Page 8 of The Games Gods Play
“Do I pass inspection?” he drawls.
I jerk my gaze back up to his face. “You look different than I thought.”
Both eyebrows twitch up. “And what did you expect? All-black clothing? Perhaps a full leather getup?”
Heat flares up my neck. Something like that, actually. “Don’t forget the horns. And maybe a tail.”
“That’s a different god of death.” He makes an exasperated sound, then mutters something about abhorring expectations.
Meeting those expectations, I think he means. Strange that I have something in common with a god. I may be cursed, but damned if I’m going to let it dictate who I am.
“Your home in the Underworld is Erebus,” I say pointedly.
“And?”
“It’s called… Wait for it.” I hold up a hand. “The Land of Shadows.”
Someone should duct tape my mouth shut.
Hades slips his hands in his pockets, casually relaxed in a leashed-predator sort of way. “I always thought that naming was unoriginal. It’s the Underworld. Of course there are shadows.”
This conversation seems to be going off the rails a bit. “I guess.” And then, because my brain can’t help itself, I actually consider what he said. “I mean, technically, you’re not the god of shadows or even the goddess of night.” Now I’m on a roll. “And if the fire-and-brimstone thing is true, then it seems like it would be quite well lit down there.”
His eyes glint at me like sharpened knives.
I can’t tell if he’s offended or surprised by my running commentary.
Unfortunately for both of us, I have a good imagination—and a lot of opinions. “You have a perception issue, if you think about it.”
“I have a perception issue,” he repeats.
“Yes, you do. If they can’t see for themselves, mortals will believe what they are told. I was always told that Hades is shrouded in darkness, smells of fire, and is covered in tattoos that can come alive at his will.”
His gaze trails down my body with such slow deliberation, it sends the heat from earlier crawling farther up my neck and into my cheeks. “And yet you’re the one dressed in black and with tattoos, my star,” he points out.
I follow his gaze to my black fitted shirt paired with jeans—so it’s not all black. One sleeve has ridden up slightly to expose the pale skin of my wrist where the black ink tattoo peeks out. Two stars. A third star is on my other wrist, and when I put my arms together, they form Orion’s Belt.
One of the few things I remember before being taken in by the Order is watching Orion move across the sky outside my bedroom window. The constellation is an unchanging, ever-fixed mark in the night.
Is that why he called me his star twice now? I tug the sleeve down.
“So…” He comes out of his casual leaning to step closer. Close enough that I can breathe him in, which is when I learn that the god of death smells like the darkest, most sinful, bitter chocolate.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
I definitely do not want a god knowing my name. “Felix Argos.”
Hades doesn’t call me on the lie. Just watches me, gaze assessing like he’s debating something. A creative new punishment for me, probably.
“So…” I mimic his earlier phrasing and glance to the side of the temple and the way down the mountain. Escape is so close. Just out of reach, like the open door of a birdcage with a cat sitting outside. “What happens now?”
“What did you mean about being cursed?”
Ugh. I don’t want to talk about that. I hedge instead. “You don’t know?”
“Tell me like I don’t.”
“What if I don’t want to?”
