Page 1 of Hercules

CHAPTER 1

Only in Downtown Los Angeles would a place called Hurts Damn Good make it as a tattoo parlor. To Hercules of Thebes and his love-hate affair with pain, the clever packaging hit a twisted but true comfort zone.

While crossing the street, Herc also scrolled the five-star reviews for the place on his phone. But raves and ingenuity aside, he was only here because the place was open before noon and located around the corner from Ravens. The dance club was his brother Apollo’s second home as of late, due to its ballooning popularity with the mortals, so logically he’d asked Herc to meet him there “at whatever time worked”.

Hercules didn’t try to estimate what that really meant. For the Underworld’s version of a mega-multitasking CEO, Apollo’s daily calendar went for “winging it” more than most water birds. Centuries later, Herc still couldn’t believe how long his stepbrother could accomplish within that chaos.

Not his circus, not his monkeys.

Right now, he could only focus on his own steps. More clearly, on the journey they’d just taken, and the closure he needed for accomplishing it. That meant seeing to the ink that would commemorate it.

“This is all nice work,” said the grungy but professorly tatooist after he sat Herc back and examined the eleven pieces of ink stacked between his left wrist and shoulder. “But done at different times. And different artists, yeah?”

Herc dipped a quick nod. “You’ve got a good eye.”

“Eh.” The guy flinched a shoulder like Dave Grohl being complimented about a basic chord. “Just seen a lot in my time.” He perused the row of symbols again. Though the subject matter of each was different, the general art style was the same. Spartan and clean, with a single laurel leaf as embellishment for each tattoo. “So what’s the spin on this next one? What’re you thinking?”

A knot formed in Herc’s throat. He still managed to utter, “Gotta be a dog. But it needs three heads.”

“Aha. Cerberus vibes.”

Herc remained noncommittal. “That’s what they usually call him.”

“So what’s the connection? For the ink?” He rolled up the sleeve of Herc’s black T-shirt before cleaning off the area to be inked, right above the spot where six apples were artfully aligned with the top curve of his bicep. “Besides the fact that he chomps on any fool trying to enter the Underworld?”

Except for when he’s been kidnapped by this fool.

But there was no need to betray any of that to Professor Grohl, especially as the guy readied his instruments for engraving the approved design into Herc’s skin. Not that his skin cared. By now, it was synched well to the rest of his system. The minute cells, fibers, thoughts, and awarenesses that craved the pain.

Needed it.

For the few minutes that the needle bore into his body, the other agony was blissfully dimmed.

Not gone—nothing would ever succeed at that obliteration—but dulled to the point that he could deal with the memories in his mind and survive. He could live with his past without yearning to eradicate his future.

But not yet.

The tattooist—a label on the side of his kit box identified it as Dave and His Dildos, surprise surprise—didn’t press harder than his initial query, though Herc was all too aware of how the guy kept sneaking some curious glances, obvious attempts to fill in some blanks for himself.

Don’t try, my friend. Don’t even begin to try.

To save them both discomfort, he divulged aloud, “It’s a commemorative thing. Achievement badge, I guess. Kind of.”

He managed a new shrug, but more to reward himself for the creative skirt on the subject without having to lie. Dave and his dildos didn’t have to be told that the six apples were really gold rarities retrieved from a secret garden north of Marrakesh, from a trove of Hera and Zeus’s wedding gifts, or that the dancing cows below them were retrieved from a six-legged monster in a foul-smelling cave, and so on for nine more stories after that.

Nope. He definitely didn’t need to know all that. Or what it all stood for. That every drop of ink in the eighty-five centimeters down to Herc’s wrist was another syllable of the story for the last ten years of his life. The quest that had taken him across this realm and more. The journey that would end with only one acceptable destination.

Atonement.

Dave’s head jolted up as if Herc had accidentally rasped the word out loud. He peered over with the same intent, though only for a few seconds, before nodding and chuckling.

“Okay. Sure. Gotta make sure you remember the achievements.” He marked off the placement parameters for the new ink. “Beats dwelling on the mistakes, yeah?”

Herc fought not to shift in the chair. “Uhhh, right.” So he got busy examining the metal plates that defined the toe boxes of his worn shit kickers.

“Seems you’ve had your fair share of both. Not that I haven’t either, know what I mean?”

Herc swung a direct glare back at the mortal’s casual smirk. It defied his better instincts, but he was committed to the ordeal at this point.