by Raye Wagner
The elevator pinged again. The doors slid open, and Xan waved her off.
“How does Priska know you?” Hope stood in the middle of the hall, her surprise rooting her to the floor so that even a Mack truck couldn’t move her.
Xan passed her and went right up to her door.
“You owe me an explanation,” she yelled at him.
He tapped on the door just above the handle. “Waiting for you, sweetheart.”
“I’m not your sweetheart,” she snapped.
With two steps, Xan was nose to nose with her. “You are my responsibility right now, and besides keeping you safe, I don’t owe you anything. Unless you’ve changed your mind about coming to the conservatory”—he stepped back and gave her a once-over—“sweetheart.”
She needed him, so she swallowed the retort and stepped around him. Her hands trembled, and she fumbled to get the key into the lock. Her palms were wet with perspiration. This was the right choice, the only way. She was going to take it. With a deep breath, she opened the door and went straight to her bedroom.
Part of her mind screamed to hit the arrogant demigod, the feeling pulsing through her chest and into her fists. But another part, the rational part, insisted she needed him to get to the conservatory. She would get in, get what she needed, and get out. She didn’t need to like him or even trust him. She only needed him to get in.
She pulled large, heavy canvas duffle bags from the closet and packed her clothes, taking extra care to wrap the statue of Hecate in the middle. Within minutes, she came out of the bedroom with a bag in each hand and dropped them on the floor.
She was about to tell Xan she was ready, but the words died in her mouth.
He stood by the couch, his back to her, and his head bent over his hands. Something held his attention, and fear gripped her.
“Hey.”
“Yeah.” He turned to her with the red volume of her history in his hand.
Fear shifted to fury. “What in the name of Hades? What are you doing?” She strode to him, snatched the tome from his hands, and held it up. “This isn’t yours!”
“What?” His hands came up in surrender. “It’s not like there’s anything to read there.” His eyes narrowed. “Is there?”
She said nothing but held the book close. “I’m ready. We can go.”
“What about the rest of this stuff?” He waved at the furnishings.
Hope was glad she wouldn’t be around to deal with it. Not that it would matter. “I’m sure Priska will figure something out.”
“Great.” He grabbed one of the two green duffle bags, hefting it as though it didn’t weigh anything at all. “Here”—he extended his other hand—“give me the other one. It’ll balance out.”
After handing him the other bag, Hope surveyed the apartment. She grabbed her backpack, shoved the leather book inside, and then slung it over her shoulder. “Let’s go.”
“Get the door.” His head bobbed at the front of the apartment.
She moved in front and opened the door for him, sweeping her arm into the hall. “Anything else?”
He raised his brows and squared off with her. “Did you want to make me a sandwich?”
If looks could kill, she’d be glaring daggers. What a jerk.
They went back to the elevators, and Xan shifted both bags into one hand. “You pack pretty light.”
Unsure if he was being facetious, she responded evasively, “I knew you’d be coming.”
He raised his eyebrows. “You knew I’d be coming?”
“No. Not you, just . . .” What was she saying? “Priska said the best way to be safe was at the conservatory, and eventually demigods would show up.” She tried to stick as much to the truth as possible. “I didn’t know it would be you, obviously.” She rolled her eyes, but her heart pounded.
“We could have nabbed you sooner, but with Priska . . . well, we had to delay.” He flattened his lips into a straight line.
She’d said as much. “Do you hate her?”
Xan became absorbed with something on the floor, and his expression went blank. “I don’t really know her, actually.” When he looked back up, his face was devoid of emotion. “Only of her. She’s done an excellent job at keeping you safe.”
“She said there are a lot of Skia here.” Hope wondered what was truth and what was lie. Priska had said she would help Hope, but had she?
“Aye. We’ve had to fight several off from the area.”
“You and Dahlia?”
“Aye.”
The elevator dinged and slid open. The smell of body odor clung to the small space. Hope stepped in, and pushed for the ground level, but Xan reached over her and pushed for the lower level.
