Blood of Hercules (Villains of Lore Book 1)
Blood of Hercules: Chapter 13

Alexis

Professor Pine gave us a thumbs-up, and the raven perched on his shoulder tilted its head to the side.

Don’t give me that look, bird. I know you’re a surveillance drone.

“Good luck with Discipline and Power,” Pine said as he gathered his Thagorean papers and backed out of the classroom with his robotic spy.

The door closed gently behind Pine, and I groaned under my breath with the rest of the class as we waited for Augustus to make his entrance.

Only eight of us sat in the chilly academy classroom, since Christos and Iason had both been murdered by Kharon.

I was jealous.

Mental note: Pray harder for my soul.

It was still only August, but to survive the crucible, we had to make it until January.

There is a negative chance I last that long.

Shivering from the damp mountain chill, I rubbed my eyes. Vision fading in and out from exhaustion, I kept myself awake by examining my classmates.

We’d done roll call when we’d arrived back at the academy a week ago, and I’d made a point of learning their names.

It was always good to know the people you’d die in front of.

In the front row of the class sat two boys: Dimitrios, mutt to the House of Apollo, and Maximum, mutt to the House of Hera.

Dimitrios was tan and lanky with a dark ponytail. In contrast, Maximum was short with brown eyes, blond hair, and blue highlights. (Also, apparently his parents hated him because they named him after a limit. Who did that?)

In the middle row, next to me, was Drex Chen, the only initiate who was Chthonic and a fellow abandoned mutt.

Cassius, heir to the House of Hermes, who had wings on his feet—which got creepier the more I thought about it—sat ramrod straight on Drex’s other side.

In contrast, I was hunched over so low that my nonexistent breasts basically touched the floor.

The good news was those four initiates in the front side of the room seemed to mind their own business. The bad news was the same could not be said for the three bullies who sat in the back.

Leo, Alessander, and Titus.

Leo, mutt to the House of Apollo, was the muscular boy with the shaved head who’d fallen asleep and laughed with Titus.

Alessander, mutt to the House of Poseidon, was a short, bulky guy with dark hair who’d also laughed.

Finally, Titus, mutt to the House of Dionysus, was the tall skinny boy with flame-red hair who’d taunted me during the circuit.

I could feel the weight of their angry glares behind me.

They weren’t the only toxic men in the room. General Cleandro was at the front desk, idly reading a book, which was probably titled, How to Effectively Torture People While Exerting the Least Effort Possible.

Case in point, a black box sat beside his feet, perfectly positioned so it was on full display.

The box was a constant reminder that Kharon was out there in his stupid boat, with his stupid pole, waiting to chase us to our stupid deaths.

The intimidation tactic was brutally effective.

Every time the general made a move, I stared nervously at the box.

Its dimensions were imprinted in my brain.

I counted days in my head, although it was hard to keep track of time in the windowless classroom.

Only one more week before a three-day break. Basically six days, because the mentors came at midday last time. So really, it’s less than a week. Easy. Not hard at all. You got this.

General Cleandro looked up from his book, and all eight of us froze and ducked our heads. He harrumphed, flipped his page, and went back to reading.

No one relaxed.

Hunger gnawed at my stomach, and my head spun with dizziness.

You don’t got this.

The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife because we’d been back for about a week, but we hadn’t run the circuit.

Not once.

Dozens of classes, yet neither of the professors had asked us a single question.

Somehow, the anticipation was worse.

Instead of being glad that I wasn’t running the circuit, I spent every second anticipating it. Trying to figure out what General Cleandro and the professors were thinking. What mind games they were playing.

I was jittery and on edge. My teeth chattered as stress sweat dripped down my face.

Candle smoke made the room hazy, and my eyes watered from irritation.

Turning to a fresh page in my notebook, I ignored the needle sensation prickling down my legs and the fact that my butt had gone numb days ago.

Shockingly, sitting on the floor hunched over a notebook was not an ergonomic position, and if Kharon didn’t murder me (he was definitely going to), late-onset scoliosis would.

“Are the classes over yet? It’s been like a million years,” Nyx asked sleepily as she coiled herself tighter around my neck.

“No,” I whispered under my breath.

“Kill me,” she whined. “I’m so bored.”

I rubbed at my aching head. “You’re the one with the venom. Kill us both.”

