Page 47 of The Games Gods Play
I swallow for a different reason this time.
With a shake of his head, he turns me back to the island. “At least now you’re looking at me instead of avoiding eye contact.”
Leave it alone. Let him have the last word.
“You look terrible, by the way,” he remarks.
There goes any truth to gazing at me for the fun of it.
“I know. I didn’t sleep well.” Between Boone, Hades, and the first event looming over my head like a guillotine’s blade, sleep was a long shot anyway. I run a weary hand over my face. “You should see the bruises under my clothes.”
His immediate frown reminds me of Zeus’ thunderclouds. “Show me.” A command.
Maybe he’ll feel bad if he sees and take pity on me. I lean back, unzip my tactical vest, and pull up my fitted shirt. Even I wince at the sight of the black-and-blue line across the bottom of my ribs.
“Fuck.” Hades growls the word, and I blink at him.
Then he grabs a cell phone out of a pocket in his jeans—gods have cell phones?—and types rapidly. Almost as soon as he sets his phone down, a man appears in the kitchen with us.
He’s an older gentleman, with wrinkles around his brown eyes and graying hair at the temples and in his beard.
Hades is in full autocratic mode, tossing around the orders. “Asclepius, she needs repair.”
Like I’m a broken computer or something, but at least I know who this is now.
Asclepius. That explains the aging. Gods don’t age, but according to some versions of the story, Asclepius started as a mortal man who was punished by Zeus for the crime of restoring the dead to life. Afterward, he was welcomed into Olympus as the god of healing.
Asclepius takes one look at my bruising, then holds a hand over me. His beige skin glows blackish blue now, like the color of my bruising, and a lovely warmth spreads outward in my chest. I gasp as the nagging ache of each wound disappears, and before my eyes, the purplish mark on my stomach fades. The glow from Asclepius’ hand changes color to match, until all that’s left is healthy tissue. I poke at a spot with my finger and smile. Not a single twinge of pain.
“That’s a neat trick.” I look up at Asclepius. “Thank you.”
His eyes crinkle with an answering smile. “No more belly flops on the stairs, young lady.”
“You knew about that?”
Crooked teeth flash at me. “All the gods, demigods, and other immortal creatures keep track of the Crucible. The winner tends to affect us.”
I should have guessed.
“We watched the entire night with interest.” He slides a look between Hades and me.
Terrific. I’m like a reality show celebrity for the immortal world. Just what I always wanted.
Asclepius gives Hades a stern look that I picture a grandpa making. “You should have called me sooner.”
I straighten. Someone who dares to talk back to Hades? Not just that…he’s reprimanding Hades. “Oh, I like you.”
Hades’ mouth thins. “She didn’t tell me.”
Asclepius snorts. “You should have known. You were right there when she hit those stairs.”
Before Hades can answer, Asclepius pats my shoulder. “I won’t be able to do this after the first Labor starts, my dear. Any magical healing is reserved only for the winner of each and the champions who share the victor’s virtue.”
Great. The Labors might require healing. And I’m the only one in the Survival virtue, which means if I don’t win, I don’t get healed. Just one more check mark in the “against Lyra” column.
I should stop keeping that list. It’s depressing.
“Best of luck. Play well.” Then Asclepius is gone as fast as he appeared.
