Danae didn’t get angry. She didn’t yell. She just stared at me for a long moment, almost as if she could no longer recognize me. It was worse than any rage she could have thrown at me.
Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, she closed her data slate. The soft click echoed in the stillness. She gathered her coat, her movements stiff and economical. “You’re right,” she said, her voice completely devoid of emotion. “I don’t understand.”
She slid out of the booth and was gone. The screen clicked shut behind her, louder than it should have been.
The silence she left behind was different. The rage that had fueled me evaporated in an instant, leaving a nauseating void inits place. I stared at the spot where she had been sitting, the half-full teacup a testament to a conversation I had just murdered.
A few minutes later, the screen slid open again. It was Mama Li. She didn’t say anything about Danae leaving. She just placed a small, steaming plate of pan-fried dumplings—my favorite—on the table, next to a small bowl of dipping sauce. Her face was as motherly as ever, but her eyes held a profound, quiet sadness.
“You eat,” she said softly. “Friendship is strong. It will mend.”
She slid the screen closed, leaving me with the aroma of toasted sesame oil and her simple, devastating warmth. The gesture was meant to be a comfort, but it was the final blow. It was a kindness I didn’t deserve, a faith I had just betrayed.
For the first time in weeks, the monster I was so desperate to find in the shadows felt terrifyingly close. I stared at the perfect, golden-brown dumplings, my stomach churning. I knew I wouldn’t be able to take a single bite.
7
The Ritual of the Storm
Alexander
There was a place in Venezuela where the sky never healed.
Our House scholars called it the Catatumbo Relic. A wound in the fabric of reality that bled silent, ceaseless lightning. More than a storm, it was a scar. It was the only place on Earth where House Zeus could ever truly feel at home.
Not among the trappings of our luxurious towers. Not even on the tallest mountain peaks. But here, in a Venezuelan lake.
When I’d decided to make this trip, I’d known what would be waiting for me. Still, the journey had been a bit of a surprise. We’d gone from the sterile luxury of a private jet to a rust-eaten fishing boat. The ancient vessel struggled as it cut through the black water of Lake Maracaibo. The engine sputtered and coughed, a dying animal’s protest against the unnatural atmosphere. Somehow, I found the decrepit boat more comforting than any of House Zeus’s opulent transports.
The air tasted of ozone and rot. The water itself seemed wrong—too warm, too thick, like it had absorbed too many centuries of divine fury. Silent lightning fractured the clouds in branching patterns. Each discharge painting the world in stark shades of white and deepest black. No thunder ever followed.
Nikos sat opposite me, staring at the water. I could read the tension in his shoulders, in the way his jaw worked. On some level, I hated myself for even bringing him on this trip. But I hadn’t dared to tell him to stay behind. It would have been an insult, and my brother deserved better.
“You don’t have to come ashore.”
His gaze snapped to mine, sharp and offended. “Don’t.”
“I’m serious, Nikos. Whatever happens—”
“I said don’t.” He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “You think I’d let you face him alone? After everything?” A muscle ticked in his cheek. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily, Alexander.”
I wanted to argue. I wanted to spare him what was coming. But the fierce look on his face told me I’d already lost this battle. So I just nodded, and we rode the rest of the way in silence.
The man we’d come to meet was waiting for us on a rickety dock. He was Argos Stormwright. My father.
Time had left no marks on him since we’d last met. He was lean and tanned, his body carved down to pure muscle and sinew. The silver at his temples made him look predatory, like a wolf that had survived too many winters through cunning and cruelty. He wore loose linen pants and nothing else, his chest bare and marked with chaotic lightning scars.
When he saw us, he took a slow drag from a cheroot. The ember flared, painting his face in shades of orange and black. Storm-gray eyes—the same as mine—tracked our approach with lazy amusement.
“Alexander.” Smoke curled from his lips. Then his attention slid to Nikos, and his mouth curved in a mocking smile. “You brought the bastard with you.”
The familiar, hot surge of lightning wanted to rise in my blood. I held it in check. Lashing out was what he expected. A game I had played and lost a thousand times as a boy. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction now.
“Technically, I’m a bastard, too, Father. You never mated my mother. Whoever she was.”
Argos snorted, a short bark of genuine amusement. “Your mother was House Aphrodite stock. They do not mate. Theyare.” He shook his head, studying me in something akin to pity. “Maybe you get it from her. The sentimentality. Your fatal flaw.”
“My fatal flaw.”