Page 5 of The Trickster's Heart

“Name it.”

A slow, dangerous smile spread across the king’s face.

“Bring me Cerberus, the hound of hell, and present him to me in this very hall.”

Silence fell over the room.

A cold wave of fear washed over Hercules before quickly turning to rage. For a moment, he thought all of his efforts were going to be for naught.

It’s impossible…but I suppose that every task he has laid out for me was ‘impossible.’

Hercules kept his face impassive as he watched Eurystheus, who was clearly waiting for him to cry out in anguish or defeat.

Hercules wasn’t lying when he said he spoke to the gods more than the king. There was no better way to know your enemy than to break bread with them.

What was one thing Hercules had learned about the gods?

There’s always a way.

Hercules lifted his gaze towards Eurystheus, rolling his shoulders. He matched the calculating nature of the king’s smile.

“I accept.”

3

Hercules departed from Eurystheus’s palace without a word. He accepted the labor and swiftly exited the great hall, refusing to make a spectacle of himself. More than once, Eurystheus demanded that Hercules stay and mingle with the courtiers. It was a power play, one that reeked of behavior akin to the gods, which meant Hercules despised it. The only power plays he was interested in were ones of real power, which he was all too happy to demonstrate.

The command from Zeus, however, involved serving Eurystheus, not crushing his skull, so Hercules opted to leave instead. His first trip would be to Eumolpos, a priest and devotee of Hades. Hercules crossed all of Greece over the past decade, working for Eurystheus, and fortunately, he knew of Eumolpos and his knowledge of the Underworld. If anyone was going to be able to tell him how to get into Hades’s dominion without dying first, it would be him.

Hercules needed to bring proper tribute to Eumolpos in greeting. It was an additional ritual that had to be completed at dawn, when Nyx’s grip loosened, and the priest was finished with his nightly service.

When Hercules arrived in the small town where Eumolpos lived, dawn was nearly six hours away, which put Hercules at the adjacent inn. The small tavern was bustling with people hoping to get favors or have their wishes heard by the priest. It put Hercules in a bad mood.

His blood was boiling, and he was going to crawl out of his skin. It didn’t matter if he was sitting or standing, or how much he had to drink; Hercules couldn’t get comfortable. It was an intrinsic anxiety he felt at the start of any new labor. A fear that this task would be the one that defeated him, meaning all of his work would be for naught. His mother’s death would be in vain.

Eurystheus knows this is the most impossible feat to date. He wants to keep me in his service forever, no better than a war horse or a ceremonial weapon.

Hercules seethed.

I’ll do him one better. I’ll bring him Cerberus, and I’ll let the hound feast on his heart.

Hercules was drunk, and he was angry, his foot bouncing underneath the table while his face remained expressionless. This deep-seated feeling only went away with one of two options—fucking or fighting. As he looked around the tavern and its inhabitants, Hercules tried to decide what would be the better option.

The room was packed to the rafters with people in various stages of drunkenness, most of them weary travelers, likely headed to the temple as well. Hercules’s gaze carefully rolled over each inhabitant, sizing them up like he would any opponent—Hercules only knew how to fight, whether it was on the battlefield or in bed.

“You look like someone pissed in your wine, misthios.” A soft, amused voice cut through the dull roar of the tavern and practically purred in Hercules’s ear. Before he could stop himself, a shiver went down his neck at the stranger’s tone.

Hercules abruptly turned around and nearly growled in response at the stranger who’d gotten so close to him…and got an eyeful of the prettiest man he’d ever seen. It was a small miracle that Hercules was able to keep the grimace on his face; all of the blood pumping in his body started to go south.

“I’m not a mercenary.” Hercules snapped in response. The stranger held up his hands in mock surrender. He was wearing a tattered cloak and stained tunic, with messy blonde curls hanging over one eye. There was a playfulness, almost an innocence, about him that made Hercules want to wrap him up and take him away from such a rowdy inn.

Stop that right now. Hercules mentally ran a sword through the protective instinct before it could take hold.

“You can hardly blame me for assuming so.” The blonde looked Hercules up and down. His gaze suddenly switched, full of heat and cunning, and Hercules didn’t miss how the man’s eyes lingered.

“What do you want?” Hercules’s voice dropped, the noise of the tavern dying away as his focus zeroed in on the traveler.

“They call me Angelos.”

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