Nyx huffed. “Don’t tempt me.”

The pain in my lower spine spiked as I shifted. “I’m not joking,” I groaned.

There was a long pause, like Nyx was considering it.

“Nah,” she said finally, then there was a low hissing noise as she resumed snoring.

I rolled my eyes. “Wimp.”

She grunted in her sleep, and I was jealous. I would do unholy things for a sip of water and ten minutes of sleep—like, sell my organs on the black market type of things.

Who needs a gallbladder or a kidney? Not me. For the right price, I might even throw in some fingers and teeth.

I high-fived myself (clapped like a weirdo, and everyone stared at me).

It was official: I was losing it.

Nyx snored louder.

Bang.

“Are we being shot at?” I asked and Drex laughed next to me.

It was the door.

Professor Augustus swept into the room, his two-toned hair and silver crown shining in the dim candlelight as he dumped a pile of papers onto the desk. Poco was wrapped around his neck like a rabid fluffy scarf.

So cute. He’s a raccoon mother.

He nodded to the class with a small smile.

“Instead of starting with a meditation,” Augustus said as he turned and glared hatefully down at me (not cute).

His expression had a strange edge to it that hadn’t been there the last class. He was staring at me accusingly, like I’d recently done something unforgivable.

I squirmed with discomfort, neck prickling.

Soulless black eyes stared at me with laser focus.

He refused to look away.

Prayers for whatever cursed soul must marry him this year.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Augustus cleared his throat and turned to the rest of the class. “We’re going to start with a demonstration,” he said, gesturing at the door.

A man walked in.

The newcomer flashed an attractive smile.

It was Drex’s mentor, Theros, heir to the House of Zeus. A gold laurel wreath sat atop his head, and it matched the golden feathers of the vulture, which sat perched on his shoulder.

I waited to feel something as I stared at the person who could potentially be my blood relation. I felt nothing.

He wasn’t Charlie.

Weeks ago, the doctor had said that he was the only heir Zeus had had in centuries.

He was important.

Augustus gestured to Theros. “As an heir from the House of Zeus,” he said, “Theros’s Olympian power is one of the more useful ones—he’s going to demonstrate how he feels when he engages his abilities so you all can have a reference for why we’re meditating so much.”

From Augustus’s disgusted expression as he looked at us, he did not have faith in our rumination abilities.

His smoldering dark eyes locked on mine accusingly.

He can’t know I spent the last meditation imagining Carl Gauss whispering sweet nothings to me while he proved the existence of algebra . . . right?

He kept staring.

I struggled to swallow.

What if he’s reading my mind right now? What if he’s Chthonic and his power is mind control? What if he’s going to kill me for picturing Carl Gauss naked? What if he knows I’m imagining him in a dress because he’s a racoon mother⁠—

He arched his brow.

Can you . . . uh . . . hear me? I thought tentatively.

He didn’t look away.

I wanted to throw up; that was definitely a yes.

Squinting with concentration, I thought loudly, PLEASE DO NOT TAKE OVER MY MIND.

The parameters of reality were bleeding around me.

I continued my mental screaming, BLINK ONCE IF YOU CAN UNDER⁠—

He looked away, and I deflated with relief.

Thank God he didn’t blink. I’m in the clear.

Then the shame hit. I’d officially lost the plot. Just because we’d made eye contact didn’t mean Augustus could read my mind.

Nyx mumbled something in her sleep and tightened around my neck.

I blamed asphyxiation.

“The floor is yours.” Professor Augustus—who I was 90 percent sure couldn’t read minds (maybe, I still had some suspicions)—walked to the left corner of the room.

He disappeared in my blind spot, and I was grateful I couldn’t see him.

Theros stepped forward. “I’m going to bring you through my meditation process,” he said as he puffed up his chest. “I like to start by envisioning a golden ball of light hovering over my chest.”

He pressed a hand against his sternum and closed his eyes.

Sounds fake.

“I envision the light growing in size and expanding, until it surrounds my entire body.”

He paused.

“Then . . . the tingling starts in my brain.”

He spread his arms wide, palms up.

I learned something: grown men should never say the word tingling aloud.

It made it weird.

“The feeling is impossible to ignore,” Theros continued. “It’s an all-consuming relief . . . like when you finally scratch an itch that’s been bothering you for hours. I envision the glow solidifying, and the tingling sensation intensifies until I can feel power pounding through my skull.”

