Page 31 of Hercules

“Seriously, putána?”

He had a bunch more colorful expressions for her, considering his crotch still felt like D’Artagnan himself had invited the rest of the Musketeers to go to town down there, but the bitch already answered his question. She was definitely serious—this time, in more petrifying ways.

One way more than the others.

Her weapon was no longer outfitted with a chamber full of falmouth.

She’d changed that out for a long mag of bullets.

More profanity left his taut lips—consuming the seconds it took him to roll around and push Lois into a deep leather chair next to the room's huge bay window.

Not a second too soon.

As soon as her butt plunked the seat, a hailstorm of bullets bombarded the little nook. Unbelievably, neither of them got hit.

That was the lucky factor.

Where the fates weren’t ruling in their favor?

Most noticeably, Natasha Korra’s bulletproof windows. The new shots were a metallic maelstrom, pinballing against every surface they could.

Second on the list, but no less alarming: their raider was a persistent harpy eagle, carrying way more than her petite weight in firepower. Her reloads were barely three seconds before the barrages began again.

Further down the roster, but once more as troubling: Herc had forgotten how much bullets hurt.

It hadn’t happened much during all his Labors, but enough that the feeling should be disgustingly familiar. Or so he reproached himself each time one seared into his flesh now. Two in his left shoulder. Once more into the same side’s thigh. Lastly, before Apollo finally whipped out his quiver and released a good shot through the chandelier’s chain, into the meat of his calf muscle.

The wounds were shitty, but already phantoms in the shadows of his fresh stress: having to shield Lois through the chandelier’s resounding smash. They faded even more as her terrified shriek filled his ears—only to be totally forgotten as a hailstorm of crystal shards pinged around them.

Until it all stopped, he didn’t move.

No. Not even then.

He pushed down tighter and closer, until his heaving chest nearly met the frantic heaves from the woman beneath him. Not the smartest decision, since inhaling her again was doing nothing to calm the wild throb in his ears, when listening for his brother had to be a paramount priority. Apollo was often slick to the point of arrogance, but that made his moves discernible even from behind. That meant listening close, because no way was Herc surrendering his position if Mistress Putána determined she’d beat Polo Pony to the punch.

Who the hell was she?

What the hell was she?

Much more important query, as the pair of them went. His mind swiftly went to work on the possibilities.

She wasn’t an actual goddess, since Herc knew nearly all of them thanks to Aphrodite’s matchmaking efforts through the centuries. That eliminated only one option among dozens. So perhaps another demigod, equal to him in status and strength? A good guess, but still not the sole theory. Was she demon? Fae? Chimera? Titan? And, though he’d just snuck it into some bad sarcasm, an actual harpy?

As fast as he generated the list, he shut it down. With two of his senses temporarily stripped—three, if his fingers’ obsession with this woman’s waistline counted—he had to focus now more than ever.

And was damn glad he did.

Footsteps now. Steady. Certain. Pressing into the glass field of the floor as only Apollo could.

Still, Herc was careful about canting his head up and his sights around.

Until completely observing his brother’s profile.

On one hand, he could count the times Apollo permitted so much agony to show. Such open desolation.

“Brother?”

Apollo’s unresponsive silence was goddamned eerie.