Dionysus returned to Bakkheia with Ariadne, Phaedra, and the baby.
He chose to manifest underground, in the tunnels beneath his club, aware of the possibility that it too might be targeted by Theseus.
When they arrived, they found that the maenads had convened in the common area. They were dressed in black tactile bodysuits and armed to the teeth.
Naia was speaking, and Dionysus recognized the tone.
She was preparing for a fight.
“Earlier today, Dionysus’s home was subject to an attack. Upon arrival, several of our own were found dead with no sign of Dionysus, Ariadne, her sister, or her child. We believe this attack was orchestrated by Theseus, though footage pulled from the premises shows some sort of invisible force—”
As Naia spoke, she scanned the room, and when her gaze fell on him, she ceased to speak. Slowly, the other maenads turned to look at them. Naia cut through the crowd and threw her arms around Dionysus.
“It’s nice to know I am missed,” he said, hugging her back.
Naia pulled away and hit his shoulder; her eyes were watering. “I…we didn’t know what happened! Your home. It’s…”
“Destroyed. I know,” he said, and then his eyes shifted to the other maenads. “The demigod who attacked is named Perseus. He was wearing the Helm of Darkness and carrying a weapon laced with venom from the Hydra. It proved to be a deadly combination. I…almost didn’t make it.”
The assassins exchanged uneasy glances. “The Helm of Darkness?” Lilaia asked. “How do we fight an invisible assailant?”
“I don’t have an answer,” Dionysus said. “I was lucky. Ariadne came back for me.” She met his gaze, her eyes wide with surprise before melting into a warmer expression, one that made him want to take her into his arms and kiss her, but instead, he forced his attention back to the maenads. “But I think we all know Theseus will strike again.”
“No, please,” said Phaedra. She pushed forward into the open space before them, holding her baby tightly. “I am worth none of this—”
“Phaedra!” Ariadne sounded both shocked and angry.
“I can end this, Ari,” Phaedra said, and the hard part about her words was that Dionysus knew she was wrong.
“You can’t end this,” he said. “Even if you return to Theseus, he will still come for us, and there is no guessing what he might do to punish you.”
There was a moment of quiet, and then Naia spoke. “You are not responsible for Theseus’s actions.”
“I left. I—”
“Fled,” said Ariadne. “You fled an abuser, Phaedra.”
“He wasn’t—” She started to protest but glanced at Dionysus, swallowing her words. “How do you know Theseus was responsible for the attack on your house?”
“Phaedra!” Ariadne gasped, “Perseus works for Theseus.”
“You do not know that Theseus sent him,” Phaedra argued. “Perhaps Perseus acted on his own. It would make sense. Theseus would never threaten the life of his son.”
Her words did not even anger Dionysus, because he had expected them.
“Theseus would do anything to gain public favor. He wants to be a god!”
“He does not want to be a god,” she said. “He wants freedom and fairness—”
“If you really believe that, then you are a fool,” Ariadne snapped.
Phaedra paled. She looked just as stricken as Ariadne sounded. Then she glanced from side to side, seeming to remember they had an audience, and she fled.
For a few moments, Ariadne just stood there, stunned.
Dionysus thought about putting his hand on her shoulder, or maybe he should draw her close. He was not sure what would be appropriate, but before he could decide, Ariadne left, calling after her sister.
“I only hope he’s dead before she manages to flee,” said Lilaia.
It was a harsh statement, but Dionysus agreed.
“We must prepare for anything,” he said. “Fortify the tunnels. I want all entrances monitored twenty-four hours a day. If you see something strange—if for any reason you sense something is wrong—raise the alarm.” The maenads nodded as he added, “Sleep with your weapons nearby. The Olympians are going to war.”
With their orders given, the maenads dispersed, save Naia, who pulled Dionysus aside.
“I have news for you,” she said.
“All right,” he said, dread seeping into the pit of his stomach.
“Hebe sent word this morning. She knows what happened to Medusa.”
Hebe was one of the maenads tasked with locating the gorgon, and the way Naia spoke now made Dionysus think the worst. He straightened. “What happened?”
“She was kidnapped by Tyrrhenian pirates,” Naia said. “They are holding her for ransom.”
While that was not the worst thing imaginable—the worst being death—it was a close second. He had a long history with the Tyrrhenian pirates that stretched back to ancient times, which meant that it did not matter if he could meet their ransom demand. They would not do business with him.
