Blood of Zeus: (Blood of Zeus: Book One) Read online

  I stand, stretching out the stiffness in my muscles. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary. But I’ll give him a wellness check just in case.”

  I extend my hand and help her upright. But she doesn’t let go right away. Instead, she beams another stare that conveys much more than her love and concern. It holds a hint of determination that’s making me itchy to end our chat.

  “And the girl?”

  “She’s a student, Reg. I was just saying hi. Drop it, all right?” Please, please fucking drop it.

  “Do you like her?”

  I groan in frustration and strongly consider bolting for the door, but ultimately there’s no outrunning Reg or a conversation she’s determined to have.

  “Sure. As a student.” I sigh heavily. “Hell, I don’t know.” I thread a nervous hand through my hair, reminding myself to shut the hell up before I give Reg more ammo.

  “Is that why you’re up here?”

  “No, I’m—”

  I’m ready to feed her a line about wanting to escape the crowd, same as her, but I have a feeling she’s too suspicious to believe it. I give her hand a little squeeze and let it drop between us.

  “I’m…different, Reg,” I finally mutter. “You and I both know it.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with being different.”

  “If you’re me, there is.”

  “You’re dead wrong.” She rocks back on one foot, tossing me a harsher regard while folding her arms neatly across her chest. “And one day, someone’s going to prove you wrong in the very best way, whether you’re ready for it or not. Probably not this girl, but someone will someday. So my advice to you, Maximus Kane, would be to get ready for it.”

  I force a tight smile to mask the twist of fear snaking its way through my insides. Fear that she could be right. That despite all my efforts, someone might get too close. Fear that I might let them.

  Because, damn it, those fears have a face now. A beautiful, unforgettable one.

  And it belongs to Kara Valari.

  Chapter Five

  Kara

  A heavy morning fog lingers in the valley between the house and the big block letters posted into the mountain on the other side. I don’t have to see the sign to know it’s there—a constant reminder that Hollywood is home. Our family’s chosen headquarters away from the kingdom we’re doomed to serve for eternity.

  I pull a thick throw blanket around my shoulders, chasing away the chill of damp air on the deck overlooking the reservoir. Even in September, Southern California mornings are too cold for my liking.

  The door slides open behind me, a sure marker that my quiet morning is about to come to an end. The patio furniture beneath me shifts loudly when my housemate plops herself down, a tall coffee mug in her hand.

  “You’re up early,” I say, a little impressed that Kell hasn’t skipped a beat from last night’s event. Her hair is already flat-ironed, her makeup is meticulously contoured, and her outfit is crisp, brand-new, and skintight. It’s almost as if she and the paparazzi have an arrangement that she’ll give them what they want if they give her what she wants—tantalizing photo ops without the unflattering angles.

  She flicks her thumb over her phone screen and starts scrolling through her social media feed. “I have an eight o’clock class.”

  “You signed up for that on purpose?”

  She starts typing a comment. “Introductory Astronomy. At least I’ll get there early enough to beat traffic.”

  True enough. The journey from our house in the Hollywood Hills to campus isn’t always predictable. I drag my hefty copy of The Divine Comedy onto my lap. “All right. I’ll get ready now and ride in with you. We can stop by to see Gramps after my last class. Today’s his birthday.”

  She whips her stare up, concern suddenly sharpening her features. “Kara. Don’t call him that.”

  I bristle inside but try not to show it. Holding on to affection for our grandfather has always been a delicate matter. And I’m only delicate for his sake. Being the only unfortunate human in a family of black souls, he has enough working against him without me raising suspicions that he means more to me than he should.

  “We’ll go see Gio,” I correct, putting added emphasis on the name we’ve been forced to call him. I’m chafing on the inside. Why does it have to be this way? It’s as if he’s just a stranger taking up space in the guesthouse of our family’s estate. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out Mom is charging him rent.

  Kell glances back down at her phone, an unpleasant scowl ruining her picture-perfect look. “Mom won’t like it. You should go in a few days.”

