Blood of Hercules (Villains of Lore Book 1)
Blood of Hercules: Chapter 3

Alexis: Year 2099

Neon green flickered on the ceiling as the power grid struggled to keep the school’s lights on.

It was six in the morning but homeroom—the period in the morning where teachers took attendance before classes started—buzzed with noises.

Who cares if Sarah cheated on Bethany with Eric and that they did butt stuff?

People confused me, but teenagers were downright perplexing.

Sometimes (every day), nineteen years on earth felt sufficient.

I’d seen enough.

Sighing heavily, I tried to focus on solving the equation I’d been working on for months.

Everything was riding on me scoring top .001 percent on the Spartan merit test this June. Every nineteen-year-old on earth took the Spartan test to determine if they could attend one of the three Spartan-run higher-education universities that were left in the world.

If I managed to get in, I still needed evidence of academic accomplishments beyond grades. My work on the Riemann Hypothesis would be my proof.

Charlie was depending on me.

I would not let him down.

Jessica sniffed where she sat next to me on the left. “Does anyone else smell that?” she asked loudly, then tittered with a group of girls.

Thank God I’m partially blind and can’t see her expression. A small mercy.

She sniffed louder.

Wishing I could dissolve into tiny pieces and disappear, I sank lower in my seat.

I’d scrubbed in the school bathroom sink this morning.

I cleaned obsessively, but it was never enough because the scent of homelessness lingered on my few articles of clothes no matter how often I rinsed them.

It proclaimed to everyone that Charlie and I lived in cardboard boxes at the back of the poorest trailer park in our town.

Jessica plugged her nose, and her friends pretended to gag.

I hummed a classical tune.

Phantom pains shot up my forearms, underneath the dozen old hair ties that covered my scarred wrists.

I ignored the dirt that crusted beneath my nails, too deep to ever remove.

Ignored the heaviness in my eyelids because I struggled to sleep, worried that every sound in the forest was a Titan coming to hurt Charlie.

Ignored the gaping emptiness in my stomach, since tutoring for other people’s food vouchers barely kept us fed and the federation classified illegal child labor as work by anyone who had yet to take the Spartan merit test.

They said it was uncivilized to make kids work.

Hot take, you know what’s uncivilized? Forcing homeless children to starve because they have no ability to provide for themselves.

“I swear, she never showers. It’s disgusting,” Jessica said loudly so the entire room could hear.

There was a fresh round of laughter.

My sternum burned with shame.

It was times like this where I wished I was one of those confident, loud girls. The ones who spoke their minds and didn’t let anyone push them around. The strong, fierce femme fatales depicted in old videos and books.

“The smell is awful.” Jessica gagged loudly.

I said nothing.

I sank lower in my seat and rubbed my clammy palms against my patched pants. Interacting with other humans was not my strength. Words always got stuck in my throat.

Jessica’s desk squeaked as she purposefully shifted farther away from me, like I was diseased.

The pressure in my chest increased by a factor of ten.

Just leave me alone.

Hell, at this point I’d tutored half the school population and was the reason anyone in this godforsaken place could do algebra.

Yes, the bar was set abysmally low. The fall of civilization would do that.

Jessica’s desk squeaked louder as she shifted farther.

No matter what I did, I was just the dirty homeless girl who stuttered and smelled.

Humans sucked.

“Ohmygod . . . everyone!” Taylor screeched with excitement as she ran into the room. “There’s a new Spartan Lifestyle Page upload about the Crimson Duo—they have footage of them fighting Titans!”

The Crimson Duo—Patro of the House of Artemis and Achilles of the House of Ares—were the most famous members of the Assembly of Death.

The part-human mutts were everyone’s current favorite Spartan obsession.

The only thing humans got more excited for was the recorded Spartan Gladiator Competition, SGC, which was held every three years. As it was, the school was already hanging banners, getting ready for next year when the games would be held.

Yay, Chthonic Spartans and dark creatures fighting one another and Titans for weeks on end in the Dolomites Coliseum! Yippee, torture and death. Go sports.

I didn’t get it.

Now the class erupted with elated chatter, and my left ear rang with sharp feedback. Chairs squeaked, and desks clattered as the class ran to the back of the room.

My peers (enemies) crowded around the bulky pre-Spartan computers like vultures around a carcass, trying to catch a glimpse at the website, which was devoted to all things Spartan.

The website was the sole reason there was a huge underground market for refurbished early-twenty-first-century computers.

It featured videos, pictures, fanfiction, and quizzes all about the Spartans from the big twelve Spartan Houses.