“Fuck.” He smoothed his hand over his head. “When was the ransom announced?”
“Just this morning,” she said.
“How do we know it is really her?”
There were few descriptions of the woman beyond the fact that she was beautiful and that she could turn men to stone with a glance. As it turned out, her head had to be separated from her body for that power to work.
Now he feared the actual worst—that she was, in fact, dead.
Naia hesitated. “Well, we don’t actually know,” she admitted. “But I do not think we can ignore the possibility that they are telling the truth. She was last seen on the shore of the Aegean.”
That was true. Even Poseidon—terrible bastard that he was—confirmed it.
I fucked her and left her, he had said. If I had known the value of her beautiful head, I’d have cut it off where she lay.
Dionysus’s hands curled at the thought.
The God of the Sea was almost as great an enemy to him as Hera. Indeed, they had been rivals since ancient times. It had begun with Beroe, a nymph they had both loved, and now Ariadne, a woman Poseidon and his son Theseus seemed to be obsessed with.
“I have an idea,” said Naia.
“What is it?” Dionysus asked, turning to face her.
“Perhaps…it is time to consult your oracle,” she said.
“I do not have time to unravel a silly rhyme,” Dionysus said, immediately dismissing her suggestion. “And in case you’ve forgotten, my oracle is supposed to speak for me, not the other way around.”
“She is your oracle. She offers you prophecies as well!” Naia argued.
“Prophecy. Prediction. Not certainty, which is what we need right now.”
“Well, you have nothing right now, so which will it be?”
Dionysus ground his teeth.
“Do not be a child,” Naia said. “Just because you used to date—”
“We did not date,” Dionysus snapped.
“Oh, sorry. Fucked.”
He glared.
“Dionysus,” Naia said, her gaze both hard and pleading. “Think about what happens if Theseus gets his hands on Medusa.”
He didn’t want to think about what would happen. He already knew. Theseus would decapitate her, and not only would another innocent woman die at his hands, but the demigod would also have another powerful weapon.
He scrubbed his face, “Fuck,” he said again under his breath before dropping his hands. “You will be okay?”
She knew what he was really asking. Was everything going to be okay?
“We’ll be all right,” she said, smiling a little. “You have to do this. You have no choice.”
He swallowed, nodding.
“I’m…uh…going to tell Ariadne,” he said.
She would want to know where he was going—not for his sake but because their partnership had begun over their quest to locate the gorgon.
“Of course,” she said, but as Dionysus turned to go, she called after him. “Might I advise you not to take too long with your goodbyes.”
Dionysus held up his middle finger as he disappeared down the hall in search of Ariadne. He did not have to look long, finding her sitting on the floor outside her room, her knees drawn up to her chest.
She was crying.
He knelt in front of her. “Hey,” he said. “Are you all right?”
“No,” she said, her voice thick with tears. “I feel awful. I should have never said those things to Phaedra.”
“You were not wrong,” he said.
“There is a time and a place,” she said. “And I chose wrong.”
“Come,” Dionysus said, rising to his feet. He held out his hand and helped her up, a rush of warmth spreading through his chest when she did not try to pull free of his hold. He led her to a modest bedroom at the end of the hall. “This is where I stay,” he said. “If you wish to give your sister some space, you can sleep here.”
When he met her gaze, he found her staring back.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
He lifted his hand to her cheek.
“I hate seeing this pain in your eyes,” he said.
“I do not know myself without it,” she said.
Dionysus didn’t know what to say, but her words made it hard for him to breathe.
“If I could take it away…”
“You would have to be death himself,” she said.
“Do not speak of such things,” he said.
“No? Even when I was the one who had to watch you nearly die?”
He stared at her for a moment and then asked, “Why did you come back?”
He had told her to go—ordered her to take her sister into the tunnels and not look back.
“I had to,” she said.
“You didn’t. You could have done as I said. You could have escaped in the tunnels.”
“No, I couldn’t,” she argued. “You risked everything to save my sister. You risked everything for me. Who would I be if I just left you?”
“Smart,” he said. “Really fucking smart.”
Then he pulled her close and kissed her, and while he would have liked to continue, he knew he had no time.
When he pulled away, he held her tightly in his grip.
“I must go,” he said. “We have word on Medusa’s location.”
