Hex Goddess (All My Exes Die from Hexes Book 3) Page 3

  “I already told you what I remember. One minute, I was making out with Marc, thinking it was Jerry. The next, I found myself in the middle of a fight between Ramiel and Michael. Then, I opened my eyes and saw I was here.”

  “I don’t get how you couldn’t tell Marc and Jerry apart.”

  Riona shrugged. “If there had been more talking, it would have been a piece of cake. Sarcastic and arrogant, Marc. Arrogant and sarcastic, Jerry.” Well, she knew what she meant anyway. “Jerry put on a glamour for the wedding,” she continued. “He looked like he did when we were together a year ago. Like he really looked when he was human. I thought he let the glamour fall away so he could pour all his energy into... you know.”

  “Sexing you up?”

  “You aren’t very subtle, are you?”

  The goddess threw back her head and cackled. “Subtle is for wine reviews. So, okay, Marc is a demon and he tried to seduce you. I’m not sure that would have made you fall. If you had slept with him, thinking it was Jerry, it might make you feel like shit when you found out, but there wouldn’t have been any intent there. Without intent, there can be no sin.”

  “I think he was counting on my going along with it even after I found out in flagrante.”

  Persephone’s blue eyes narrowed as she looked back over her shoulder. “Would you have?”

  Riona’s expression went blank. “I’ll never have to know.”

  Soon enough, the canopy overhead interlaced with patches of sky, thinning as trees gave way to tall grass. Riona heard the name, “Elysium” all her life, and wasn’t surprised by the lush landscape, the rolling hills of heather, or the playful breezes that moved through like a Fred and Ginger routine. What did surprise her was the handful of scattered ruins that dotted the plains. “Former residences,” Persephone informed her when she inquired.

  “Whose?”

  The goddess blinked twice in quick succession. “I’m not sure I remember. It’s been a few hundred years since anyone’s lived there.”

  After not too much more meandering around trees and leas, Riona’s burning feet welcomed the blacktop pavement road, even though the heat radiating off it in the sun-drenched climate dried her out again. It was as though they were strolling down any mortal street in any mortal town in the world. Well, except for Boston, of course. The lack of potholes gave that away.

  They stopped dead in their tracks as Persephone groaned. “Shit, what is he doing here? Down, Riona. Bow low and don’t talk.”

  Riona tried to look up, but the goddess pushed her face back towards the street. “My Lord,” she heard Persephone say in far too dulcet a tone.

  “Well, if isn’t my favorite, little, dethroned queen,” a snide voice answered back. In the world, there were low voices, lower voices generated by computers to creep people out, and then there was this guy’s low voice. Riona wanted to look up just to see if he had a handlebar mustache to match the mischief in his timbre.

  “I was not aware of any summons.”

  From the shadow of the figure on the ground, Riona could tell the man was looking back over his shoulder. “There wasn’t. No, no souls go into the sunset today. Pity that.”

  Riona heard Persephone exhaling her relief. “Thank God.”

  “I’ll let Him know you send your best.” The weight of a threatening glare fastened on her. “Who is this? I’ve not seen her here before.”

  Realizing the man must have been an angel, Riona fought the urge to look up. Besides her father and Ramiel (and the Grigori, for whatever that was worth), her race and heritage were still a big question mark.

  “A mortal consort of one of my cerebi,” Persephone replied.

  Her eyebrows knitted. Why would Persephone lie about her identity?

  “A mortal?” There was more than a question in his voice; it was objection. “Are you certain? Her aura is very... curious.”

  Trying to look up through her auburn bangs, Riona bit her lip and cursed inwardly. She wasn’t sure how well her will worked when it came to camouflage. Nevertheless, she tried forcing her aura to reign in its non-mortal markers.

  Luckily, Persephone’s tongue emerged from its temporary reprieve. “I don’t see how it concerns me if she has a mixed background. Unlike certain heavenly beings, nephilim don’t judge people on their pedigree.”

  “Yes, you do. I’ve always found that quite... quaint. Probably the reason your father is so quick to lay with anything that has complementary genitalia, the bastard.”

