Page 77 of Hercules

And why the hell not?

Undoubtedly, the rapacious dickhead had knocked boots with the actual mafia, half a dozen cartels, and every street gang across the globe. In Rizon’s mind, they’d soon be nothing but worms under his heel anyhow.

All of them—including the slick yakuza mobster who now turned all the way in their direction.

And then paused, regarding Lois with fresh concentration.

But once the wrinkles changed around Nao Ito’s eyes, as his recognition fully flared, he approached her on slow but steady steps.

At a pace that reminded Herc of lead hammer thumps.

Uh-huh. Screw the hammers. Every moment was a full spear in his sternum as he watched Lois sag as if her limbs had turned to rotten gelatin. That had to be the case, because the woman didn’t—couldn’t?—move, even as the douchebag came closer.

Closer…

Before he reverently uttered, “Ahhh. Kamisama…”

His country’s expression of abject shock was like another gash, twisting and torturous. Was this bastard serious? Was he really standing here, beholding Lois like the oje who’d brought her sweets and dresses and books instead of the monster who’d stolen everything that’d mattered to her?

Everyone who’d mattered…

Before Herc’s disgust could galvanize to action, the man rasped, “Yama…neko-san? It cannot be, can it?”

Though those murmurs were fit for high mass, they screamed through Herc as if brought by an injured wendigo. But when he expected to look down at his own pooled blood, fate delivered differently. Gloriously.

The gelatin inside his woman…had changed. Spun in and around to emerge as gorgeous, gutsy fire—manifested in the form of her violent shove back from Ito.

Lois didn’t stop there. She took another dogged step back. Another. On her third, she raised her head and leveled a fierce seethe at the man.

“You’re right. It really can’t be,” she spat, addressing his pretentious line. “And isn’t. Thanks to you, I haven’t been Yamaneko in a long time.”

Nao Ito’s smooth smile was a practiced thing, as graceful but stiff as the backsweep of his hair. If Lois’s retort had made even a dent, he didn’t show it.

“Ah. Yes,” he crooned. “That makes full sense, of course.” The hair still didn’t move, though he deeply canted his head. “You have to know that I looked intensely for you and your mother…”

Lois’s laugh was sharp and ready. “Looked, Oje? Or hunted? Oh, wait. Sorry.” She flung up a hand. “I forgot they’re the same to you. Just like love and control.”

She didn’t seem to care—though surely she had to notice—about the cruel crevices that deepened in Ito’s face. But not harsh enough to freeze the incensed flare of his nostrils.

“You question how deeply I loved you, little one? How thoroughly I cared for you, all those years, when—”

“Those years when what?”

The interruption wasn’t Lois’s—which meant Herc’s startle coincided with Ito’s—though he was saved from having to acknowledge the fact because of unmistakable, encroaching shock.

Was this really happening?

Maybe his senses, or the crazy acoustics in this place, were messing with his frayed nerves. But he couldn’t deny what his eyes told him—and how obvious the situation was.

The case that now had less to do with what, and more with who.

The female who strode toward them with confident-clacking steps and shoulders squared with take-no-shit confidence.

The mortal who made him jolt more than any goddess had—including the deity who might have cast the spell behind his familicide.

The memory that, for the first time in ten years, he commanded fully from his mind. There was no time now. Not a second of room for unessential wonderings.

Not as he examined Natasha Korra with more thorough focus. Out of anyone here, he’d earned the right. It was a bizarre experience, since he expected to be stunned by a million similarities to Lois—