The Deep End of the Sea (25 page)

Where are we?

And yet, he still doesn’t say anything. He gets out of the car and comes around to my side. I’m gently unbuckled and lifted out. A door located up a staircase over to the left of us opens, and there standing in the bright light is a short, stocky man. He steps to the side when Hermes and I pass, shutting and locking the door behind us.

“Is everything taken care of?” Hermes asks as he carries me through a small kitchen and into a hallway.

The middle-aged man trots around him and then jogs down the hallway until he gets to a closed door. “Yes,
minn hirra
.”

I try to pinpoint his heavy accent—possibly Scandinavian in origin? I root through my catalogue of languages collected over the ages.
Minn hirra
... hmm ... that’s Old Norse for
my lord
, I think? I glance around us, but nothing on the walls indicates a particular culture one way or another.

He opens the door for us and stands to the side. Hermes sweeps past him and carefully sets me down on a bed covered with a patchwork bedspread and pushed up against one wall. He turns back towards the man and says, “Thank you, Amund. Please bring us some tea.” He glances at me. “And soup?”

I swiftly shake my head. No food. Amund ... Amund. Yes. Definitely Norse.

He turns back to the man. “Never mind. I’ll let you know if there’s anything we need.”

“Yes,
minn hirra
.” Amund shuts the door; Hermes goes over and clicks the lock shut. Then he turns back toward me, the misery and fear in his bright blue eyes vividly piercing as they take me in. I don’t need to ask him what he’s thinking; it’s plain as day on his dear face.

I don’t need his apologies. He has nothing to apologize for. What I need, though, is him. I open up my arms and he comes to me immediately, folding me up into him until I feel safe and the shudders lessen. Until I can breathe again.

“Medusa ... love ...” His words are gentle, tremulous and yet are only masks for the rage I feel in his muscles. “Did he hurt you?”

“He ...” I swallow hard, my throat and lungs still sore from all the water they suffered from tonight. “Nothing like before. I swear.”

Every muscle in his body tenses as he struggles to pull in calming breaths.

My skin still crawls with the lingering traces of Poseidon’s influence, and I hate it. I lick my dry lips and glance around the room; another door sits to the side. “I need ...” A shaky hand pushes still damp hair out of my eyes. “I need to get him off me. I want him off me.” Hysteria clamors back up my throat, sending me into another round of shaking. I wipe frantically at my arms, at my belly. “I—I need—”

It’s all the encouragement he needs. He carries me over to the door, shoving it open with a foot. A quick flip of the switch reveals a small shower, toilet, and pedestal sink. I am relieved there is no tub.

“Do you want me to wait in the other room?” His question is soft as he turns the water on.

I shake my head. No. I don’t want to be left alone right now. I’m too afraid that I’ll let Poseidon isolate me once more. He did that before, and I’ll be damned if I let him do it again.

Hermes is gentle as he helps me out of my damp clothes. I want to burn them; they are nothing more than reminders of Poseidon’s insane claims of ownership.
He really believes he loves me
. I’m sick to my stomach once more. So when I step into the shower, I tug at my love until he undresses and follows. It’s cramped, but I don’t care.

I can’t let Poseidon’s touch stay on me a minute longer.

This is love. This man here? This is real love, not that sick, warped whatever kind Poseidon thinks he has.

My legs quiver, my stomach twists in ugly knots, but I tell Hermes, “Kiss me.”

Hermes’ hand pauses midway in his reach for the soap; he stares down at me in concern. Am I acting crazy? Maybe. I don’t know how others survive moments like this. I wish I did. I wish I knew what was appropriate. Maybe some of them withdraw into themselves. Maybe some need to be around people right away. Most probably don’t jump right into sex after their attacker comes after them. But all I know is that I need the memory of that bastard’s hands to be obliterated. He cannot be allowed any control or influence over my body. His love cannot be the one I hold onto.

My plea falls out of me, just as broken as I feel inside. “Hermes, please.”