  “Aw, did he reject your advances again?”

  “Watch it, nephilim harpy, or I’ll....”

  “You’ll what?” Persephone barked. “You have no power here, except what the Accords grant you. In fact, if I were you, I’d hightail it out of this realm before my ‘bastard’ father goes all lightning-happy on your ass.”

  Wide-eyed, Riona watched incredulously as the shadow on the ground beneath her eyes misted. The angel ported away, leaving behind one seriously pissed off goddess.

  “Jesus H. Christ,” Persephone croaked as she pulled Riona to her feet, helping her brush away some dust from her knees. “Of all people to cross paths with, we have to run into Azrael.”

  “Who?” The name sounded vaguely familiar, but Riona couldn’t place it.

  “The problem with archangels is they’re around so long, they rack up more than one name when really, we could just label them all as asshat one, asshat two, et cetera. It’d save time. Azrael is one of the Council of Seven, but I think your people know him as Sariel.”

  “The angel of death?” Riona’s outburst cut her off. Persephone nodded. “So, what? You guys have angel-assisted suicide or something?”

  “Did you forget what I told you about that fancy knife you had?” Persephone countered. “That’s pretty much the only way for us to die, although it’s been years since anyone decided to. At this point, I think those of us left are in it until we’re doing Jell-O shots with cockroaches and Elvis.”

  “Elvis is dead, Steph.”

  Persephone coughed out a chuckle. “Yeah, right.”

  “Just curiously, how many of you are there?” Riona hesitated, not knowing if it was socially acceptable to ponder. “Were there many of you left after the rapture?”

  “Just a fraction. Before all that went down, there were perhaps, a hundred thousand Olympians. Now, there’s just a thousand or so living here, including some humans. That over there...” Persephone raised a hand toward a palatial house on a hill, a huge spread above the tall, golden stalks, complete with a cast iron gate and opulent, Mediterranean-styled entryway, “...is my house. Well, our house, I guess.”

  Riona’s attempt to sound nonchalant went over about as well as cold water on a hot stove. “Oh, it looks... quaint.”

  A cackling laugh burst out from the goddess. “It’s a freaking palace, Riona. Remember that Hades and I are royalty. Dethroned centuries ago, maybe, but me and the mister still put our proper titles on our business cards.”

  “I keep forgetting that you’ve been together for thousands of years. How did you manage to stay married so long?”

  “Separate bedrooms and a burning desire we share to outlive the other.” Turning to the left, they started up a hillside path. “Our marriage is more like politics with benefits than a reflection of anything we feel. Well, anything we both feel, anyway.”

  “If he means so little to you, why not break up?” Riona asked. “It’s not like sixty BC anymore. You could live Earthside twenty-four/seven, three-sixty-five.”

  Riona came to a stop just as Persephone did the same. The goddess bit her lip, any sense of amusement draining from her face. “There’re other factors. Besides, Hades isn’t so bad.” Her face turned solemn as she turned her head to Riona. “But at the end of the day, he’s still nephilim. Don’t forget that. And if I were you, I would do my best not to ever be alone with one of the males. They can be slick bastards. Oh, and one other thing?”

  “Yeah?”

  Persephone looked up and down
the path several times, making sure they were alone. “Keep that whole half-angel thing under wraps. You might cause mass hysteria if someone found out.”

  The twisty lane dissolved into cobblestones and dirt on the left, terminating at a gate. Eventually, the slanted roof of a palatial villa emerged, trailing off where wall met stone. The abode wasn’t so much built on the side of the mountain as it was built into it. Marble colonnades docked the top of a portico. Tinted green glass walls allowed ample views of the interior, which was inspired by a temple, and designed by Armani. In the yard, along the walk, torches burned, flaming wisps of smoke and fear. Guards carrying mortal, albeit, outdated weapons – spears, bows, and even some rifles, stood at attention outside every colonnade. Her eyes caught sight of one guard on a craggy outcropping of roof, bearing something that looked like a giant glow stick.

  Riona stood frozen in place, her mouth gaping at the sight before her, until Persephone’s nonchalance hastened her reaction.