“Let’s take your car. No reason to walk, right?”
Hope blushed. “Right.” Gods, could she be any more stupid? She fished through her backpack and grabbed her keys.
The grinding of gears was interrupted with a click as they passed each floor. When the doors slid open, Hope held out her keys. “Do you want to drive?”
He angled his body toward her and furrowed his brow. “You don’t want to?”
“No. You know where we’re going.” She dropped the keys into his outstretched hand. “I don’t.”
He smirked. “True.” He took the keys. When they entered the underground concrete garage, he pushed the fob, and a beep and flashing lights identified her car. “A Civic?” He glowered. “You drive a Civic? Don’t you have enough to buy a nice car?”
Hope glared. “I have plenty. I don’t see a need to flaunt it, and certainly not on something that’s only good for getting you from one place to another.”
“Spoken like a woman that’s never been in a nice vehicle.” His face brightened. “I’ll take you driving. Maybe we can change your mind. We can count it as a lesson of sorts.”
Xan popped the trunk, tossed in the bags, and closed it in one fluid gesture. Before she could get there, he’d opened her door for her. She took a step back with surprise.
“What? You think because my dad is a god, I don’t know how to be a gentleman?” He punctuated the question with a flourishing bow.
She climbed in and pulled the door shut.
He rounded the car and crouched low, pushing the buttons to adjust the seat before getting in. Everything about him was a contradiction. Rude and polite, friendly and nasty.
“Your dad is a god?” She laid on the sarcasm with a glare.
He put the key in the ignition, but instead of starting the car, he stared her down. “I can do this all day, so let me give you a little advice. Don’t kick off something you can’t finish. And there’s no way you can best me, sweetheart.”
“Don’t be condescending. It’s rude.”
“Yeah, I know.” He started the car, eased out of the garage, and then began maneuvering through the maze of one-way streets in Seattle.
Hope was silent in her contemplation. The demigod next to her was brash, but there was no pretense. Everything about his appearance seemed hard, but then his dimple, which was incongruous with his other features, would flash and make him seem almost friendly.
“You’re quiet. What are you thinking about?”
Blushing, she pulled her gaze from the busy city streets. “Nothing.”
“When people tell you they aren’t thinking about anything, it’s usually because they’re too embarrassed to share.” He glanced at her. “If you don’t want to share, say so.”
“I don’t want to share.” She shoved her hands under her legs, effectively sitting on them so she didn’t physically strike out. She stared at the hem of her plain t-shirt, contemplating ways to ‘accidently’ hit him.
“Fine.”
She bristled and ran her hand through her loose hair. Anxiety clawed through her, and the simple desire to control something had her pulling her hair up into a bun. The activity soothed the frayed edges of her nerves, and she could think again. She needed to not let him get under her skin. “Why do you do that?”
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“Do what?”
“You have to know. You’re all nice one minute, and then you say something snide or rude.”
“It makes you want to hit me?” The corners of his mouth twitched.
“Yes! I mean, uh, kinda. Sometimes.” It was like a game of cat and mouse, and the role of mouse was wholly unfamiliar to her. “You’re really confusing.”
“Hmm. Really?” He shifted his hands on the wheel, fiddled with the radio, and finally pushed it off.
Hope watched his parade of energy.
“Honestly,” he finally broke the silence, “I don’t really think about it. I say what I think. Sometimes people like it, sometimes not.” He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture and then made a left turn. “Whatever. Why should I care what you or anyone else thinks of me?”
“Don’t you want people to like you?” She did.
“Nah. I like me.” He put on the blinker as they inched their way to a three-way stop. “Most of the time, anyway. And I have a few friends who like me regardless of how I am.” He pulled onto a curvy side street lined with trees, and the city traffic seemed to disappear. “I don’t need people to like me.”