His hands cup my face as his mouth captures mine. His kiss is tender, like he’s trying to heal me. I love him for that, but right now, it’s not what I need. I need him to do more than help me heal. I need him to help me erase what’s just happened. I reach up and lock a hand around his neck, my tongue diving deep into his mouth; the other hand goes down to stroke him until he’s hard. It doesn’t take long, since my kiss and touch ignite him just as fast as his does me. “Dusa,” he whispers into my mouth, but no—no talk. Not now. Now has to be about new memories.

I’m using him; I know I am. But I can’t help myself; I’ll die if I don’t wash this away.

I let go of him long enough to snake his hand down my body, in between my legs. He needs no further encouragement. I collapse back against the cool tile behind us, letting the hot water burn away at the horror of the evening. Soon, I’m gasping into his mouth, writhing against his hand, and letting the passion his lips and touch bring incinerate the lingering vestiges on water-wrinkled fingers against my skin. I dissolve in his arms, crying out his name—so glad it’s his name that comes, and that it’s born from true love, not hate. But before I come completely down, I wrap my arms around his shoulders and lift myself so I can twist my legs around his waist. “Dusa ...” he tries again, voice hoarse in the steam around us, but right now, I need him in me. He’s hard—so hard it must be painful, so it doesn’t take much convincing for him to adjust me until I slide right over his need.

My back hits the tile again; one leg slides down while he lifts the other up. I match him stroke for stroke, kiss for kiss, moan for moan until an orgasm swells once more inside me. And now it’s my name falling from his mouth as he breaks apart in my arms, and I hold that close.

Poseidon will never, ever have the ability to do this to me.

I will never allow him to touch me again.

When I wake up in the morning, I’m in Hermes’ arms. He’s wide-awake, though, staring up at the ceiling. Dark smudges of exhaustion ring his eyes. Has he slept at all?

“Where are we?”

He presses a lingering kiss against my head. “Somewhere safe.”

A knock sounds on the door. Hermes gets out of bed and pulls on his pants. “It’s me,
minn hirra
,” a deep voice calls through the door.

Hermes unlocks the door, opening it just far enough for me to see Amund standing there, wearing a stained white t-shirt with a chicken on it and cargo shorts, his greasy hair pulled back into a ponytail. “They’re here.”

Hermes nods and shuts the door. He leans his forehead against the wood for a long moment before turning back around to me. He says quietly, face and words devoid of any emotions, “Hades and Persephone have come to talk to us.”

I draw my knees up to my chest so I can wrap my arms around them.

“I can assure you that they weren’t followed.”

It hadn’t even been a concern. I have to clear my throat; it’s scratchy and still raw from last night. “What do they want to talk about?”

His eyes close briefly, as if he’s debating whether or not to tell me the truth. But then, he opens them—today, they’re crystal blue, and sad, so sad—and says, “It’s best we discuss this all together.”

Alarm tightens my muscles as I pull my knees in tighter. The threats from last night rear their ugly heads. “Poseidon—he said—”

“Please, for the love of all that’s good in the world, do not say that bastard’s name.” He’s anguished as he comes back over to the bed. “Not right now. I need—I need to stay focused, and I can’t do that if all I want to do is go rip him limb from limb.” His hands are soothing on my arms, my back. “No matter what happens out there, Dusa, you must understand that I love you and that from this moment forward, you are safe. Trust me in this, love.”

Another knock sounds just as I press a hand against his stubbled cheek. “Okay,” I whisper, because I do, even though the alarm in me intensifies.

Why does it feel like he’s apologizing? Or, worse yet, saying goodbye?

He passes me his shirt from the night before, the one that was to match the dress Aphrodite bought me. I slip it on, fingers trembling as I button it up, glad that it’s long enough to hang midway down my thighs. I refuse to put the clothes on from the night before.

We follow Amund down the hallway into a small living room that clearly stopped evolving in the 1970s. Orange shag carpet runs wall to paneled wall, and mustard yellow-brown couches covered in slick plastic litter the floor. Above an ancient television is a dusty mounted oil painting of a Viking longship resplendent with dragonheads. There, to the right, stand Hades and Persephone, still dressed in the same clothes they wore to the party the night before, looking just as exhausted as their nephew.