Ariadne’s eyes widened. “Let me come with you.”
Dionysus felt his gaze soften at her request. He was surprised she’d made it, given that it meant leaving her sister.
“As much as I would like that,” he said, brushing her hair from her face, “Phaedra needs you.”
“She might need me,” Ariadne said. “But she does not want me.”
“That’s the truth for tonight,” he said. “That will not be true tomorrow.”
“You intend to be gone long?”
“There is no intention behind it,” he said. “I will return as soon as I am able.”
He did not even know if his rescue mission would be successful. The pirates had announced Medusa’s ransom on the black market, which meant that everyone who had been looking for her before would be after her now, and many of them—himself included—had no intention of actually paying their price.
Ariadne’s gaze fell to his chest, her fingers twisting into his shirt.
“Please be safe,” she said, and he heard what she was really saying—please don’t leave me.
He tilted her head back. “If you are here waiting for me, I will always come back.”
He kissed her again, harder this time, ignoring how it felt less like saying goodbye and more like the end.
Dionysus had temples all over New Greece, but the one he found himself standing before was located within the citadel of Perperikon in Thrace. Like the little city it overlooked, the temple was carved into the mountainside. Twenty-five steps led to a covered porch that was supported by a set of identical columns crowned with scroll-like patterns. The pediment was carved with an image of him surrounded by his frenzied followers, and it mimicked the merriment taking place in real time.
The porch was crowded with people, their bodies bathed in firelight as they danced, drank, and fucked, caught in the throes of holy ecstasy. The smell made him dizzy. It was a vibrant blend of perfumes, both musky and powdery, and the putrid mix of alcohol and drugs, particularly Evangeline, which had the distinct, pungent odor of ammonia.
It was a far cry from other places of worship, where devotees would come in quiet peace to pray, leave offerings, and hear the word of the reigning oracle. Perhaps the hardest part for Dionysus was that this particular brand of worship was a result of Hera’s madness, and despite being “cured,” his body still trembled at the sight.
He hated that he held on to the memory of that volatile time, hated that he felt dread at the doors of his own temple where the priestesses within worshipped him. In truth, he feared slipping back into the chaos, losing control, and never surfacing again, and it made him feel as though he would never truly know freedom from the horror of Hera’s magic.
He was not sure how long he waited at the base of those steps, but eventually he felt stable enough to make his way inside. Unfortunately, there was no relief from the jostling crowd, which spilled out of the temple doors. His frustration mounted. He considered transforming into a jaguar or a lion and leaping over their heads, but he would likely only cause a fatal stampede.
Finally, he came to the altar where a statue of his likeness was raised, and it was there beneath its shadow that he found his oracle.
She was a beautiful woman. Tall and willowy, she rose to stand from where she had been reclined at his feet, surrounded by attendants who fed her grapes and offered wine.
“Erigone,” he said in acknowledgment.
She tilted her head, her arms braced behind her. It was a stance that pushed her chest forward, and because she was draped in sheer, shimmering robes, he could see every part of her.
He remained intently focused on her dark eyes, which were bright with amusement.
“Dionysus,” she said. “It has been a long time.”
“I fear I have not required your talents.”
“Or desired my counsel,” she said, accepting a golden chalice from one of the attendants. “Until now, it seems. You must be desperate.”
There was a beat of silence following her comment, and it was filled with fury.
“I am,” he said. He knew humility would go a long way with his oracle, especially since he usually avoided her, even if it was hard to say aloud.
She sighed. “What do you want, Dionysus?”
She sipped her wine, which had already stained her lips a deep burgundy.
“I require assistance locating a woman,” he said.
“Does she wish to be found?”
“She likely didn’t,” he said. “But she has since been kidnapped by pirates. Now they are holding her for ransom.”
Erigone studied him for a moment, her gaze hard and unwavering. Despite their history, she would not deny a woman in danger.
She handed off her cup and then gathered her shimmering robes into her hands.
“Come,” she said, and he followed her into the darkness of an adjoining room.
A few torches burned low, illuminating piles of glittering gold and shining silver, offerings brought by worshippers across lifetimes. She wound her way through the treasure until they came to the center of the room where there was a small table and a tray of incense.
“This woman,” said Erigone, lighting one of the slender sticks in the torchlight. “Is she a lover?”
“Would that matter?” Dionysus asked.