The website also had some deeper and more thought-provoking content on the Spartans—sketches of their naked penises submitted by humans after firsthand accounts.

Not that I’d looked.

Okay, I’d looked once, but I’d screamed and powered down the public library computer.

Fine, I’d restarted it just so I could look again.

Maybe, I’d had a lengthy debate with the librarian over whether penises looked like misshapen snails (she was team sea cucumbers).

Sure, I’d then spent five days in a row checking the page because I couldn’t believe men really had such things between their legs.

Yes, this had all happened last week. No, I didn’t want to talk about it; I was still mourning my innocence.

“Everyone, shut up, I’m trying to sleep,” Nyx moaned loudly, purely for dramatic effect, since we both knew I was the only one who could hear her.

Hidden beneath my holey oversize sweatshirt, she coiled her invisible snake body tighter around my stomach. I gasped at the sudden asphyxiation.

“Stop it,” I whispered down to her. “I’m trying to concentrate on this equation.”

Was I the only person in the world these days who respected math?

“If that girl squeals one more time,” Nyx said, “I’m going to kill her. I don’t care what you say, kid. It’s happening.”

I shook my head. “Her name is Taylor.”

“Fine,” Nyx hissed. “I’m going to kill Taylor slowly and painfully—is that better?”

Nyx snapped at the air. Her solution to everything was to bite someone to death. She’d never acted on the impulse, mostly because I physically restrained her from doing so.

Although, I had my suspicions that Mr. Jones the hall monitor hadn’t just “dropped dead randomly” in the cafeteria three years ago after he’d made fun of my stutter, but Nyx swore innocence and I’d never been able to prove anything.

“Mr. Brewer?” Timothy, the school quarterback (Tim-Tom in my head), asked with a chagrined expression. “Can we play the video on the projector so everyone can see the Chthonics annihilate the Titans?”

“Do whatever you want, you’re seniors,” said Mr. Brewer, who was eating his breakfast sausage loudly.

“Can I bite a student now?” Nyx asked.

Discreetly, as all teenagers are known to do, I banged my invisible homicidal snake best friend against the desk to stop her from crushing me to death because I wouldn’t let her murder my classmates.

Things were not well.

Mr. Brewer turned off the lights, and students whispered with excitement as the projector turned on—the Spartan Lifestyle Page was magnified across the screen.

“I can’t believe this is going to be the Crimson Duo,” Tim-Tom whispered to his friend. “It’s the first sighting since January.”

Four entire months—it’s a miracle we’ve all survived.

Warmth slid against the front of my neck. “I want to see,” Nyx said as her invisible head peeked out the neck of my hoodie.

I glanced around, nervous that someone had noticed a strange snake-sized bulge in my clothes.

No one was looking at me.

The class stared forward with dilated pupils. The neon-green light of the projector reflected off their glassy, wide-eyed expressions.

Crack.

We jumped in our seats.

On the screen, a Titan flew through the air and slammed against a tree, hideous black veins covering every inch of its exposed skin.

Long black claws protruded from gnarled fingers.

Shouts echoed.

The video had been taken by a Spartan chaser, one of the humans who stalked Spartans across the globe trying to get footage of the Assembly of Death while they fought and captured Titans.

There was a reason the Crimson Duo were famous.

The other Chthonics—the leaders and heirs and heiresses—were rumored to live by an archaic set of rules centered around maintaining honor. They were part of a secretive high society that spent their vast money and resources on being reclusive from humans.

But the Crimson Duo, who were raised by Spartans since birth, were not governed by the harsh honor rules of high society.

They were global celebrities.

The camera angle shifted. A muscular Spartan grabbed the Titan and threw him hundreds of feet across the forest like he weighed nothing. Then the Spartan stalked toward the Titan with his back to the camera.

The Titan moaned in pain and begged, “Please, no,” as he clawed at the man’s arm with sharp talons.

An obscenely built black wolf walked into the frame and knelt protectively beside the Spartan. The beast growled ferociously. It turned its head toward the camera—crimson eyes and vicious fangs hung below its jaw.

Goosebumps erupted across my arms and legs.

In a blur, the Spartan pulled out a knife and thrust while the wolf lunged. The Titan screamed in agony.

I looked away.

From the noises of awe in the class, I was the only one repulsed.

If Olympians were the heroes whose technologies and advancements saved our civilization, then Chthonics were the new dark gods, revered for their heinous power.

God save us all.

On the screen, black blood sprayed.

