Page 38 of Hercules

“Meaning?” Lo prompted.

“My brother is pushing me to move upstairs.”

“To be clear, this is the part where we actually discuss Olympus.”

The corner of his mouth did a weird little dance. “Sure. Though full disclosure, I haven’t stepped foot there for going on eleven years. Or is it twelve?”

“Because hell has better burrito joints?”

“Because I’ve been busy.”

And there was the next crossroads, where serious was dumped for somber. Lo was as sure of the perception as her ability to recite every line of dialogue and music in Dirty Dancing. The aching grate wasn’t contained to his voice. She felt it pouring from deep and desperate parts of him, like he was Johnny begging Baby’s dad to help Penny out.

Kellerman’s Mountain House to the rescue. Recalling the scene was a boon for the rest of her brain, jogging knowledge out of the last place she expected right now. Eleventh grade literature class.

“Busy. Right,” she said, eagerly proud. “Because you had tasks that Apollo assigned you to. Crazy stuff. Capturing Cerberus. Taming man-eating horses. And getting some goddess’s underthings? A girdle?”

Despite his soft laugh, there were sad gray shadows in the backs of his aquas. “Not a goddess, but as formidable. Hippolyta was an Amazonian queen. The ‘girdle’ was actually a war belt.”

She nodded. “Of course. I remember now.” And gave herself a mild break for thinking underwear, considering every boy in class had snort-snickered their assumptions about the term. Even Joe Marone. “Did you succeed?” she asked, banishing the silly memories. “In getting it from her? Better yet, did you have to sneak onto her secret no-men-allowed island?”

His quick snort had her again guessing at his reasoning. His formidable mouth looked committed to perplexity, but his gaze was direct and wholly arrogant.

Thankfully, he didn’t leave her in the lurch for long. “I always succeed,” he stated evenly. “But I have no idea what you’re talking about otherwise. Secret? Island?”

Oh, He had every idea, as betrayed by his newly nonchalant air, but Lo could tell when tapping out a chuckle was better than pounding a follow-up.

“Okay, you’ve accumulated a few stamps in the passport. I hope you got the demigod tasker discount at all the nice hotels too.”

Just when she thought his brows were done crowding each other, he hit in with a new scowl. “Labors,” he defined, distinct about both syllables. “We called them Labors, not tasks.”

“Sure.” Her reply was equally protracted, though not on purpose. “Labors. Of course. Sorry.” And by now, barely skirted a whisper on her quivering lips. They’d been taken hostage by the same terrorists entrenched in her throat. The marauders that broke into her brain with new recollections.

With the details of a story that, once upon a time, had been just another tragedy to study so she’d be a step closer to her diploma.

A story that was now…so likely…

So very…

Real.

One long look up to the man’s face, and Lois knew it with surety that soaked to her marrow. She even wondered how it hadn’t been this evident before, because she’d never unsee it now.

The urgent shadows of his eyes, again searching the room’s corners as if hoping for ghosts. When the quest returned nothing, the sadness dove and settled in the brackets of his mouth. Then it spread out, commanding every angle of his jaw—showing Lois that nothing about the man was what she first assumed.

He wasn’t that rugged and daunting because he’d been off stealing rare beasts and Amazonians’ war belts. Or because he’d decided to be a brooding grouch.

He was distant and discomfited and stern because he was sad.

Because he was a widower.

But also…holy shit…

Because he was a murderer.

CHAPTER 11

The moment had come.