“No,” she said, turning back to him. “But she must be important to bring you here.”
Dionysus said nothing, and Erigone narrowed her eyes as she blew out the flame. Ribbons of smoke danced around her, smelling of spice and resin.
“Do you recall how I would prophecize for you, Dionysus?”
He shifted on his feet, uncomfortable. “Must we revisit the past?” he asked.
“I am not asking to revisit,” she said. “I am asking if you remember.”
He stared, frustration making his teeth clench. “I remember,” he said.
“On your knees,” she said. “Between my thighs.”
“That was a long time ago, Erigone,” he said. “We are both beyond that.”
“Perhaps you are,” she said. “But I still want you on your knees.”
He stared at her for a few slow seconds and then spoke. “You are my oracle.”
“And like anything that has belonged to you, I have been abandoned,” she said. “Does this woman know? The one who has you so chivalrously holding my gaze and shifting with discomfort in my presence, that your loyalty is as flimsy as a spider’s web in the wind?”
“Give me the prophecy, Erigone,” Dionysus said.
“You are a pathetic god,” she said, her eyes gleaming. “The only reason you still have followers is because everyone likes to drink and fuck.”
His fists tightened; his anger felt molten in his veins, and for a few brief seconds, he wanted to kill her. Those were the claws of his madness digging deep.
Erigone gave him a shrewd smile, and for a moment, he thought that perhaps that was what she wanted too, but then she threw her head back and spread her arms wide. The smoke from the incense became a straight column rising into the darkness. She said things, but they were not words he could understand and were more like a song, spoken in a low and lyrical cadence.
It was unnerving but mesmerizing to witness, and there was a part of him that wanted to crawl inside her, to see what she was seeing for himself, but that was the magic of Erigone. She was a seductress as much as she was an oracle, and she gave prophecy like she fucked, with reckless abandon.
Dionysus’s nails sank into his palms. It was that sweet sting that kept him grounded, that ensured he did not descend into the strange madness of her fortune-telling, and when she emerged from her trance, she looked upon him in dazed disappointment.
He did not move, too afraid to break the spell.
“You have neglected a sacred duty. You have left the dead unburied,” she said.
Before the oracle was finished with her foretelling, Dionysus knew what he had to do—bury the ophiotaurus, which he had left to rot on the island of Thrinacia after Theseus murdered him.
Fuck.
“Correct this offense,” Erigone continued. “And all will be revealed.”
He should have listened to Ariadne the moment she’d begged to return to the island and complete the task, but at the time, her request had seemed rash given the danger.
“You know what you must do,” the oracle said.
“I do,” he said.
They were silent for a few moments, and then Erigone spoke again.
“Death marks your path, Dionysus. Be careful where you tread.”
With the echo of her words on his heels, he left the small room.
He could have teleported then, but instead, he returned to the crowd and waded through their revelry, knowing he would need their worship to carry him through the coming days. Even as their energy washed over him, he could not shake the keen awareness that they were all coming to the end of their days. Soon, this warmth that surrounded him would no longer come from their bodies but from their ashes.
Dionysus needed a way to reach the island of Thrinacia since he could not teleport directly, given it was Poseidon’s territory. The only reason he had managed to escape before was because Hermes had located him and Ariadne and teleport them home—which was how he found himself in the Underworld, begrudgingly knocking on Hermes’s door.
“Come in!” the god said in a muffled, singsong voice.
The merry tone only set Dionysus on edge, but he was right to be suspicious. As he pushed open the door, he found Hermes’s ass in his face.
Well, not literally.
He wasn’t naked, though he might as well have been. The leggings he wore were skintight and left very little to the imagination, and his crop top was basically just sleeves.
“What are you doing?” Dionysus asked.
“What does it look like?” Hermes asked, staring at him from between his legs.
Dionysus couldn’t meet his gaze.
“Torture?” he ventured.
“A downward dog,” Hermes said as he straightened and then bent over backward.
“As I said,” Dionysus replied.
“You should try it.”
“I’ll pass,” Dionysus said.
“You’re just jealous I’m more flexible,” said Hermes.
“I’m not sure jealous is the right word.”
“Aroused, perhaps?” he suggested as he tried to get back on his feet but fell on his ass.
“Not in the least,” Dionysus said.
Hermes frowned. “Well damn,” he said, standing and brushing off his hands. “What do you want?”
