”
My heart sinks. Keeping track? That’s what he considers it?
Because I’m nothing more than another piece to move around in Nyx’s web. I was stupid for thinking otherwise. For thinking of us as friends.
“You don’t need to,” she says, breaking me from my thoughts. “My disguise will last for months, not that I’ll need more than a week or two.”
Thanatos hums, considering. “And Zeus won’t see through it?”
She shakes her head. “She’s assured me Erebus was a skilled shapeshifter before his slumber. With her taking on his abilities, it won’t be a problem.”
“Chaos ability differs from Zeus’ nature based sort,” he mumbles, almost to himself.
Aunt Euryale turns to face me. “You’ll help, then.”
I swallow, looking into the dark depths of my wine jug. There’s no answer to be found there, not even in my distorted reflection. “I guess.”
My aunt leans close, her rose perfume overtaking all else. “Think of our revenge. Think of your dear mother avenged at last. That idiot hero Perseus might have killed her, and he surely got what he deserved in the end, but Zeus gave the orders.”
At Thanatos’ questioning look, I speak. “Perseus died in a fire years past.”
His brows arch upward. “Someone murdered him in his bed.”
She sighs. “Good riddance. Only wish I was the one to plunge the knife into him instead of my sister.”
The beating of my heart, the flush of my skin, the sweat dripping down my neck—all of it vanishes beneath a sweeping numbness. “You killed him?”
She nods. “We told you otherwise, of course. You always were a sensitive thing. I suppose we forgot to tell you the truth somewhere along the way. Not as if you ever mention him or your mother, anyway.” The last part she says with scorn.
Perseus, murdered in his bed by Aunt Stheno. The man who murdered my mother died in a gruesome method to match her end. Maybe I should feel relief. Feel glad he suffered not by fire but by a knife.
But all I manage is one feeble spark of anger snuffed out within a heartbeat. The sparks for Zeus, Poseidon, and Athena still linger, embers trapped deep and burning in my heart.
“Killing will never be easy, but revenge is worth the price,” my aunt whispers as if sensing my thoughts.
Revenge is worth the price.
I lift my head, meeting her stare. “I’ll help.”