Hope mulled over his words as she stared out the window. Then her mind went blank. She knew this area. The weeping willows and tall maples. The small azaleas and butterfly bushes. As they drove through Madison Park, she remembered, her mother had taken her to the Arboretum for a picnic a couple of years ago when they lived in Kent. Right here. Emotion choked her.
She swallowed the lump in her throat.
“Are you okay?” Xan brushed her arm with his calloused hand.
“Yes,” she choked out. She wiped away the tears with the sleeve of her sweater. “I came here with my mom once.”
Xan said nothing.
A few minutes later, they pulled into a circular drive and parked in front of a large Tudor home with stucco finish. The lot was large, and the hedges of trees made it disappear into itself. The grounds were immaculate. Beds of roses, lilac, lavender, and azaleas framed the house and lawn.
The conservatory. This was it.
Xan came around and opened her door. Then, not waiting for her to get out, he went around to the trunk and pulled out her bags.
Hope sat rigid in her seat. Only demigods were welcome. They would kill her if they found out what she was. What if she couldn’t do this?
“Hope, you coming?” Xan stood at the door, her bags in one hand and his other hand on the door handle.
She would do this. She would figure it out. This was the only way.
“Yeah, I’m coming.” She got out of the car, slung her backpack over her shoulder, and followed Xan inside.
THEY STEPPED INTO A LARGE FOYER. A cut-glass chandelier hung from the ceiling, and in the middle of the open space sat a circular table, just under the chandelier. A beautiful flower arrangement of lilies, roses, and daisies perfumed the air. Scattered keys, books, and wallets sat discarded on the table.
Xan threw Hope’s keys into the group and faced her. “You may as well put your phone there. It won’t work here until we get you a chip.”
Hope frowned but held fast to the phone. “A chip?”
“A little device that attaches inside the phone. Hephaestus’s son makes them. Something about the immortal plane coexisting on the mortal one and crossing signals. I don’t really understand it, but I can tell you regular cell phones don’t get reception in a conservatory. You can leave it there until Thenia installs a chip.”
She wondered if Mr. Stanley was the son of Hephaestus he was referring to. If that was the case, she didn’t think there would be a chip coming anytime soon. “I’ll keep it all the same.”
Xan shrugged. “Suit yourself. When we get the chip, you can have Thenia put it in. You ready to go to your room?”
Was he serious? “I have a room? Wait! Am I in trouble?”
Xan laughed. “Nah, you’re not in trouble, and it’s a guest room. But I thought you’d want a mite of time to get settled before we have a bit of supper.”
As if on cue, Hope’s stomach growled. “Maybe we can drop my stuff off and get something to eat?”
“Absolutely.” Xan picked up her bags and walked past a sitting room.
Hope peeked in and looked at the leather chairs with longing. She could sleep in those chairs. They passed a gourmet chef’s kitchen on the right, which appeared spotless and empty, and headed toward a set of hardwood stairs.
Halfway down the upstairs hall, Xan opened a door and dropped her bags onto plush white carpet. The room was severely decorated like a piece of modern art. The lines were clean and crisp, the room sparsely furnished. A queen-sized bed sat squarely in the middle of the room, the linens bright white, a stark contrast to the black frame and decorative pillows. A single black upholstered chair with a white pillow sat by the window. There was a black desk with a matching chair in the corner, and a black dresser. The walls were painted white with black crown molding. The one piece of art was a geometric print in black, red, and white.
It was disgusting.
“Seriously?” She refused to hide her loathing.
“I know, I know. It’s awful,” he said, indicating the space. “But the other guest rooms are spoken for over the next few weeks. I’d rather not have to move you when Praxis and his brothers come, and Dion said he’s coming. So yeah, this is it.” He let out a sigh. “If you’re still around in a month, you can make it over.”
She hoped not, but . . . “Why would a demigod leave?”
Xan’s voice dropped, and he focused on a spot Hope couldn’t see as he spoke, “Some think they’re invincible; others have dreams they want to pursue.” He paused a moment and then faced her. “We’ll see what you’re made of and what you’re best at. If you stay.”