“I need to locate a few pirates,” said Dionysus.
Hermes narrowed his eyes. “Are you sure this isn’t a sexual thing?”
“Has anyone ever told you how annoying you are?”
“Do you want my help or not?”
“I’m seriously reconsidering,” said Dionysus.
“Well, that’s just fine,” said Hermes with a huff. “I don’t have powers anyway. Why do you think I’m doing yoga?”
Dionysus glared. He knew Hermes didn’t have magic, but he also knew that all gods had at least one magical article. Hermes was no exception.
“You have sandals,” he said.
“You want my sandals?”
“I can’t teleport to the ocean, Hermes.”
“My sandals are relics! They belong in a museum, not on your feet!”
“If that’s true, then where are they?”
“Like I would tell you!”
“You forgot about them, didn’t you?”
“No!” he snapped, crossing his arms over his chest before letting them fall again. “If you want them, you’ll have to take me to my house.”
Dionysus cocked a brow. “Which one?”
Hermes hesitated. “We’ll start with the one in Olympia.”
“Start?” Dionysus repeated.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve had to use them!” Hermes said defensively. “At this point, they’re symbolic!”
“Fuck me,” Dionysus grumbled, and before Hermes could open his mouth, he teleported, appearing outside Hermes’s sprawling Olympia mansion, which had a steeply pitched roof and a stucco exterior.
Hermes approached the rounded entrance, which was grand and framed by a set of white columns.
Dionysus followed Hermes, who had started to pat his hips, his chest, even his ass.
“What are you doing?” Dionysus asked, already annoyed.
“I forgot my keys,” said Hermes.
“Are you kidding me?”
“Don’t judge me! I usually have magic!”
Dionysus sighed. “Move.”
The God of Wine stepped forward and then shoved his foot against the doors. There was a cracking sound as they burst open with such force, they hit the interior walls, shaking the glass within.
When he turned toward Hermes, the god glared at him.
“You could have used magic,” he said, sweeping past him into the house.
Dionysus followed and was immediately met by a massive double staircase.
“How do you decide which side to go up?” Dionysus asked.
Hermes opened his mouth and then closed it before answering. “I never gave it much thought,” he said, his hands pressed to his head. “Fuck. How do I choose?”
Dionysus gave him an incredulous look. “How have you lived this long?”
“Hey!” Hermes said, pointing at himself. “I’m cunning!”
“Sure,” said Dionysus, taking the staircase on the right. “And I drink water.”
“You and Hades have issues,” Hermes said as he followed.
Once they reached the top, he overtook Dionysus, taking the hall on the left. When Hermes switched on the lights, Dionysus was blinded by the color pink. It was everywhere—on the walls and the floor and the bed, even the chandelier—and all varying hues.
“Why is everything pink?” Dionysus asked, shielding his eyes.
“Because,” said Hermes. “This is the pink room.”
“The pink room?”
“Yeah, I have a gold room and a red room and a—” Hermes marked them off on each finger.
“Are they all bedrooms?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
Hermes shrugged. “Why not?”
Because it’s insane, Dionysus wanted to say but didn’t.
“I never know what my mood will be,” Hermes explained, shuffling over the pink carpet as he made his way into the adjoining pink bathroom. “Some nights, I’m a gold. Some nights, I’m a green.”
Dionysus considered asking what that meant but decided against it. He was short on time, and he needed Hermes’s sandals. The fewer distractions, the better.
Inside the bathroom was a safe door. It was also pink and framed by mirrors that reflected the light overhead. Dionysus imagined it was supposed to look glamorous, but it really just hurt his eyes even more.
Hermes approached the door and glanced back at Dionysus before cupping his hands over the safe’s keypad.
Dionysus rolled his eyes. “I’m not going to steal whatever’s in your closet, Hermes.”
“If you could have stolen my winged sandals, wouldn’t you?”
“To avoid you? Yes,” said Dionysus.
“Rude,” said Hermes as he turned the wheel, pulling open the door to reveal a massive closet with shelves upon shelves of shoes.
“Please tell me you only have one shoe closet,” said Dionysus.
“Okay,” said Hermes.
“Fuck me,” Dionysus groaned.
“Don’t judge me,” said Hermes. “I have an obsession.”
“Don’t you mean addiction?”
