AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“You’re the ones who keep saying that the underworld is a real place that you’ve visited—without any harm coming to you before—and the gods who rule it are nice enough to organize a meet-and-greet between Grace and my mom. But suddenly the idea of going there to bargain for your soul is impossible?” I shook my head, shoving my hair back from my face when it fell over my eyes. “Fuck that. I don’t accept that.”
Bullet gave me a shaky laugh, still staring at me like I’d lost my marbles. “You and Grace are kind of similar, you know? Both of you are hiding a strong stubborn streak underneath that friendly façade.”
“Friendly,” I scoffed. “Grace, for sure.”
“Friendly for a daimon,” Bullet amended with a grin. His eyebrows jumped as one of the Spartoi handed Wild his weapons, chattering away in Ancient Greek as he showed Wild how to slide his forearm through the straps of the enormous bronze shield.
“Badass,” I laughed. “Do you think they’d let me play with the swords too?”
“It probably wouldn’t be the worst idea,” Bullet said quietly, immediately cutting my laughter short. “I’m a lover, not a fighter, but it makes sense for us to be prepared, ideally with our own weapons. Things that don’t require reliance on anyone else.”
“Have you seen a lot of fighting in our future?”
Bullet grimaced. “It’s always been very unclear after you arrived. I’ve seen hazy visions further into the future, ones without me in them. We’re flying even more blind than we have been recently now though.”
Ah.
Suddenly all of Grace’s apologies made a lot more sense. Was I some harbinger of Bullet’s doom? Was that his selfish reason for keeping me away? I couldn’t say I blamed him for that, I’d have kept me away too.
Doesn’t matter, you’ve made a deal. Even if something does happen to Bullet, you’re going to bring him back.
The gods owe us that much.
“Come on,” Bullet said, standing shakily. “Let’s join in. Crash shields, cross swords, if you will.”
I snorted, pushing up from the bench. “Don’t joke about that, I don’t need a jealous Wild on my hands for flirting with his boyfriend. He’s probably annoyed enough he has to share his girlfriend.”
It had been a stab in the dark, but it landed. Bullet went as red as a tomato, stammering a few times before settling on an answer. “I wouldn’t call him myboyfriend…”
“You’re going to have to catch me up on all this,” I laughed, heading down the steps. “Seems like you’ve all been even busier than I thought.”
Chapter 7
“Doyouhaveanymore questions?” I asked Evanthia, waiting for Xenia to translate.
Evanthia shook her head, giving me an unsteady smile. Honestly, the entire conversation hadn’t gone how I’d thought it would. She’d been so immediately attracted to Ovie that I’d assumed they’d seal their bond right away, but apparently, once the shock of finding her first soul bond—a daimon no less—had worn off, she’d gotten cold feet.
The language barrier between them hadn’t helped—she couldn’t get to know him and get reassurance in the way that Riot and I had—but she was also just scared. Scared of what tying her soul to a daimon’s would mean, scared of making a decision she could never take back, of losing her family permanently even though she’d already run away from them to be here.
“She says you have given her much to think about,” Xenia translated, her concern written all over her face, her own agathos bonded hovering nearby.
“Okay, well, feel free to come back to me if you have any more questions.”
Maybe I was naïve—almost certainly, in fact—but I hadn’t expected that level of hesitation. I guessed when it came to bonding daimons, I was the odd one.
“Grace,” Vasileios called from further down the long table, his two lovers draped on him from either side as he watched something on his phone. “You will want to see this.”
“That doesn’t bode well,” I sighed. Before I could move, Foster appeared, setting up his phone on the table for me with a grim look on his face. There was a newscast already playing, and all of my soul bonds gathered at my back, drawn to my distress.
“I sat down earlier with Faith Bellamy, the mother of Grace Bellamy. Here is what she had to say,” the human journalist said in a somber tone, drawing our attention back to the screen.
“Fuck,” Riot muttered.
“Yup,” I agreed faintly. “That about covers it.”
The set changed, showing the interviewer and my mother sitting opposite each other against a plain, dark background. Mother was dressed in a black tweed skirt suit—a color that was an absolute no-go for agathos outside of mourning, and I had no doubt that was what she was doing. Very publicly mourning her not-dead daughter. Her hair was blown out perfectly, makeup glowing and perfect.
I could feel everyone’s eyes on me, waiting to see how I’d respond, probably expecting me to burst into tears. Usually, I’d expectmyselfto burst into tears—I was a crier, and this was a high-emotion situation.