The Spartan repositioned to straddle the monster, and for the first time in the clip, his side profile was visible—a black muzzle with a grate pattern was wrapped around the lower half of his tan face.

“Holy crap, it’s him,” a student said. “It’s Achilles.”

Everyone knew about Achilles.

He was the only Spartan who wore a muzzle.

The Spartan Federation had constrained him after his terrifying performance in the SGC three years ago because his voice powers did one thing: torture. He’d put dozens of creatures into comas with merely a few words.

He was a monster among monsters.

Which made sense—the House of Ares was nicknamed the House of War for a reason.

Every Spartan to ever come out of that House was psychotic.

Their powers were pure evil, even compared to the other Chthonic Houses.

They tore people to shreds.

For fun.

“He’s so hot,” Jessica whispered.

“I know,” the entire class replied as one.

Since the Spartans were also known for having sex with anyone and everyone—they had no biases about genders and usually dated (were slutty) with multiple people at once—it was a fad for humans to emulate their sexually free lifestyle.

I couldn’t have cared less.

Carl Gauss, aka aggressive celibacy, was the only one for me.

Tim-Tom made an inspirational comment about spreading his legs wide and taking it like a champ, and I focused on the less disturbing Titan who screamed as he was tortured.

They were onto something when they started murdering humans.

Statistics flashed in neon letters on the right side of the screen.

• Name: Achilles.

• Nicknames: The Son of War. The Killer. The Beast of the Crimson Duo.

• Lineage: Father—Ares, leader of the House of Ares. Mother—human.

• Spartan House Affiliation: Chthonic.

• Height: 6 feet, 7 inches.

• Weight: 290 pounds.

• Birthday: March 23, 2077.

• Power: Voice torture ability, details unknown.

• Animal Protector: Wolf.

• Power Ranking: 95 out of 100.

• Occupations: Assembly of Death member. Founded WSDL weapons manufacturing with Patro, Augustus, and Kharon.

• Net worth: $3 billion.

Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop.

Achilles unloaded a magazine of bullets into the screaming Titan.

Distinct vermilion eyes were merciless—his eyes were naturally a shocking shade of red, even when he wasn’t using his powers—and his long brown hair was tied up in a manbun. He was definitely the reason why half the male students in the class wore their hair in buns.

“Are you seeing this? Do you see him?” a male whispered.

“I know. He’s . . . unreal.”

“Savage and sexy.”

The class laughed.

I debated if I should strangle myself now or later.

Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop.

The Titan kept screaming, because immortality meant it couldn’t be killed, but it could still be tortured.

The gun clicked.

The beast of the Crimson Duo calmly pulled out another magazine and resumed shooting like he was bored.

Holsters stretched across his bulging muscles, and almost every inch of his powerful body was covered in weapons.

Gold WSDL lettering flashed on the barrel of Achilles’s gun.

The W and S famously stood for War and Sex, an ode to the nicknames humans had given the Crimson Duo, but no one knew what words the D and L stood for, only that they represented Kharon and Augustus, the secretive Chthonic heirs who were rumored to be even more terrifying than the Crimson Duo.

Since Achilles was currently torturing a man on the screen, I found that hard to believe.

There was a blur as a second Spartan suddenly came into frame. The Spartan grabbed Achilles’s shoulder and pulled him away from the Titan.

A Nemean jaguar slunk forward and sat next to the wolf. They were the same size (the height of miniature ponies but without the cuteness).

“Ohmygod, it’s him!”

“No way.”

“Move so I can see!” Someone shouted as they shoved another student out of their chair.

The second Spartan came fully into view—it was Sex from WSDL. The son of the most beautiful woman to ever walk the earth.

The only person with the key to Achilles’s muzzle.

Patro.

He fell to his knees and wrapped his hand around the Titan’s throat, and his statistics flashed.

• Name: Patroclus.

• Nicknames: Patro. The Son of Sex. The Leader of the Crimson Duo. The Ideal Man. Achilles’s Handler.

• Lineage: Mother—Aphrodite, leader of the House of Aphrodite. Father—human.

• Spartan House Affiliation: Chthonic.

• Height: 6 feet, 4 inches.

• Weight: 240 pounds.

• Birthday: August 23, 2078.

• Power: Mental, details unknown.

• Power Ranking: Insufficient data.

• Animal Protector: Nemean Jaguar.

• Occupations: Assembly of Death member. Founded WSDL weapons manufacturing with Achilles, Augustus, and Kharon.

• Net worth: $3.5 billion.

The Titan kicked its legs and pleaded.