“Tomato, potato,” he said.
Dionysus’s brows lowered. “Don’t you mean to-mah-to?”
“No, I mean potato,” Hermes said. “They are two different things entirely.”
Dionysus rolled his eyes again. “Whatever you say.”
Hermes smiled. “I knew you’d see it my way.”
The God of Mischief sauntered into the closet to begin the search. Dionysus followed, eyes scanning Hermes’s many and varied shoes. He picked up a pair of platform heels that were covered in gemstones.
“How do you wear these?” Dionysus asked.
“On your feet,” said Hermes.
Dionysus shook his head. “Real funny,” he said, putting them back on the shelf as Hermes snickered. “You know what I mean.”
“I will admit it takes talent,” he said.
“Don’t you just fly everywhere when you wear them?” said Dionysus.
“That still takes talent,” Hermes said.
“It isn’t a talent,” said Dionysus. “You are a god.”
“We’ll see about that,” said Hermes. They continued to search the closet, but after a while, Hermes declared, “Well, they aren’t here. We’ll have to check the other closets.”
“The closets in your other houses or the closets in this house?” Dionysus asked. It was an important distinction.
“The closets in this house,” said Hermes. “If the shoes aren’t here, then we’ll have to check another house.”
Dionysus rubbed his face in frustration. “Why do I put myself through this?” he groaned.
“Because you secretly love hanging out with me,” said Hermes, sauntering past him. They left the pink room and entered a blue room, which was not among the colors Hermes had mentioned earlier and only made Dionysus far more worried. When the shoes were not there, they moved on to another. This one was purple and had more than just shoes in the closet but still no winged sandals.
As more hours passed, Dionysus began to wonder if Hermes still had them and started to consider other options for reaching the island of Thrinacia. He worried that by the time he managed to get the shoes and bury the ophiotaurus, it would be too late to rescue Medusa, but he did not have many options. He did not have a monster that could fly, and one that could swim would be just as dangerous as sailing given Poseidon’s hatred of him.
Even with Hermes’s sandals, there was a chance he’d be shot down from the sky by pirates, but at least his odds of landing closer to Medusa were better.
Those were the thoughts racing through his mind as he sank to the bed in the green room and nodded off.
He wasn’t sure how long he was out when he heard Hermes exclaim, “Yes!”
Startled by the sound, Dionysus shot up from bed. Through bleary eyes, he saw Hermes exit the closet carrying a pair of leather sandals with feathery wings. They were surprisingly simple given the mischievous god’s penchant for extravagant things.
“I found them!” he declared, but Dionysus recognized another problem.
“Why are they so small?” he asked.
“They aren’t small,” said Hermes, holding up the shoes.
“How big are your feet?”
“I don’t know,” said Hermes.
“How do you—” Dionysus stopped himself. He had asked that question too many times already, and it never got them anywhere. “How am I supposed to wear them if they don’t fit?”
“They’re basically soles with string, Dionysus,” said Hermes. “Put them on.”
Dionysus took one and tried to slip his foot inside, but the most he got was his first three toes.
“Why are your feet so huge?” Hermes asked. Then he met Dionysus’s gaze and raised a brow. “Is it true what they say about shoe size and dick size?”
“I’m not sure what they say,” said Dionysus. “But I’d really rather not talk about my dick with you.”
“Fine,” Hermes said, sniffing. “I was just curious.”
“Well, I need these fucking shoes to fit,” said Dionysus.
“Well, you have magic, idiot. Make them!”
“They are your gods-damned shoes. I can’t change them!”
“You can add to them! Wrap vines around your fucking feet!” said Hermes. “Gods, and you think I’m stupid.”
Dionysus felt his face flush, though he wasn’t sure if it was from embarrassment or frustration.
He sat both shoes on the floor and stepped on the soles. Vines sprouted from them and wound together over his feet and calves.
“There! Now stand.”
Dionysus did and was immediately thrown backward as the sandals flew out from under him. He hit his head on the bed as he went down. Luckily, it was soft, but now he was hanging upside down, the wings of the sandals strapped to his feet beating furiously.
“What the fuck, Hermes! Tell them to put me upright!”
“I can’t,” said Hermes.
“What do you mean you can’t?” Dionysus snarled.
“They don’t work like that. You have to learn how to balance, then you just glide. It’s like skating.”