I’d never experienced anything remotely close to what he was describing.

I’m definitely powerless. There’s been a big mistake.

The air around Theros warped like it had thickened around him.

He opened his eyes and smirked cockily.

Augustus stepped forward and said, “Theros has now engaged his ability.”

Without warning, Augustus pulled his fist back and slammed it toward Theros’s face. His arm stopped in midair and a dull vibration echoed, like he’d punched something solid.

Theros spread his arms wide, unharmed by the fist hovering a foot in front of his face. His vulture flapped its wings. “No person or thing can touch me, not once I’ve engaged my shield.” He smirked like he was invincible.

Augustus dropped his arm and smiled back. “How long can you hold it?” he asked.

“My longest is two hours—but who knows.” Theros winked (at me? help) and flexed. “Every day, I push my limits farther.”

Augustus’s smile disappeared. He glared at Theros like he was dirt underneath his booth. Why the sudden change in demeanor?

I would have clapped for Theros, but I didn’t have the strength to lift my hands and put them together. Also . . . people didn’t deserve praise.

No one in the class reacted.

We all agreed.

If Theros had given this demonstration at the beginning of the week—before the hunger, thirst, exhaustion, and overall discomfort had set in—maybe we would have been more impressed.

A few initiates blinked rapidly and rocked like they were trying not to fall asleep (I was one of them).

Theros stopped flexing and looked chagrined.

“Please explain to the class the limitations of your ability,” Augustus ordered, his features harsh. Any traces of congeniality were gone.

Why did he just look at me when he said “ability”?

Theros’s face scrunched like he’d tasted something sour. Next to Augustus’s fearsome countenance, he looked like a child playing dress-up in a crown.

Augustus was either unimpressed with the presentation or annoyed that Poco had half his ponytail in his mouth.

Theros’s chest deflated under the scrutiny, and he said, “If someone is close enough to me before I engage my shield, I could trap both of us inside it together because when I’m stressed, it’s hard to release the shield.”

Note to self: Stand close to Theros when you try to kill him. I chuckled to myself at the thought, then frowned.

Apparently, I now found murder funny.

This was rock bottom.

Instead of addressing Theros, Augustus suddenly looked down at me and pointedly held eye contact.

Oh crap, he definitely heard that.

Augustus made a disturbed face, then looked away from me with a grimace.

Now who’s the top dog in the classroom, huh?

Was it my imagination, or did Augustus just smirk? I turned my attention to the floor and wished I’d never gained consciousness.

Time passed in a blur of misery.

Just another day in my life.

The professors switched places.

Professor Pine wrote complicated fractions on the board as he ranted about the ethics of utilitarian calculations. I didn’t take any notes because I couldn’t feel my hands. My mind got farther away from me.

Hunger sunk its claws deeper into my stomach.

Professor Augustus stood with his shoulders back in front of the room and read in Latin from a thick textbook with Poco flopped on his head.

The same book was open on my lap, and I couldn’t remember how it had gotten there.

“Sirens are extremely misunderstood, unique creatures,” Augustus said. “They have regenerative abilities, and when a group of sirens was given an intelligence test, they scored higher than Spartans, but because they are a class of creatures who can understand other languages but not speak them—they can only communicate in their own incomprehensible language—they have a relegated role in Spartan society.”

He frowned as he lectured, and I tried not to fall over.

“Because both male and female sirens are extremely amorous, with overly exaggerated secondary sex characteristics, they’re most known for providing sexual entertainment at symposia.”

As an asexual being that just wanted to rot in peace, the siren lifestyle was not relatable.

However, since the Spartans had technically kidnapped me from my home, forced me to fight to the death, and were now holding me captive inside a mountain, torturing me—I was 100 percent on their side.

Free the nipple, lips (vaginal), and sirens from sexual servitude.

Unfortunately, that was the last comprehensible thought I had for a while.

Professor Pine came in and taught another class, then Professor Augustus, then Pine, then . . . I lost track of how many times they switched.

“You will now be given a test in each of the subjects,” General Cleandro said out of nowhere (literally one second, I saw darkness, then poof, he was in front of me).

A thick packet was placed on my lap.

“Begin,” he ordered.

I stared down at the page blankly.

Someone clapped loudly, and I barely noticed.