  “It’s ridiculous. All these guards with puny guns. Like a rifle could do anything to us, but cause a little flesh wound. With Dad, it’s all about the stage, not the script.”

  It took Riona only a moment to retrieve her memory regarding Persephone’s lineage. “This is Zeus’ house?”

  “More of a compound,” Persephone answered. “The rooms go deep inside the mountain. Some tunnels even come out the other side. Dad lives here. He’s also got a whole regiment of people coming and going with the seasons. I know you’re running ragged, but I have to receive his permission to host a human.”

  “Is that hard to get?”

  She heard Persephone mutter a laugh. “Used to be a breeze. But for someone who looks like you,” the goddess’s eyes mapped Riona’s curves, “the trick is getting him to agree to let you stay at my house, and not on his lap.”

  Chapter 4

  “You lied to me!”

  Marc’s fist struck Azazel’s chin, doing as much damage as hitting a brick wall with a feather duster. A second swing sent the angel to the ground, and yielded at least one tooth from his mouth. The bastard had the balls to act like it did nothing to him, which, frankly, Marc knew. At least, he could have shown more courtesy by pretending it was possible for the fallen priest to exact vengeance.

  As Azazel stood, a red pearl formed in one corner of his lips. Confusion and exuberance competed for control. Marc’s clenched fists dropped to his side.

  Azazel pulled the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing blood over his cheek as the wound knitted itself back together. The missing tooth filled in like water in an ice cube tray.

  “Got it out of your system yet?”

  “You can bleed?”

  The angel’s lips parted, revealing unnaturally white teeth. “Anywhere but Heaven, we’re flesh and blood. A huge design flaw in Big Boss’s plan, but then again, He didn’t design us originally to be permanent residents of the terrestrial planes. Now, please tell me how I lied to you.”

  Shaking off his perplexing realization, Marc refocused on his anger. “I was told I’d get a decent shot at Riona, so why the hell did Michael show up and cockblock me?” He threw himself into a nearby chair, his fingers lacing through his hair.

  “Marc, Marc, Marc.” Azazel rounded his minion, rubbing the demon’s shoulders. “We didn’t lie. We parsed the truth. You got a decent shot, but we never intended to allow you to get away with it.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s above your pay grade, son.”

  Marc looked up, wearing his misunderstanding in his furrowed brow. “I don’t get why you told me try to seduce her then.”

  “If you’ll forgive the pun, we wanted you to dick around with her. In order to get her to do what we want done, we need the ability to influence her. The demigod and the turncoat have too much pull on her. We have to make Riona doubt her own judgment, make her believe we’re not her enemy. Her lingering emotions for you in that regard are the golden ticket.”

  “So you’re using both of us, because we’re really just pawns to you, huh?”

  “Don’t act like you didn’t enjoy it,” Azazel teased. “The day will come when you can do whatever the hell you like to her, as often as you want.”

  The implication didn’t elude him. “I’d never force her.”

  “You’re a demon, Marc. Embrace it. You don’t have to live your life by any foolish mortal limits anymore.”

  “You think I’m going to abandon all my beliefs and values just because I’m a demon?”

  One corner of Azazel’s mouth rose. He shrugged, his hands indicating the wider room. “Look where you are. Hint: not the Vatican. When in Rome, sin like the Romans do.”

  Marc bit one of his knuckles, tasting blood, and funneling his frustration inward. He mulled over his master’s words, a granule of truth irritating his psyche. “Sin like the Romans do, huh?” He looked up at Azazel. “I’ll remember that.”

  Chapter 5

  Two guards, stationed like stone lions on either side of the door, straightened to attention. The opaque wall of the house acted like a display store window, offering the witch a shocking awareness of how wrong the cliché of “Olympian” was. She expected stone chaises, tiled mosaics, and baskets of fruit passing between lolling, bearded men and scantily dressed, buxom women who poured libations from jewel-encrusted pitchers. Well, okay, that last detail might have been more wishful thinking than anything cobbled together from a production of The Iliad. Instead, there were angular chairs, stools, and even side tables in a modern, sleek design, cut at sharp angles and accented with leather and metal fittings. The primary medium, glass, comprised most of the items not meant for sitting. They included a grand, green-tinted dining table she was willing to bet could seat twenty. Ten more could have hung from the chandelier that stretched out half its length. If she hadn’t known better, Riona would have sworn Zeus’ interior decorator came straight from her stylish, long-time client, Ditter Schmitz.

