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I’d miscalculated the situation. I’d thought the God of War wouldn’t kill me before he got answers from me. I’d underestimated that psycho since I was no psychopath and didn’t think like one.
And I hadn’t expected him to be utterly unpredictable. He didn’t think or act like the demigods. The demigods, no matter how cruel and volatile, still had humanity in them, as they were half-human. They actually wanted to preserve the human race.
But to Ares, humans were nothing but ants.
A hot wave surged from me. Despite being drained, the last vestiges of my magic still endeavored to preserve me. A shield formed around me, stopping the glass walls from moving closer toward me. And then the glass walls stilled.
I pushed the shield further toward the transparent walls to crack them and free myself, but to no avail. We were at an impasse.
Actually, I’d lost.
I was in a cage, encased in a glass prison deep in a castle, away from my mates.
Ares materialized outside the cell, regarding me as if I were an exotic animal.
“I’m impressed,” he said mildly. “You’re the only one who’s stopped the automation. Everyone else I’ve placed in this glass cell failed.”
This castle was his torture and interrogation dungeon.
Chill sank into my bones, and rage burned in my eyes. How many had died a gruesome death at the hands of this psycho god?
He was now testing me like a lab rat. He wanted to see how powerful I was and what kind of powers I had so he could figure out my origin.
I wanted to conjure all of my fires and burn him down to the dirt. But I also knew that no matter how powerful I supposedly was, my powers were new and young, and they wouldn’t be strong enough to defeat the God of War.
I would only offer him a clue to my true nature before he finished me off.
So I quenched the fire from my eyes, and I stared at him blankly as my demigods’ enraged, agonized faces flashed by.
Pain and longing swelled in my chest.
I had every intention of returning to them.
To do so, I’d have to beat this psychopath. And I’d achieve that by not playing his sick games—or playing them much better than he did.
I had to be in perfect control of myself to prevent him from finding any trace of my magic or my weakness.
“What are you?” The god tilted his head and asked.
“You tell me,” I said with a bored voice. “You’re the god. I bet you already know all about me and what happened in the Academy.”
“Your past is nearly blank, and I wonder why,” he said, studying every tiny movement of my facial muscles. “I can feel the pulse of your power, as strong as mine, though it seems that you’ve just come to learn about your magic. With such power, you hid in plain sight for twenty years until my son discovered you. Even your former coven members didn’t know much about you or your magic. The shifter boy was tightlipped, but your witch friend loved to talk. The unbearable wench was more interested in talking about herself.”
My throat tightened. When had he gotten his claws into my old coven? Last time I’d dined with Jasper, Circe, and their pack, they hadn’t mentioned anything about this, but then it had been a brief dinner, as I’d had to escape the scene after both Héctor and Axel made out with me, publicly staking their claim in the Hall of the Bridgewater.
I couldn’t let Ares know that my friends were my weakness and that I’d allowed myself to be carted to the Academy because of them.
“Of course those dimwits didn’t know anything about me,” I snickered. “You don’t tell inferiors your business.”
Ares nodded in approval.
“The demigods can’t figure you out,” he said, “though they’re drawn to you like moths to a flame.”
He’d known of the attraction between the demigods and me, but how much did he know? Héctor had mentioned that Ares always kept tabs on them. And the god had spies everywhere.
“Right, you got it all figured out,” I deadpanned.
“Speaking of flames, Marigold, why don’t you show me the fire you used on Paxton?”
