Page 7 of Hercules

But afterward, she’d be totally free. She could burn that wig and those contacts, and never again have to stress about being someone she wasn’t.

For that, she couldn’t get inside and open her laptop fast enough.

CHAPTER 3

Herc had no idea what Apollo meant by the loose meeting time, so he simply headed toward Ravens after bolting from the tattoo chair. Though he’d paid Dave for the time and promised he’d return for the actual inkwork, something told him that Alonna and Moraine would be taking over final stages of the tattoo, after all. Visiting the darker corners of his memory had him yearning for matching surroundings and his own bed.

After the meeting with Apollo—and damn it, the asshole better keep this shit short—he’d be heading straight for Hell and enjoying the ride.

On the way to the club, he couldn’t seem to shed the glue of his dismal frown. Not even stopping for a curry bun and accepting some flowers from passing Krishna monks lightened his mood. And why should they? Was he seriously expecting things to change on the inside because he’d crossed off the big list on the outside?

Meg and the boys were gone forever. Nothing, not even a giant tub of his brother’s pixie dust, could change that.

Still, at this point, he’d accept a small yet satisfied sigh from his senses. A soft well done in his mind.

Nothing from either but fucking crickets—drowned at once by the continuing honks and screeches of the downtown traffic. They were joined by the plods of his feet on the cracked sidewalks, with his boots feeling as heavy as before.

Was this it, then? Were the last ten years and his twelve grueling Labors for nothing?

As soon as he looked ahead and saw the vertical sign for Ravens in view, he allowed some mysterious inner animal to prowl up his throat with an unintelligible rumble. Fortunately—or maybe not—his mumbled words were clearer.

“Okay, Polo Pony. You’d better have a better light for all this bullshit.”

He made a point to stow the nickname before circling around to the club’s stage door, where a crew of sound techs were rolling in sets of speakers as tall as him. Contemplating the amount of sound they were capable of was a lesser concern than the din from his psyche. He had to figure out this unease before it ate him alive, and his stepbrother had to be the key.

Gods, he hoped Apollo had the key.

“Where are we putting this tower, Mr. Apollo?”

“Mr. Apollo? Where would you like your tea tray?”

The second query, from a spiky-haired female who looked like she wanted to serve something other than tea, had Herc pressing a fist to the brief snicker on his lips. On second thought, maybe Polo Pony was the perfect soubriquet here.

He was saved from reexamining the decision by his half-brother’s steadfast stride into the club’s main room. Apollo, clearly fresh from the salon with his long blond curls blown out and his eyes heavily kohled, crossed the huge dance floor in just a few strides. His hyper-confident energy was enhanced by the trendy but tailored three-piece suit on his commanding form.

“The whole tower goes stage left,” he informed the teamsters. They nodded.

“Happy afternoon, beautiful. Can you put the tea in the office?” After a peck to her forehead, the pretty punker sighed.

“Brother. Good day. Follow me.”

Herc didn’t nod or sigh, but that was because he knew better. When the god of at least ten different things prioritized a guy in his schedule, half-brother or not, it was best to just hasten and follow directions.

Like the directions you followed ten years ago? The “hastening” that hasn’t done the same for the constant stabbings in your soul?

As soon as Apollo ushered him into the office and calmly closed the door on the starry-eyed punk princess, the god already had words prepared to address that exact thought.

“Heracles. It’s been a while.”

“Certainly has, my pretty Polo.”

So much for being on good behavior about the secondary handles. But no way did Polo Pony not know that with the variation on Herc’s name, once assigned as an attempt to glorify Hera. The goddess had been kind about the gesture but her thank-you note never once referenced the madness she’d supposably inflicted over him, leading to the horrific night that had permanently changed his existence. His soul.

But doubting her instigation or not, it stung to hear her name as the honorific of his. Apollo knew that, loud and clear. So why the attempt to cow him with it?

His aggravation simmered hotter.

He hid none of it from his ramrod posture and seething stare, which didn’t faze Apollo by an inch once he turned completely around. That part of things wasn’t surprising to Herc either.