  “I’m not going to walk in with a sheet cake and balloons. I just want to stop by and wish him a happy birthday. You know no one else will. And you can distract Mom. I’m sure she’s too focused on other things to even remember the day has any significance. It’s just another day all about her.”

  She rolls her eyes with a soft sigh. “Fine. Just leave me out of it, okay?”

  Her focus is glued to her phone for a couple more minutes. Kell and I might share a house and a fate, but we’re nothing alike. Just like human siblings, we’ve turned out differently. The problem is, I’m too different. Money and clothes and excess are supposed to satisfy me. No one understands why I regard it all as little more than convenience. I’d be happy with less, but a lifestyle supported by the ever-growing Valari fortune is the check I’m expected to cash in exchange for my obedience. Refusing it isn’t optional. There’s no other way.

  I clutch the book to my chest and stand, forcing myself not to break the morning calm by sharing these frustrations with my darkly enlightened little sister. Her illumination on the path straight to hell is the crazy, if sad, irony of the day.

  “Give me ten minutes,” I finally say. “Make it fifteen.”

  No sense in denying that I’ll be paying a little extra attention to prepping for class today. I’m a demon, not a zombie.

  Maximus hasn’t looked at me for the better part of an hour. Still, the professor holds every second of my attention. Especially now, as he reads the final stanzas of Canto III aloud, his voice as rich and intense as I’ve ever heard it. In fact, everything about him seems more intense this morning.

  One might suspect he didn’t get enough sleep, or coffee, or that he’s simply having a shitty day. But the way he tore his gaze from mine as I walked into the lecture hall makes me wonder what’s really happening behind his invisible walls.

  My conversation with Kell this morning—not to mention our impending visit to Gramps tonight—linger in my mind, but I can’t seem to focus on anything except the way Maximus furrows his brows as he reads, gesturing as he goes, like the words are a symphony his fingers need to conduct. Even from this distance, I can feel the passion vibrating from him, an almost imperceptible energy, a subtle but dangerous shift like the tectonic plates that rumble the ground beneath our feet at least a dozen times a day.

  “And all pass eagerly, for here, Divine Justice transforms and spurs them so their dread turns wish: they yearn for what they fear.”

  He continues, finishing the last lines with perfect cadence. Their meaning shoots a stinging arrow through the heart I know I have, even if its longings and purpose never seem to align the way they should.

  An air of finality and expectation fills the silence once Maximus claps his copy of the book shut. Students fidget, no doubt anticipating questions they may not be equipped to answer. He paces wordlessly along the front row, whether deep in thought or committed to building the anticipation, I’m not sure. Finally he pauses and clears his throat and begins to speak.

  “So Virgil and Dante are at the gates of hell. Charon is ready to ferry the souls of the damned across the river. Yet Virgil claims they all pass eagerly. Why is that?”

  I twist my fingers together until I’ve wrung the blood from them. The urge to speak and have his eyes on me goes to war with attracting everyone else’s attention. That and I’ve already decided that interactin
g with the professor, even from the back row, is more dangerous than his passion for the text. I’m far too intrigued by him.

  As if he can hear my unspoken thoughts, he finally meets my eyes in the crowd. I think he purposefully cast his stare out for mine, lingering long enough to make my blood rush. My nerve endings tingle. My senses careen.

  “Kara?”

  My name from his mouth shouldn’t affect me the way it does in the wake of his reading. Still, my heart slams against my ribs. Once, twice, before I find my voice in my suddenly arid throat.

  “Well…Virgil is explaining that hell isn’t a punishment. It’s what the souls of the damned truly long for. It’s a deliberate choice.” I swallow hard before continuing. “Which is why the damned don’t deserve Dante’s sympathy.”

