Page 190 of Blood of Hercules
Fluck the flucking world. Life’s a biatch like that.
Yes, I was in my emo era.
No, I didn’t want to talk about it—that was the point—however, as a commitment to the lifestyle, I was experimenting with swearing in my mind.
I was making some (no) progress.
Years of associating vulgar language with the foster parents was a hard habit to break. Still, I was trying to push past the mental block.
I don’t want to go back to that freakin’ sucky academy tomorrow, I practiced in my mind.
Outside my room, the male voices got louder, and someone bellowed with laughter.
Putting my pen down, I turned down the radio dial so I could eavesdrop.
On my days off, I usually avoided my mentors, especially sincehewas always hanging around.
“Achilles, did you see theFalcon Chroniclesfor last month? Helen gave it to me,” Patro said loudly in the kitchen. “Kharon, you made the front page. So, you finally chose a betrothal? Was it one or two Olympians? Who are they?”
A feminine voice oohed loudly, and I perked up with interest. They hadn’t had a woman over the entire time I’d been staying with them.
A raspy voice chuckled darkly. “Something like that,” Kharon said.
Speak of the devil.
My jaw dropped.
Satan has a lover? Maybe two? Those poor freakin’ Olympians. Praying for them.
More words were said, which I couldn’t hear, then it got quiet as the men went back to the other side of the house.
Stomach growling, I shoved the last bite (half the block) of cheese into my mouth and tiptoed to the door with my empty plate.
After checking to make sure the coast was clear, I hurried into the kitchen.
Piling my plate high with the food that was always spread across the counters, I turned to leave, but a yellow scroll on the table caught my attention. It was partially unrolled and covered with colors.
I sat down and hesitantly opened it.
“The Falcon Chronicles” was written in bold text at the top. “Sparta’s top news source.”
A colorful picture of Kharon, wearing a suit in a grand ballroom, took up most of the scroll.
His glacial blue eyes glowed menacingly on the page, lips pulled down in a frown. A silver crown gleamed with rubies atop his styled dark hair.
The devil really is gorgeous.
In thick black ink, it read, “Chthonic Bad Boy: Sparta’s Most Eligible Bachelor Was Seen Sending Betrothal Jewelry Last Month. Who is the lucky Olympian heir or heiress?”
Below it, a story detailed,
“Kharon’s blue eyes flashed with longing at the annual House of Dionysus ball. He refused to dance with any eligible Spartans and instead brooded about, head clearly full of thoughts of his love(s). Our sources can confirm he sent the customary three betrothal gifts, and one of them was the priceless blue diamonds from the House of Artemis. Ladies and gents, the courtship of the century has begun.
Who is the lucky citizen of Sparta? We have no doubt they opened the jewels, therefore accepting the betrothal. What lucky Olympian(s) is Sparta’s most eligible bachelor going to devote his life to? The marriage law has been a smashing success, motivating young Spartans to find true love.”
I snorted and popped a grape into my mouth.
His lovers are going to need alotmore than jewels. Most likely alobotomy, and a gun for safety. Who would voluntarily sleep next to that psycho at night?