“Whatever.” Hope tilted her head at the room. “Maybe it will look better after I eat.” She turned her back on the sterile environment and headed toward the stairs.
Xan closed the door and followed her. “Don’t count on it.”
“Why would you say that?”
He passed her to lead the way down the hall, his gait relaxed and loose despite how well built he was. He reminded her of a panther, and she wondered if he knew Tae Kwon Do.
“You don’t seem the deco type. More soft and mushy under that cold, prickly exterior. Warm colors, lots of pillows, overstuffed furniture.”
She stopped. He could tell all that about her? “Did you pick that up while you were observing me?”
“I’m right?” He came back and held out his fist.
She examined his hand as if it might tell her what she was supposed to do. It was nothing like a high five.
“Fist bump.” He raised his eyebrows. “All right then.” He dropped his hand and continued walking. “It was only a guess, Hope. Don’t freak out.”
They walked into a very modern kitchen. The room was half the size of her home in Goldendale. An eight-burner range, complete with double ovens, sat below a large hood. There was a built-in microwave, warming drawer, and small wine refrigerator. Another larger fridge took up most of one wall, almost as wide as she was tall. And side-by-side pantries. There must have been a lot of food in there, and she wondered how many demigods lived in the conservatory.
Xan walked around the kitchen as if he owned it. He pulled a large frying pan out from under the range and set it on top of one of the burners. From the fridge he gathered eggs, cheese, tomatoes, red and green bell peppers, mushrooms, and a ham. He handed her a knife, cutting board, and the peppers.
“Chop them, if you would.” Xan carved a chunk of ham and quickly diced it. “How did you meet Priska?” he asked as he continued chopping vegetables.
“She helped me after my mom . . . left.” She sliced the green pepper into thin strips, concentrating as she pushed away the pain of her loss. After a deep breath she continued, “Then again after Athan . . .” She froze. Should she have mentioned him? She began cutting the pepper again, and the silence balloo
ned. She stole a glance at Xan.
His eyes were dilated, and he pointed the knife at her. “Athan? Athan Michael?”
Hope nodded. He knew Athan?
He snorted. “Did he kiss you?”
She felt like she’d been sucker punched. “How is that any of your business?”
“Yeah. What a wanker.” He chopped at the red pepper, his hand heavy with the knife, making a thud, thud, thud. He blew out a long, slow breath. “Sorry.” He grimaced. “Sometimes, Athan’s a bit, uh, underhanded.”
Hope bristled. Even if that were true . . . “Why would you say that?”
Xan muttered something under his breath before he answered. “Don’t believe anything he did, or said, was sincere. He had a motive.” He pointed at her again with the knife. “I promise.”
Xan pushed the knob down and lit the stove. He added oil to the hot pan and tossed the peppers into the large skillet. The hearty smell made Hope’s mouth water. She mulled over his words as she thought of the first time Athan had kissed her. He’d looked tortured. He couldn’t have been faking that. But he had gone through her things and read the book of her history.
“How long have you known Athan?” she asked.
Xan eyed her, his head down as he stirred in the mushrooms. “A while.”
“What does that mean?” As the mushrooms absorbed the oil, she debated reaching into the pan to grab a taste. One look at Xan made her decide against it.
“It means I’ve known him for a while. Certainly a lot longer than you.”
Why was he glaring? She rolled her eyes. “As in a few years? A decade?”
Xan wet his lips and shifted to grab the eggs.
Hope leaned against the counter, watching him as he cracked and mixed the eggs. When she couldn’t take his silence anymore, she broke. “Why are you being obtuse? It’s a simple question. Can’t you answer it?”
Xan chuckled. “Obtuse?” He set the eggs aside and stirred in the tomatoes. When he glanced up at her, his face had lost some of the frustration. “No one likes to admit their age unless it is their first time.”
Her brow wrinkled in confusion. “First time for what?”
“First time being that age. You’re seventeen, right?”