  I’ve lingered on the passage since I read it days ago. Hearing it pass through Maximus’s lips—lips I’ve spent too much time thinking about lately—almost turns it into an accusation. Except there’s no way for him to know how the topic affects me. Snide remarks from my classmates aside, he could never understand my own turmoil about the choices I’m going to make. Choices I’m expected to make.

  He nods briefly. “Very well put.”

  I exhale a breath, enjoying a surge of satisfaction as he goes on to wrap up the lecture, noting the next set of reading assignments.

  “If anyone has any questions, or if you’d like to begin exploring themes for the first term paper that’s due in a few weeks, I will have office hours immediately after this class on Mondays and Wednesdays, as well as Tuesday afternoons. I’m on the fourth floor of the Archer Building.”

  He dismisses the class, and as much as I want to disappear as swiftly as I can, the traffic jam makes it impossible. I wait impatiently as every hot-blooded human takes their time filing out of the hall. As I finally rise to leave, Maximus’s voice carries through the hall.

  “Kara. Wait a minute. Please.”

  I turn, practically compelled to the action by the rough vibration of his last word. The door closes behind the last student leaving, but I hardly notice. I try not to blatantly gawk at Maximus, propped against the edge of his desk. His long legs are bent, straining the khaki fabric containing them. A few strands of hair fall loose around his face from the messy knot at his nape. So casual and imposing all at once, except his hands, which he uses to clutch the desk tightly like he might fall.

  I carry myself down the steps, slowly, enjoying the view. “What is it?” I ask almost breathlessly.

  “Why do you always sit in the back?” His voice is restrained, like there are a hundred questions resting beneath that one.

  I think a moment about which version of the truth I should give him. Or which lie.

  “People like to take pictures of me. You’ve already seen firsthand that having me in class can be a distraction. I stay in the back so it’s less disruptive. I can’t help who I am, but I’d rather it not get in the way of my education.”

  He taps the toe of his leather shoe twice. “You are a distraction.”

  I wince. “What exactly are you trying to say?”

  He shakes his head slightly. “I mean… I can see how it could be worse. It’s just a shame. I think you’re one of the only students really engaged in the class, and it’s hard to have intelligent discourse with you when people are more interested in…”

  “Selfies? Shouting insults?”

  “Yes. And I’ve seen the way people look at you.”

  We share a long stare. The moment drags until every air molecule in the room feels like a nuclear-charged atom. His eyes and their potent blue fires only fuel my impression. Instantly I realize he’s not just talking about the hecklers. The attention I attract isn’t always made of spite.

  “Like the way you look at me?”

  I don’t know why I say it, except maybe I need to know how to interpret these interactions between us. Do I affect him the way I secretly hope I do?

  “I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant,” he says quickly, the sound rough in his throat.

  “For a scholar, you’re having a hard time saying what you mean.”

  He folds his arms across his chest, like he’s protecting himself from my presence, even though he’s the one keeping me here.

  I widen my eyes when I notice the subtle indents in the metal where his hands once were. I take a step closer, too curious not to investigate the marred desk. Except he quickly settles his hands back into the grooves that perfectly fit his tense grip.

  I glance into his eyes, tortured and shadowed, full of answers he’s not giving me. The inexplicable anguish there draws me another step closer. I’m not sure what keeps pulling me forward until we’re nearly touching. Defiance? Pure recklessness? I reach out, holding my breath as my fingertips brush across the rough fabric of his vest.

  His breathing changes, but he doesn’t push me away. His knuckles whiten as the metal in his grip bends audibly. It’s enough to distract me from our thought-shattering physical connection. It’s enough to make me wonder if maybe he feels it too. If maybe he’s as different as I am.

  Chapter Six

  Maximus

  “Kara.”

  I’m not sure if the word is even audible. It feels more like a pulse of my instinct. A ripple through my bloodstream. As if primal parts of myself have been waiting for her arrival…

  Here. So close.

  Then even closer, as she turns the press of her fingertips into the push of her whole hand. The heat radiating from her is nearly tangible, like flames spreading across my chest and directly into the organ that throbs there. It seems to stretch for more of her beautiful fire. Her fierce, forbidden heat…

  “Kara.”