Patro touched his pointer finger to the Titan’s forehead—green eyes glowing bloodred as he activated his Chthonic powers—and the Titan said something.

Patro clenched his jaw with anger, then he turned his head toward the camera.

Short wavy black hair, full crimson lips, long dark eyelashes, black skin, hollowed cheeks, and deep dimples created a stunning picture.

Students gasped aloud.

“The rumors are true. He really does look like the statue of David,” someone said, and the class made noises of agreement.

Desks shifted as they leaned closer.

Even through the grainy lens, Patro’s full profile was something otherworldly. He was simply too attractive to be real.

Father John had definitely been picturing Patro when he said, “The devil has a pretty face, and humanity is going to hell for worshipping it.”

Patro raised his finger and pointed directly at the camera.

“Holy shit,” Tim-Tom whispered behind me.

Heavy black boots stomped into view and revealed bulging thighs covered in weapons, sharp red eyes, and a muzzle.

A fist reared back, and Achilles shattered the lens with a punch—the screen went black.

There was dead silence as everyone processed what they’d just seen.

Lightning flashed outside, illuminating a barbed-wire fence, and thunder cracked in the darkness.

Rain poured harder.

“Ohmygod, did you guys fucking see that? Holy crap, I can’t breathe right now. That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life. I can’t even⁠—”

RINGGGG.

Homeroom was over.

Students buzzed with excitement as they packed their bags and filtered out, but they made a point of leaving a large space around me, like I was Pestilence himself.

The sky lit up a sinister shade of green that matched the flickering lights in the classes and halls.

“Well, kid, that was more entertaining than usual,” Nyx said from my neck, and I discreetly shoved her back under my sweatshirt.

I grabbed my bag and headed for the library. “It was horrifying,” I whispered.

A student gave me a weird look.

“If by horrifying you mean brilliant, then sure,” Nyx said and mumbled something upsetting about a woman having needs.

I tuned her out.

Faces blurred as I moved through the flickering-green-lit crowded halls, my thoughts racing.

Technically, I’d finished high school three years ago, but only nineteen-year-olds could take the Spartan merit test and graduate.

I spent my days in the library, studying for the merit test and self-teaching myself advanced classes from old college textbooks.

Titan screams still rang in my ears as I walked faster among the crush of bodies.

Men in all black stood along the walls with their hands resting on top of gun handles, “WSDL” engraved in gold on their holsters.

The Minotaur of the House of Ares and the skeleton hellhounds of the House of Hades flashed on their ID badges.

What was left of the US government made state workers wear the symbols of the Spartan Federation, especially the Chthonic Houses. At the end of the day, it really meant nothing, but it made people feel safer.

One mercenary made eye contact with me.

He looked away first.

Men always did. They liked to pretend otherwise, but my different-colored eyes freaked them out.

The mercenaries were bait.

Titans were lone hunters—but since they were powerful immortals who were barely slowed down by advanced Spartan weapons, the lack of numbers didn’t matter.

A single Titan could destroy an entire city if it wanted to.

When they’d first emerged in 2050, governments had tried dropping nuclear bombs on them.

It had been a disaster.

There was an infamous image of a lone Titan emerging from the blast, disfigured but still moving, eyes locked on the injured humans caught in the blast zone.

The mercenaries in the hall were five seconds of decoys at best, but apparently armed men glaring at students made everyone feel safer.

The hall was a blur of strangers.

A hand grabbed my shoulder, and I lunged back and slammed into a locker.

“Whoa, calm down, it’s just me.” A boy moved into my personal space.

He loomed above like a dark cloud. “It’s me, Josh—don’t you remember?” His smile faltered. “You tutored me last month for my math test. Which I got a sixty-five on by the way!”

I stared at him blankly. Does he want me to speak?

People didn’t talk to me outside of my tutoring service; they talked at me.

They commented on the holes in my clothes and asked if I really lived with feral dogs in the woods.

They joked that I had fleas.

Josh tipped his head back and burst into laughter (nothing was funny). “I’m so excited. It’s my highest grade ever.” He patted my shoulder.

The locker rattled behind me as I flinched away.

Since I was tall for a girl, most of the guys in our school were near my eye level, but Josh was built large.

“I know we agreed to leave your payment in your locker,” Josh said with a strange expression. “But I wanted to talk to you in person.”

He handed over three food vouchers.

I took them quickly and folded them carefully in my pocket, then pushed away from the lockers as I hurried past him toward the library.

