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The crowd presses closer, and I angle myself away from the front of it, shifting close to where Dionysus stands. He’s a white man about my age with short dark hair and a truly impressive mustache that he’s grown out just enough to curve it up at either side of his mouth. It should look ridiculous, but it’s Dionysus. He makes ridiculous an artistic statement, from his peppy attitude to his brightly colored suit. He grins at me. “Ready for this?”
My stomach is twisted into half a million knots, but I smile back. “Of course. There’s bound to be drama, and you know how I love that.” I will be the drama shortly.
A light over Perseus brightens as the camera crew takes up positions across from him. This event will be broadcast to the greater city, which means the impressions champions make, starting now, are vital. Ares doesn’t technically need civilian support to do their job, but being popular with the citizens helps smooth the way.
My brother straightens to his feet. He doesn’t have the commanding presence our father did, but he does have the ability to make it seem like he’s looking right into a person’s soul. He uses that now, his icy gaze shifting over the people gathered before landing on me. Something flares there, something I don’t recognize, but he moves on before I can identify it.
“You all know why we’re here.” He doesn’t raise his voice, but he doesn’t have to. My siblings and I were trained to speak in public from a very young age. To be perfect symbols of our perfect family line. “We’re here to honor the passing of Ares. He served the title for nearly sixty years, and he’s gone far too soon.” Nice words. Meaningless words. The last Ares was, quite frankly, a dick.
Perseus turns to the other part of the room. “Tonight, we begin the process of finding our next Ares. Tradition states that three trials will be issued, the first of which you’ll know in two days’ time. The winner of the three challenges will become the next Ares.” A weighted pause. Again, that strange look passes over his face.
It’s the only warning I get.
Perseus looks at me, something akin to sympathy in his blue eyes as he seals my fate. “And marry my sister Helen.”
2
Achilles
“Told you so,” Patroclus murmurs.
I don’t have to look at him to know what he’s thinking. I always know what he’s thinking. Namely, too damn much. At least the fawning groupies that descended the moment we walked through the door earlier have dispersed now that the show is underway. It’s a relief; I can turn the charm on when it suits me, but this shit is exhausting.
The last Ares never worried about playing to the public. He was a right old bastard, and he didn’t care if everyone knew it. I don’t know if he started out that way when he took the title, but by the end, everyone hated him. Even his own people.
It’s not how Athena operates, and I learned everything of value I know from her. Better to use honey than vinegar, better to get someone to do what you want with a little manipulation than by bashing them over the head with whatever weapon is closest at hand. Ares could have used a few of her lessons, but he was the type of guy who put himself on a path and didn’t deviate.
Things are going to change when I’m in charge.
Zeus is still talking, spinning a whole lot of bullshit about tradition. Olympus is up to its tits in tradition. It’s their excuse for everything, a line of reasoning that conveniently takes the responsibility from the people actually doing the actions.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “You don’t need to say it, though. I was already hearing the I-told-you-so loud and clear.” Patroclus had been sure the title would come with a wife. It’s been a long time since this title passed over, so I had my doubts, but one of Patroclus’s many skills is gathering all the available information and running scenarios until he finds the most likely one. It makes him irritating as fuck to be around sometimes, but he’s brilliant.
I glance around the room. No one seems particularly surprised by the announcement, so either they did their research like Patroclus or they have excellent poker faces.
He moves closer, pressing his shoulder to mine. He’s frowning, that big brain of his working overtime. “I didn’t expect it to be Helen, though. I didn’t expect Aphrodite to choose her.”
“Yeah.” Even though I know better, my gaze tracks to the white woman standing in an empty circle, as if the people around her inched away to avoid being associated with what happens next. I can only see her profile, but it’s enough.
To call Helen beautiful is the understatement of the century. She’s flawless, the kind of perfect that only comes around once a generation. Her whole family is full of attractive bastards, but she’s on another level entirely. She’s also a reckless party girl whose exploits are constantly splashed across the gossip sites. She doesn’t follow the same rules as the rest of us. She’s never gone hungry or had to fight for anything.