Persephone rushes me, enfolding me in her arms even as a still shirtless Hermes refuses to let my hand go. “Darling, I cannot begin to apologize enough for what happened last night. If we’d only—” She pulls away, shaking her head. Are her hands trembling? “Thank the stars that you’re okay. I don’t know what we would have done if you weren’t so.”

Amund turns and leaves the room. Hermes’ grip on my hand turns viselike.

“Wife, you know our time is limited.” Hades steps forward, putting an arm around her thin shoulders. To Hermes, he says, “It is as we discussed. ”

I look up at Hermes. He’s wooden. Expressionless. The only thing that tells me anything is wrong is his grip on my hand, like he’s afraid I’ll disappear. “What’s going on? When did you have a discussion?”

Persephone begins to cry silently, further confusing me. Hades says quietly, “Medusa, my brother—”

“Don’t,” Hermes snaps. The rage so present in his eyes last night has returned with a vengeance.

“She deserves to know,” Hades says, more gently now. “Nephew, I know this is a difficult time, and I would give anything to have this outcome different, but we cannot keep her in the dark about his intentions any further. You know this.”

Hermes says nothing, staring right through his uncle like he isn’t even there.

I’m instantly wary. “What are you talking about? What do I need to know?”

Hades wipes his brow, even though there is nothing there. “After last night’s events, my brother has brought a petition to the Assembly stating that he has every right to you as he’d ...” I’ve never seen the Lord of the Underworld so troubled before. “He says he claimed you as his prior to the curse. Says now that the curse has been reversed, he has every right to ...” His dark eyes flick toward Hermes, standing still as one of my statues on Gorgóna. “He has this idiotic notion that you’re to be his bride or ... lover.” He coughs, bringing a clenched fist up to his mouth.

My heart sinks straight out of my chest, through my stomach, and onto the floor. This is ... what?
“What?!”

“It is ridiculous, of course,” Persephone quickly adds. “Everyone knows this. Nobody has listened to his ravings, but we cannot ignore them any further now that he’s filed a formal petition. When one of the governing Assembly brings a petition, it must go through thorough debate and then judgment. Burdon of proof must be brought forth from both sides. While that happens, we figured it best to get you out of town to where neither Poseidon nor Athena can find you.” Her hands twist together.

I can’t catch my breath. Sweet stars above, he thinks he’ll
marry
me? “He’s ...” It takes a moment to process her words. “Has he been saying this before last night?”

Hades coughs again, looking pointedly at Hermes.

“Tell
me
.” I jab at my chest. “What has he been saying?”

Hades rubs at the spot between his eyes. “He mentioned it at the initial petition where we decided to reverse Athena’s curse. Our brother told him that if he was serious, he’d have to file another petition, but that you were to be granted a grace period. We kept him at bay for the last few months, making sure you never heard about any of his insane ravings while we attempted to find loopholes in his claims.”

My mind goes into overdrive. He’d been there at the restaurant that one night, arguing with Hades and Hephaestus after the limo pulled away. Athena had been there, too. Are they conspiring together? And there was that stupid rumor Kore had told me about, the one where gossip in Olympus had accused Hermes and Hades of stealing me from Poseidon. Fury rocks me to my core. “He does not own me. I am not a toy that can be passed from owner to owner.” My words spit out of me.
“I am a person, and nobody owns me!”

“Of course, darling,” Persephone says as Hermes wraps an arm around my waist. “We know this. This is why we—”

“Why did nobody tell me?” I’m close to full-fledge shouting, but I don’t care. Don’t they hear what they’re saying?

“Because he’s a sick fuck,” Hermes growls, “and there was never going to be a point in time in which I would allow him to follow through.” I look up at him; he’s shaking, he’s so angry. “Telling you would have only upset you, and you’ve suffered enough at his hands.”