“EVERYONE, WAKE UP.”

Icy water hit my face—I gasped and blinked back into awareness. Others groaned around me as General Cleandro threw water on all of us from the front of the room.

Hallelujah, it’s raining men (I was awake but not functional).

I greedily licked the moisture off my lips, desperate to quench my thirst.

“Your test starts now,” General Cleandro snapped. “Wake up and stop acting like pathetic humans—or would you rather run the circuit?”

Is this a trick question?

“TEST! NOW!” His voice boomeranged around the cave-like classroom.

Papers shuffled.

“SOLVE THE PROBLEMS!”

Sucking in air through my teeth, I squinted at the numbers until they stopped dancing around the page, blurry and barely comprehensible. Ever so slowly, I solved equations.

I found the properties shared between polynomials.

Formalized the sequences into patterns of repeating numerals.

Established their parallel correspondence.

Constructed an axiomatic system.

Doodled a small penis.

“TIME’S UP.”

I stared with horror at the detailed, graphic image I’d drawn in the corner of the page.

General Cleandro took the packet off my lap—that’s not good.

Then I fell over.

Ice-cold water was dumped on my head, and I sputtered awake.

“Here’s your next test.” General Cleandro handed me another packet. “Keep it together, initiate. Try not to—draw, this time.”

Dear God . . . it’s me again.

I nodded jerkily, unable to form the words to explain to him that I wasn’t a pervert and it wasn’t what it looked like.

Actually—it was exactly what it looked like.

I needed to trade my kidney for a Spartan firearm.

“BEGIN YOUR SECOND TEST NOW!” General Cleandro bellowed.

My left ear burned with excruciating feedback, and I went to cover it, but I couldn’t lift my arm above my lap. Nice.

Breathing deeply, trying not to pass out, I focused on the Latin words scrawled across the top of the page: “Write an essay in Latin on sirens and their intelligence and role in Spartan society.”

Easy.

I scribbled messily: “Sirens are smarter than Spartans and speak their own language; however, Sparta is a bigoted society, which prejudices them for having exaggerated secondary sex characteristics, aka, sirens have big breasts and big penises, which is likely rooted in male chauvinistic jealousy (from the Spartans, not the sexy sirens). Most things in life are . . . ”

“TIME’S UP.”

Wait . . . what did I just write?

General Cleandro tried to take my paper, and I held on to it for dear life. “No,” I grunted, desperate to hold on to my too honest words.

Sadly, he easily ripped it out of my hands.

He walked away, and blessedly, I fell over, head hitting against something soft that grunted. Immediately, I fell into the darkness.

“ALL RIGHT, THAT’S ENOUGH REST, I’VE GIVEN YOU AN ENTIRE HOUR . . . EVERYONE, WAKE UP.” Someone kicked me in the side. Hard. “EVERYONE, GET UP NOW.” Heavy boots stomped around, and initiates moaned.

A weight lifted off my thighs.

Something caught in my hair, like someone was lying on it, and the pain in my scalp forced my eyes open.

Coughing, I somehow pulled myself back into a seated position.

My stomach revolted, but nothing came out—I hadn’t eaten or drank in days—and I shivered from body aches.

I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t feel my face or my eyes.

Professor Augustus’s voice echoed far away, “Here is the order of how you scored on the test, from best to worst: First, Cassius Hermes. Second, Alexis Hert.” He paused to glare at me with disappointment (apparently he did not ascribe to the ideology that second was best), then continued, “Third, Alessander Poseidon. Fourth, Maximum Hera. Fifth, Leo Apollo. Sixth, Drex Chen. Seventh, Titus Dionysus. Eight, Dimitrios Apollo.”

“Dimitrios Apollo,” General Cleandro’s voice boomed. “WAKE THE FUCK UP RIGHT NOW!”

The lump on the ground in front of me stirred.

General Cleandro grabbed it and lifted it up. “You’re running the circuit with me, son, let’s go.” He shook the lump back and forth until it stood on two feet and followed him, albeit shakily (he was dragged out).

“Two weeks have passed,” Professor Augustus said, and someone sobbed with relief. It might have been me; I couldn’t tell.

“However, we have spoken with your mentors and have decided that you will not have a break this week. The crucible will continue for two more weeks.”

Someone cried out. This time, it was definitely me.