“Wait up!” Josh—who I now vividly remembered because he thought six times seven was sixty-seven and didn’t believe that zero was a number (someone needed to put him down)—ran up beside me on my left.

I couldn’t see him.

My chest tightened with panic.

“Stop worrying, he smells weak. You have nothing to fear,” Nyx said with a hiss. “But . . . I will bite him to death for you because I’m generous and helpful. You’re welcome.”

“You’re not biting anyone,” I whispered.

“What was that?” Josh’s voice was muffled and distorted, so it took me a second to decipher what he’d asked.

I didn’t answer.

The metal detectors of the library came into view, and I hurried my pace.

Josh stepped in front of me, and he reached for my face.

I swallowed a scream.

I froze.

Waited for the blow.

He wrapped his finger gently around one of the gold curls that had escaped my hoodie. “You know—you’re not how they say you are. Your eyes are actually really pretty,” he said softly.

Thanks, and you’re actually really stupid.

Internally, I scoffed.

Externally, I was silent and frozen with fear.

“Wait, kid,” Nyx said. “Isn’t this the guy who couldn’t multiply?”

Her voice pulled me out of shock, and I took a lunging step toward the library.

Josh moved with me. “So what do you say, are you interested in . . .” He wiggled his eyebrows up and down, then paused like he was waiting for me to say something.

Wait. He wants the two of us . . . to do it.

I shook my head in horror.

I’d rather die.

Gruesomely.

Right now.

Here in this very hall.

In an alternate universe, I was brave enough to tell him all that to his face.

Josh’s congenial smile flatlined at my expression.

In this universe, I silently shoved past him and ran into my sanctuary, chest heaving.

This is why I don’t interact with people.

“No running in the library!” Dorean the librarian yelled as soon as I crossed the threshold. “This isn’t an unprotected zone, Alexis, have some decorum. We aren’t Titans.”

Dorean glared up at me, wrinkly features pursed with annoyance. A Spartan gun gleamed on the hip she’d gotten replaced last year at a fancy Spartan research institute. Rumor was she’d donated a kidney to get off the waiting list.

Smart woman.

I basked in her impressive presence.

Dorean was the type of woman I aspired to be.

Strong. Bold. Intimidating. Able to verbalize her intrusive thoughts.

It was dead silent in the library because only a handful of students were granted access after the incident—Dorean had caught Jake Dalmer getting a hand job under a desk, and she’d shot him in the penis. Point blank. No hesitation.

Thus my hero.

“The principal wants to see you.” Dorean (community legend) handed me a hall permission slip and startled me out of my daydream.

“Thank you f-for your service to the school,” I said instinctually.

Dorean rested her hand on her gun and raised her eyebrows. The message was clear: Get out of the library or I’ll have to take action.

Understandable.

She was the only person besides Charlie that I liked.

I lingered at the library doors until the hall cleared, then I hurried through the school. Eyes wide, head turning to make sure I was alone. If Josh appeared again, I’d start sprinting.

When I entered the principal’s office, Charlie was sitting next to a boy who was covered in blood.

Wind rattled the bars on the window as the storm raged outside.

The principal’s face was ruddy.

“Even though he’s eighteen, as Charlie’s guardian, it’s your job to punish him,” he said as soon as I stepped inside the small office. “Brandon pushed Charlie, and then Charlie took it upon himself to beat him bloody.”

All three of them turned toward me.

The principal stared at me like I had some authority over the situation, like we weren’t just two homeless kids who shared a cardboard box.

“They are waiting for you to say something,” Nyx hissed under my sweatshirt, and I was grateful for the cue.

“I will punish Charlie,” I said. “His behavior is—” I searched for an appropriate word. “—condemnable.”

The principal exhaled and sat back in his chair. “Ms. Hert, you’re the smartest student this school has ever produced. Please ensure it doesn’t happen again. Your brother is also one of our top students, and I don’t have the time or energy to deal with this foolery—we have Titans to worry about.”

He waved his hand at the grown boys dripping blood all over the floor.

Everyone in the room waited for something.

I waited with them.

“Say something,” Nyx hissed.

“I u-understand,” I said.

I didn’t.

A few hours later, I climbed out of a rusty yellow school bus, another relic from pre-Spartan times.

We thanked our bus driver, and he flashed a single black tooth while grunting either a pleasantry or a vulgar swear word (it was definitely the latter).

Warm spring rain poured down, but neither Charlie nor I minded; anything was better than the freezing cold of winter.

Nyx grumbled about drowning to death.

For a wild snake, she was surprisingly high-maintenance.