“I don’t have time to learn how to fucking skate!”
“I suppose you don’t have to,” said Hermes. “You can just fly all the way there like that.”
Dionysus gritted his teeth.
“Come on, big boy. Just treat it like a sit-up. Once you are upright, your weight will help you land.”
“Treat it like a sit-up,” Dionysus mocked, yet he tried, tightening his abs and swinging up. The first time, he only made it halfway, the second a little farther. His third attempt had him doing a complete flip.
“Fuck!”
“You almost had it,” said Hermes.
“I know I almost had it, Hermes! I don’t need your commentary!”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m just trying to be helpful.”
“Well, don’t.”
“Fine. You suck at this.”
Dionysus’s frustration grew. For a moment, he just hung there and ground his teeth so hard his jaw hurt.
Then he took a deep breath.
“I’m sorry, Hermes.”
There was a long beat of silence.
“You’ve got this, Dionysus.”
The god nodded and tried again. He fisted his hands, tightened his core, and swung. Once he was upright, he held out his arms for balance. His legs felt wobbly, and his whole body seemed to vibrate with the beat of the winged sandals, but he was on his feet.
“Yes!” he hissed before he lost his balance and fell again. “Fuck. I am done!”
Dionysus used his magic to unlace himself from the sandals. When he did, he crashed to the ground, not realizing that he was no longer positioned over the bed.
“Stupid fucking sandals,” he muttered as he got to his feet and snatched them from the air where they were still fluttering. “How do you make them stop…flying?”
As soon as the words were out of Dionysus’s mouth, the wings stopped flapping.
“Just like that,” said Hermes.
Dionysus glared. “You mean you can tell them to stop flying but you can’t tell them to put me on my feet?”
“Yes,” said Hermes.
“I hate you.”
“Don’t hate me. I’m just the messenger.” Hermes paused and chuckled. “Get it? Because I am the Messenger of the Gods.”
Dionysus glared.
Then he vanished, but not before Hermes shouted after him. “Wait! Take me back to the Underworld!”
Dionysus appeared on the coast of the Mediterranean Sea.
The sun was rising, casting rays of orange and yellow over the calm surface of the water. Always beautiful and mostly warm, it was hard to imagine the evils that took place on the water, but it was a lawless place ruled by a ruthless god.
Dionysus put the sandals on the sandy beach and stepped into them, bearing down as the vines twisted around his feet so they wouldn’t fly out from under him again. When he was ready, he lifted his heels and stuck out his arms to steady himself as he rose into the air, the wings pumping hard and fast.
His heart beat hard in his chest, and sweat beaded across his forehead. Shakily, he lifted his hand to wipe it away before it dripped into his eyes. He would never admit it to Hermes—though he didn’t need to, his struggle was obvious—but fuck, this was hard.
Hermes had always made it look so easy, gliding through the air in a flash of blinding gold light. Dionysus moved at the speed of a snail. At this rate, he’d make it to Thrinacia in a week, and Medusa would be long gone and likely dead.
Gathering his courage, he did as Hermes had instructed, tilting his body forward slightly. He could feel the wind pick up around him as he moved faster over the ocean, the colors blending together into a seamless shade of blue. The longer he moved at one speed, the easier it was to accelerate, and soon he felt as though he were sailing.
He started to laugh, filled with triumph, and then he lost his balance and tumbled into the sea, inhaling a mouthful of salty water that burned his throat as he surfaced. How was he supposed to get to his feet again? There were no rocks or islands for miles, and time was running out.
“Fuck!” he screamed as he wiped his eyes. “I fucking hate everything!”
He moved to float on his back and stuck his feet into the air. The wings on Hermes’s scandals fluttered wildly and Dionysus found himself being carried through the air upside down with his head in the ocean.
He tried to get to his feet, but he struggled to breathe as salt water went up his nose and into his mouth. The drier the wings became, the higher he rose until he was finally out of the ocean, but by then, he was too tired to try getting upright, and he resigned himself to simply hanging there.
Until he noticed a high wave rushing his way.
“Gods fucking dammit,” he said, his strength suddenly renewed, but when he found he could not right himself, he resorted to shouting. “I know you can fucking hear me!” he yelled at the shoes. “Fly higher, you idiots!”
But they did not listen.
The first wave hit, barreling into him with such force, it stole his breath. In the short reprieve before another came, he yelled again.