  Ditter... In all the hubbub, Riona forgot the series of events leading to Zeus’ doorstep, starting with her intended-to-be-fake wedding. What happened after she left The Grotto? Did her father turn his frustration over her escape on the wedding guests? Did her mother avoid the melee? Or sit back and watch it with her customary, sardonic indifference? Riona knew from the feeling of calm in her soul that Jerry and Dee weren’t seriously injured, but memories of the look on Jerry’s face when she saw the Morgana box drop, and the debilitating shame that she was only moments away from adultery, ripped her gut into pieces.

  “Riona?”

  “Huh?”

  Persephone caught Riona’s eyes and attention, bringing her back to the moment. She jerked her head to the right. “Come on. Dad’s ready to see us.”

  “Oh, right. Okay.”

  Halfway into the house, the glass formations and open, airy spaces that made the structure appear infinite ended abruptly. Each section, walled in by hulled stone or marble, was distinct, regimented and formal. It was as if she just passed through the lobby of a prison to reach individual cells. Persephone guided Riona down a long corridor, lit only by the occasional dim sconce.

  “Your dad... He’s, like, still a king, right?”

  Persephone nodded. “Yup. After most of the nephilim were killed off, the survivors had to pick a leader to serve as our representative. Dad’s a consummate politician. He was a shoo-in.”

  She felt her mouth going dry again, but tried to disguise her nerves with solidity in her tone. “I’ve never met royalty before. Am I supposed to bow? Do I kiss his rings? Do I call him ‘sire’ or ‘your highness’ or ‘mighty Zeus?’”

  “He’ll let you know. He takes a different approach with everyone. But blah! Please don’t call him ‘mighty’ anything, okay? He’s already got an ego the size of the Canadian tundra.”

  Pausing outside a door, she saw some of the most exquisite engravings she’d ever seen, portraying the tale of an epic saga. Men with wings held prominence both at the apex and the limit of the de
scent. In the middle, lambs and goats ran in terror from men with swords, and all manner of beings filled the quartile areas between. Persephone’s tiny fist rapped the wooden door. They waited but a moment until the knob pivoted.

  “Persephone,” said the stern, old man standing inside the doorframe.

  He wore loose-fitting clothes made of a thick, cotton fabric. A salt-and-pepper beard gave his visage a breadth and roundness that almost appeared feline. Zeus looked every bit the iconic, wise, and worldly man Hollywood portrayed. At least, the mortals got something right.

  “Is this the guest for whom you wish to seek sponsorship?”

  “Yes, this is Miss Dade.” Persephone paused, looking to Riona. “Or is it Mrs. Romani now?”

  “Technically, I think it would be Mrs. Gallicus, but let’s stick with Dade for now.”

  Persephone shrugged, appearing like one from whom the shit is not given. “Miss Dade is very tired. She’s had one hell of a night. I’d much prefer returning in the morning when she’s had time to rest.”

  “I know you’ve been gallivanting all around the mortal world for six months, mixing yourself with who-knows-whom, and getting tied up in all kinds of questionable shenanigans, but even you must be aware of the suspension in sponsoring mortals. The question of whether or not Miss Dade shall be permitted to stay must be addressed immediately. Come.”

  Riona expected a throne room, or at least, some sort of formal audience chamber, but experience kept beating her over the head with the lesson that most assumptions were a terrible thing to make. The small room barely exceeded the size of her own bedroom back in Boston. But she finally found the daybed-like lounge platforms of classic theater sets she anticipated. The frame of one in particular appeared to be made of gold, and a supple cloth of richly embellished and embroidered silver and purple lay across its surface.

  “Actually, I hadn’t heard,” Persephone returned. “Why? We’ve had mortals here without a second thought for thousands of years.”