Charlie shuffled closer to me as we walked into the trailer park, shutting the barbed-wire gate behind us with a click.

Somehow, someway, the gate had kept out the Titans the entire time we’d been homeless.

It was a miracle. Yet I still stayed awake each night drowning in anxiety. The logical fallacy that just because something hadn’t happened in the past didn’t affect its probability of happening in the future, haunted me.

I flung my arm up across Charlie’s broad shoulder. He was skinny but built wider and taller than I was, like if he got proper nutrition, he’d have an impressive physique.

I pulled him close.

He hunched low.

There was something fragile about his larger size, like he feared his own capacity for violence.

Now his pale knuckles were coated in dried blood, yellow eyes sharp.

Charlie’s coloring was so different from my own golden skin and hair that people at school were surprised when they found out we were siblings.

But trauma bonds didn’t change your appearance, just your souls.

“Are you mad?” he signed with his long fingers.

When it had become clear eight years ago that Charlie didn’t speak, the two of us had learned sign language from an old library book.

I frowned at him with confusion and signed back, “Why would I be mad?”

“I beat that kid until he was covered in blood,” he signed with a frown—his hand motions jerky. “I didn’t mean to, but my mind blanked, and suddenly he was Father, and I just wanted to protect⁠—”

“Didn’t he push you first?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Charlie signed slowly.

“Then it’s his fault.” I always signed as I spoke, so he wouldn’t feel alone communicating with his hands.

“You’re allowed to defend yourself. It’s not okay for anyone to touch you without your permission—ever. Don’t forget that.”

Charlie pulled me into a full hug. His body engulfed mine, and I leaned into it.

I loved his hugs.

We held each other.

When he finally leaned back, he held up his arm, showcasing the black “C+A” tattooed across his forearm.

I tapped my matching tattoo against his.

It was our thing.

A man waved out of his trailer window, and we waved back.

It was the kindest soul in the entire park.

Last year we’d borrowed a stick-and-poke tattoo kit from him. He was the only person who gave us cardboard boxes and blankets.

Without him letting us inside his trailer during the coldest, snowiest days of the year, we’d both be dead.

He was our savior.

Our personal saint.

He was also covered head to toe in animal skulls and satanic symbols, which if you didn’t think about it too hard, was inspiring.

A pentagram was stark on his forehead as he watched me and Charlie dip behind the tree line.

Behind carefully placed branches, we pulled back the tarp that protected our network of cardboard boxes from the elements.

The floor was covered in old blankets and rugs we’d stolen from trailers right after people died in them, just before the federation hauled them away.

Fluffy—the eighty-pound husky Charlie had named—stood up and flung himself at me like a battering ram as I fell to my knees.

I kissed his muzzle as he shook his butt with excitement.

Fluffy had been abandoned by someone in the park three winters ago and had wandered into our shelter and refused to leave our sides.

I’d been worried about feeding him, but it turned out that he liked the dead squirrels and rabbits Nyx brought for us.

Sometimes Charlie and I ate them when we were extremely desperate, but too much made us sick, so we left them for Fluffy, who never got affected.

Now, three years later, Fluffy was the best fed out of all of us.

Speaking of food, I pulled up the corner of the piles of carpet and hid our new food vouchers in an old glass beer bottle, since they were only redeemable on Fridays.

Today was Monday.

We only had four more days of hunger to get through. Three, technically, because Monday was almost over and we’d get a meal on Friday.

Seventy-two hours of starvation.

Not long at all.

I clicked on the cracked solar-powered lantern we’d stolen, and flickering green light filled the space.

A few minutes later, I lay on a pile of blankets, with an invisible snake around my neck, nuzzling my face; a husky draped across my lap; and Charlie sitting up beside me with his homework spread across his own lap.

Classical music played on our old beat-up solar-powered radio.

It leaned against the right side of my head, and the vibrations tingled through me.

Charlie gnawed on one of the jerky sticks I’d stockpiled so he could have some food daily. He was a growing boy, so he needed the protein more than I did.

Hunger flared, but I focused on the softness beneath me and the cardboard over my head.

We’re the lucky ones. The foster parents are gone. We’re free of their abuse.

The rain pattered soothingly across the tarp.

Charlie signed math questions, and sequences of numbers floated around me as I thought about the Riemann Hypothesis.

Nyx’s scales were smooth against my face, and Fluffy rubbed against my legs, getting hair everywhere.

Gratitude flooded me.

I was surrounded by my family and safe. Everything was going to be okay.

If only I’d known how wrong I was.