Page 123 of Ungodly Rich

Now Hades wanted to gauge the status of the other Olympians.

Voices emanated from the living room to his left. He glanced over and saw that it was full of gods: at least a dozen of them, lounging on the antique furniture as they talked, eating Hera and Zeus’s food, drinking their wine. They saw him and erupted into more furious gossip, but Hades didn’t care.

They were all here doing the same thing: pretending to beconcerned for Hephaestus’s welfare, trying to figure out where the chips would fall.

If the unthinkable happened and Hephaestus didn’t survive, there would be a power vacuum. A chance for some other god to rise up and take a position among the Olympian Twelve. All these minor deities—gods of mountain ranges or seas, of childbirth or nightmares or any of the other countless forces that plagued humans—thought this could be their chance. They had all come to advocate for their own cause.

“You crushed those!”

“Persephone,” Hades said coolly, trying to hide his surprise. He’d never paid much attention to Demeter’s daughter, the goddess of spring. She looked a few years younger than Hades, like a woman in her late twenties. Her long blond hair was twisted at the back of her neck, and she wore a billowy dress in dark green that emphasized her eyes.

She reached for the flower arrangement in his arms, and Hades was startled enough to hand it over. He watched as Persephone delicately examined the flowers. Her fingers brushed over a bruised hydrangea, the broken stem of a rose.

Her eyes glowed from green to a bright golden color, and Hades felt the pulse of her magic, sunshine-bright and scented like freshly mown grass. Within seconds, the damaged flowers repaired themselves, their blossoms unfurling once more.

“Much better,” Persephone declared, handing the arrangement back to Hades.

He felt a bizarre urge to apologize. “I’ll admit, I’m not in the habit of carrying flowers.”

“It shows,” Persephone remarked. “Next time, spring for a courier. I bet you can afford it,” she added, raising an eyebrow at his cashmere sweater.

Hades couldn’t remember the last time another god had talked to him like this, as if he were one of them. They normally ducked away the moment he entered a room.

“Thank you,” he replied, still disoriented—but she had already turned on one heel and started back toward the living room, that green dress fluttering around her like a verdant flag.

“Hades?”

“Hmm?” Recovering, he turned to see Hestia, who held her hand expectantly toward the flowers. “How thoughtful of you to bring these. I’ll make sure Zeus and Hera know you stopped by.”

She was trying to get rid of him, but Hades wasn’t to be shooed off so easily. “Is Hera here? I would love to give her my regards in person.”

“Oh, no, it’s Zeus’s day to watch Hephaestus.”

“Zeus’s day?” Hades repeated.

Hestia faltered, seeming to sense that she’d revealed too much. Then she sighed and admitted, “They haven’t been in the same room together since they came back. After what happened…”

Of course. Hera had overlooked lifetimes’ worth of infidelities, but Zeus had finally done the one thing she couldn’t forgive. He had wounded their child.

“Is Zeus here, then?” Hades pressed.

Hestia gave in and gestured up the sweeping curved staircase.

Hades walked up to the penthouse’s second level. The room that Hephaestus now occupied was at the end of the hall. Normally a guest room, it was now filled with the scents of candles and ointments, and underneath, the unmistakable, acrid odor of burned flesh.

Hephaestus lay in the middle of a king-size bed. His chest rose and fell with his breath, but those breaths were so shallow, the rest of his body frighteningly still. His left leg was lifted in a sling that was fastened to a machine alongside the bed. Something about the angle of the leg looked all wrong, as if it had been broken off at the hip and snapped back incorrectly. A table on the side of the room was littered with Asclepius’s tools—enchanted stones, papyrus bindings inscribed with ancient spells, poultices ground from the seeds of the fruits in Hera’s garden.

If Hephaestus could be saved, it would not be by any human medicine, but by magic alone.

Zeus sat in an armchair near the bed, the other armchair conspicuously absent. The king of the gods looked more disheveled than Hades had ever seen him. He had several days’ growth of beard on his face, and dark shadows circled his eyes. He seemed truly distraughtabout what he’d done to Hephaestus…or maybe he was just lost without the silent support of his wife, a support he’d always taken for granted.

What would happen to Zeus if Hera never took him back? What would happen toallof the gods? Zeus’s marriage to Hera was one of the first magical rites that had ever taken place. Who knew how many spells would be unwoven if it truly fell apart.

“Hades.” Zeus stood. If he was surprised to see his brother here, he masked it, as always. “I’m glad you came; there’s something I’ve wanted to discuss with you. Follow me.”

“With pleasure,” Hades murmured.

He followed Zeus down the hall, up a hardwood staircase to the Ellenes’ private roof deck. A plunge pool occupied half of the square footage, along with lounge chairs and a wet bar; a terraced garden took up the remaining space.