“You’re useless! Just like your owner!”
The second wave was jarring, and he could not hold his breath through it, the water burning as it slipped down his throat and into his lungs. He coughed violently, unprepared for the next wave, and as the water surrounded him, he knew for certain that he was going to die. It did not matter that he was a god and could heal on his own. The sea was all-consuming, and he could not breathe in this dark and violent place, could not take the pain searing his chest and swelling in his throat—and then suddenly, a strange calm came over him, and he felt nothing.
For a few sweet moments, he was simply…numb.
But then he surfaced as Hermes’s sandals carried him above the fierce waves. Dionysus inhaled a painful breath, choking as he vomited water. He wanted to curse the shoes, but his throat hurt too bad to speak, so he just hung there as the ocean churned beneath his head, and he fell into unconsciousness.
It was a horrific smell that roused Dionysus. When he opened his eyes, he came face-to-face with the cockeyed gaze of a sheep.
“Baa!” the animal shrieked at the same time as Dionysus screamed. He clamped a hand over his mouth, both to shut himself up but also to keep from punching the sheep. Though the urge was still there.
Ariadne would be very disappointed if you punched a sheep, he reminded himself.
“Gods, why do you do that?” he demanded.
“Baa!” the sheep answered.
“Shut up!” he snapped as he rose into a sitting position, his head spinning for a brief moment.
He glanced at the sheep and then around, realizing that this place was familiar. He had come to the shore of Thrinacia.
Dionysus looked down, relieved to find that Hermes’s sandals were still strapped to his feet, and then back at the sheep.
“What is that smell?” he asked.
The sheep replied with another loud cry, and while its breath was rancid, it did not compare to what permeated the island air.
This was something far, far worse. It was a smell that had memory, even after it had long since dissipated.
It was the smell of death.
Dread pooled low in Dionysus’s stomach. It was possible the smell came from the decaying body of the ophiotaurus, but even he knew that was wishful thinking. Something else had happened here.
Something terrible.
He exchanged a look with the sheep, who still lingered nearby. The animal opened its mouth, bleating loudly before turning to lead him into the thick of the forest. Though he did not think he needed an escort to return to the cyclops’s cave, following the creature provided some comfort as they navigated the dense terrain and rocky mountainside. All the while, the smell of rot grew worse and worse.
Dionysus had never thought long on the power of a smell, but this was like walking into a solid wall, and no matter how hard he pushed against it, it never moved. It just sat in the air, coating his clothes and stinging his nose.
By the time they made it to the mouth of the cyclops’s cave, his eyes were watering, his nose was dripping, and he thought that at any moment, he would vomit, but he had found the source of the smell.
It was not just the ophiotaurus that lay within, rotting.
The cyclops was too.
Polyphemus.
His graying form lay like a mountain near the spring Dionysus had turned to wine. Hesitantly, he approached, one arm drawn over his nose, not that it could keep the smell at bay. Still, he wondered what had happened to the creature. He seemed to be in the same position as before, when he had passed out in his drunken state, except as Dionysus rounded the creature’s shoulder, he found that his eye was stabbed through with a spear.
The cyclops had been murdered.
Dionysus peered into the darkness, wondering who had carried out the attack, though they seemed to be long gone by now. Perhaps the old man who had asked him to perform the execution had followed and finished the job. Whatever the case, he wondered what sort of curse would haunt the person who left him unburied.
Dionysus moved past the cyclops and made his way farther into the cave, suffocated by the scent of death, until he found Bully’s remains.
He stood in mournful silence, thinking about how the creature had protected Ariadne. Though a monster with a serpent body and the head of a bull, he was a harmless creature who was more frightened than violent. Still, the Fates had assigned him a terrible destiny, but that was their nature: cruelty.
After a few seconds, he knelt and began to dig, using a sharp rock to make a trench beside Bully’s body. When it was deep enough, he took the creature by the horns, hoping to pull his entire body into the pit, but he was so decomposed, only half of him made it, and Dionysus was forced to push what remained into the grave with his foot.
It was terrible, and the smell never lessened.
When he was finished, he covered the creature with a bed of soil. It was all he could manage before he raced from the mouth of the cave and vomited.
It was there as he bent with his hands on his knees that something struck him from behind, and he had the thought that his head was going to explode right before he lost consciousness. Again.