  She’s heard me now. That’s clear in her pause, but she doesn’t withdraw. Suddenly I’m relating more to Dante than I ever imagined. Do I cross the river—willingly—into the flames, or stay on my shore? Do I steer safe from the sins I’ll confront on the other side?

  “Maximus.”

  Her response is also nothing more than a whisper. It’s wrapped in her unique scent, the cinnamon and spice making me lick the inside of my lips. Then the outside.

  Holy shit. I’m in trouble.

  “Please…don’t…” she utters softly.

  A growl spills from me while I contort the top of my desk into modern art and tear divots into the floor with urgent plants of my feet.

  “You’re kidding, right? Because if I try any harder not to touch you—”

  “I meant…don’t push me away.”

  Air rushes from my nostrils.

  A gulp tremors down the column of her throat.

  “Maximus…” she rasps, ending it with a lilt that almost seems a question. One born in desperation.

  “What?” I murmur. “What is it?”

  “Tell me I’m not the only one who’s feeling this. Please…tell me.”

  I emulate her swallow as she splays her hand along the side of my throat.

  “I knew it,” she whispers.

  I’m stunned into another long silence. I validate the feeling by examining her face again. She’s really not afraid of me. Of the force I’ve exerted on the metal in my hands and the concrete beneath my feet. If anything, my loss of control has tripped some new switch for her senses. Her breaths are a frantic tattoo. Her stare rakes my face, her pupils nearly eclipsing their dark chocolate irises.

  She inhales with purpose, as if we’re on a plummeting plane and I’ve handed her the last working oxygen mask. “But why do you keep trying to hide it from me?”

  I’m falling. Losing altitude, swiftly and violently. Which way is up? And do I even care?

  No. I have to care.

  I manage to raise a hand. I form my fingers over hers and squeeze tight. “Because we can’t…”

  “What? At least acknowledge it?” She pushes at my jaw with shocking strength.

  At least I don’t have to hide that from her. At once, she answers my bafflement with a full, sweet smile. Like it’s
perfectly normal for her to be handling my face like she’s a pixie-sized bulldozer.

  I slam my eyes closed.

  “Am I wrong?” she persists. “Open your eyes, look straight at me, and tell me I’m wrong about that, and I’ll walk away right now. I’ll never mention this again. I’ll just keep to myself at the back of the class for the whole semester. We can have a blast talking about hell for a couple of hours each week, and—”

  She gasps as I tunnel a hand into her hair and pull at her scalp. Hard. And that’s it for all the color in her eyes. The awareness in her stare has blocked everything from my view except her ink-dark need.

  “You think hell is just for the pages of a book when you’re near me?” I ask.

  Her touch gentles. Her fingertips are in my beard, seeking contact with the skin beneath. “Hell is something I thought I knew—until you touched me the first time.”

  Now she’s done it. Obliterated any hope I had of issuing the denial she dictated. But I’m also just as certain of another truth—and the importance of saying it aloud. Speaking it will make it easier to abide by.

  I hope.

  “All right.” I untangle my hand from her silky ebony strands. “You’re not wrong. This is definitely something…”

  “Something?”

  “Different.”

  “Okay,” she states with quiet resignation. “Different…” But there’s a question in that repetition too. A demand she’s not about to let me ignore.

  “Yes.” I use a beat to ram my thoughts back together before finally gritting out, “And dangerous.”

  I disconnect from her touch completely and stride around the podium I rarely use, but I’m damn happy for its bulk in this moment. I start gathering up paperwork, realigning it all fifteen times just for something to keep in my hands. Something besides her succulent curves and soft skin.

  “Because you’re my professor?” She lets out a little huff. “I’m not exactly a freshman out of high school. Even when I was, life had taught me some tough lessons already. And I’m pretty sure we’re not the first teacher and student, even here at Alameda, who have—”