Page 44 of Apollo

Just one pluck at one of the seven strings was like a supernatural concerto, sending out more than notes and timing and musical dynamics. It was sound and symmetry; magic given composition, and so much more. Such dangerous levels of power, the mortals who’d dared to play with its potency were punished with erasure. Wiped of their place in actual humanity. Forever known only as two-dimensional characters in picture books or campy movies. The Pied Piper of Hamelin, The Phantom of the Opera, Peter Pan, and every make-believe siren with feet or fins . . . they’d all been real flesh-and-blood creatures until they’d messed with his lyre, going insane with high ideas of subduing their own race until they stood in Olympus with the gods.

Idiots.

Just like the silly blond nymph before him now, grinning and preening as she raised the string higher. Damn near cackling as she mamboed forward to the music, heels clacking against the shined tiles, utterly unaware of how lonely she actually sounded while turning everyone else into human obelisks. Completely unable—or unwilling—to heed their silent screams, as the string and its song threaded hypnotic tendrils into their muscles, joints, skin, and senses.

But Apollo heard. Every note. All their agony. The terror of their silent protests. The urgent revs of their heartbeats. The shrieks of their muscles, straining at the invisible tethers which acted like physical extensions of the glowing strand.

His property.

For which she’d pay fucking dearly for stealing—and abusing.

Especially now. From the moment their torment was thickened by Irowen’s silent scream.

He abandoned any consideration about granting a shred of mercy for Korra. The realization, hot and terrible, that his power had been wielded against Irowen like this . . . the treacherous starlet would pay.

It didn’t matter that the choice hadn’t been his. The helpless rage about the fact only worsened the fire in his gut, the protective purpose in his blood. A fury like few things he’d felt before.

When had he felt this before?

That answer had to wait. He had bigger things to fear right now. Most notably, another huge question.

What, exactly, Korra planned on doing with her newfound dominance courtesy of the string.

Or was it such a new thing?

How long had the little twit really had her hands on the treasure? Had she been experimenting with it in secret, testing it out before now? Was that why she so easily took control of Ito’s entire squad, plus Lois and Irowen and a crowd of innocent bystanders, as well? If so, how far did she plan on going with this stunt? Was the Natasha Korra World Domination Tour kicking off right now?

Worse: had she already started it elsewhere?

Negating the last demand was easy enough, since logic dictated they would’ve been joined by a thunderous Zeus if it came close to the truth. But the rest of the questions barraged him like a pissed-off swarm of Aristaeus’s bees. Hercules already looked ready to swat at the metaphorical nuisances, as well. No, his brother was clearly ready to deliver more than a few swats, an idea he supported with every aching nerve in his body.

Shit.

That jetlagged, unstable snip of a girl . . .

If Korra had really logged in some training hours with the string, her control over the others could easily spiral beyond the parlor trick of locking them in place. After the physical locks, she’d try reaching into other realms. Places like their minds and hearts . . .

“Nat!”

Lois’s fresh burst, though only a thready gasp, freed a relieved whoosh from his chest. The woman was still capable of expressing her own agency through speech, so Korra hadn’t bonded that tightly with her pet string yet.

His string.

He seized the thought and used it to open his psyche a little wider, checking if the strand responded. It did at once, twanging extra hard, to the point that it nearly jumped from the starlet’s grip. But damn it, Korra was alarmingly alert. While reinforcing her hold with manic speed, she added a hysterical giggle—right before the string’s new song wound its way tighter around the helpless mortals.

Still, Lois managed to snarl, “I don’t want to do this, Natasha. No. Please!”

But it was no surprise when Korra flicked her free hand, the motion like a spoiled girl tossing a faded doll.

As Herc’s woman pivoted, clearly forced to follow the same plastic steps of one, Apollo’s temper ticked. This bitter little princess, focused on ruling her narrow world, had no idea she’d look out from her throne on a kingdom of nothing. Hollow souls who’d have nothing to offer past their vacant stares. Left with nothing to dream about anymore. With nobody to offer her new vistas, she’d soon become an equally vapid shell.

Humans. When would they realize that fighting solely for themselves meant ascending empty pinnacles? Yet trying to tell them otherwise was an exercise in exasperation. They were fascinating but frustrating. The ultimate lesson in why bother.

The conclusion received his resounding commitment—for all of the next ten seconds.

The time it took for a soft but distinct whine to penetrate his synapses.

He wheeled around, fully facing the back of the concourse. Yeah, away from the existential insanity that Natasha had unleashed. Away from the unearthly symphony his lyre string still played across the air. Even away from the silent but scared whimpers from the mortals trapped by it, led by Lois’s new entreaties to Hercules and him.