Page 5 of Leashed

Chapter Three

Bo scanned the shop bay for his ratchet and sockets, scooping up the last of his tools and tossing them into his bag before he sauntered into the dealership office. “Third lift’s up and running,” he called out to the manager. “I’ll be in Monday to start the others.”

The sour-faced man grunted in response and turned back to his computer, effectively dismissing him for the weekend. With an eye roll and a wave, he hefted his bag onto his shoulder and braced himself for the cold as he walked to his truck.

His dirty, labor-intensive automotive lift job had begun as a giant fuck you to his master and mistress, the grime embedded under his nails and grease staining his skin a passive-aggressive message of disobedience from their prized possession. While marked and owned in the underworld, Hades and Persephone had little say in his activities topside, providing he and his brothers remained on the hunt for the cursed Pirithous bloodline. So although his mistress would prefer he follow Ryan’s lead and take on a more distinguished method of paying his topside bills in modern currency, Bo had chosen a different route, using his hands and strength to pay his way.

The small rush of pride he felt whenever a happy customer passed his name on had been an unexpected benefit of a job few would take on. Building and repairing the large steel structures capable of lifting even the heaviest of trucks was another reiteration of the intense labor he’d done topside for centuries. He enjoyed the solitary nature of the work and the challenges it presented, the establishment of his own company allowing him the freedom to slip into the industry wherever their hunt for the elusive bloodline led them. Unlike Ryan, who craved the stability and precision of numbers, Bo preferred getting down and dirty, the physical exertion of manual labor focusing his mind and exhausting his body, helping to calm the restlessness nestled deep in his bones.

Persephone despised it, hated his dirty nails and stained palms rough with calluses.

But considering it was her husband’s hellfire temper that had sent him and his brothers topside to hunt a bloodline spread across the globe, he figured her opinion was irrelevant.

Lighting a cigarette, he backed up and eased onto the main drag, knowing it wouldn’t be wise to be late when one of the Fates was expecting you.

Unless it was C’s conniving harpy of a sister. As far as he was concerned, she could wait until hell froze over.

He pulled up to the apartment, frowning at Ryan’s empty parking space and doing a quick add of the hours his brother had put in already that week.

Sixty-five was too fucking much. Especially for a job he wouldn’t need once they tracked down the last Pirithous and dragged it to hell.

Ryan was an overachiever by nature, so it was no surprise he was as diligent in his accounting work as he was as a guard dog along the Styx. But even Ryan was beginning to show signs of the strain the three of them were feeling as they moved between the underworld and topside life. They’d believed their last kill was the final one, the last remnants of the elusive Pirithous line cursed by Hades for their ancestor’s involvement in the kidnapping of his wife. They’d tracked the exclusively male line down one by one over the centuries, dragging the them to the feet of Hades where he would banish them for eternity among the shades of the underworld.

The discovery they’d missed one had been a blow Ryan took hard.

The early centuries of the hunt had been physically taxing, but they’d enjoyed a freedom of anonymity no longer possible in a world of computer technology. Smart phones, internet, identification, and global communication moved research for the final Pirithous male out of the libraries and towns and onto laptops. Leads could be followed virtually before their boots hit the ground.

But with technology came recognition. Photos. Videos. More ways to be caught, more methods to prove their existence. Stories of a three-headed dog roaming the countryside could no longer be brushed off as tales when cameras were pointed and images were uploaded into the world wide web within minutes.

Flicking on every light in the dark apartment as he walked, he stripped his filthy overalls off and kicked them into the corner of the bathroom, turning the shower to maximum heat before stepping in. The water blackened at his feet, lightening as the oil and grease from the auto hoists was scrubbed from his skin. Grabbing a towel, he squeezed the excess water from his hair and wrapped the damp towel around his hips as he walked to his room to get dressed.

The strength behind Dionysus’s influence was still coursing through him, the need to pay homage to the god surging forth with a vengeance once the caffeine in his system had worn off five nights prior. It had made his week hell, his effort to balance his work warring with his urge to seek out anything to satisfy the cravings in his blood.

A few beers after work each night had eased the pressure enough for him to function, but it wasn’t good enough for long. Dionysus was powerful, and his hold over his believers was a noose tightening and squeezing out any resolutions to walk away, to free themselves from his influence. And as a deity in his own right, Bo was a believer Dio couldn’t afford to lose.

He took a moment to scan his wardrobe, settling for his favorite faded jeans and a shirt with just enough blasphemy across the chest to earn a glare or two. With a quick brush through his hair and a spray of cologne, he tossed his wet towel over his door, grabbed his keys, and jogged back down the stairs to his truck.

Making record time, he pulled into the first available parking spot on the busy street, giving the battered car parked in front of him a quick once-over as he walked past it and subconsciously noted the diminished tread of the tires.

Knowing Clotho despised the cold, he followed his instinct, walking into the lounge he’d met C at the night before. Scanning the crowd, he spotted the raven-haired waitress moving between the tables and disappearing into the kitchen, passing Clotho perched on a stool at the end of the bar. He acknowledged her with a nod, wedging himself between the register and a tall guy wearing a green button-down and a sneer.

“Sage,” the man hollered. “Let’s go. We’re late.”

“The fuck kind of name is Sage?” he muttered to himself, handing a twenty to the bartender as he called out his drink order.

The far-too-sweet waitress he recognized from earlier in the week appeared moments later, coat in hand and purse swung over her shoulder. “Sorry, hon.” She smiled at the guy, balancing herself on a bar stool as she slipped on her boots on.

Accepting his drink from the bartender, Bo stepped back, blocking anyone else from pushing through and knocking the raven-haired woman off balance until she straightened and caught his eye. For a brief second, he felt the beast retreat, the same peace he’d felt in her presence last time he’d seen her radiating through his blood—until her boyfriend barked her name again and she blinked, breaking the stare down. Tipping his drink in her direction, he watched as the pair walked out, the guy storming out purposefully while she scampered to keep up.

He took a sip of his whiskey and joined Clotho at the bar. “Have you finally decided to take me up on my offer to escape underworld politics for a few nights and let loose among the peons?” He grinned.

Her unblinking silver eyes remained on the exit doors. “Yes. Yes I have, Boreus.” Turning her attention to him, she tightened her thick woolen shawl over her shoulders. “Tell me everything.”

*

Sage sat upstraighter in her chair and read over her concluding paragraph again, pursing her lips while she contemplated the final sentence against the countdown of the clock. With a resigned sigh, she saved her essay and opened her browser to upload the assignment before the 5 p.m. due date.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was done.

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