Medusa, A Love Story (Loves of Olympus 1)

Little did they know that death had found them.

She pulled the wrap from her head, freeing the creatures with one sure movement. It slipped from her hands, falling to the sand with no sound. Her feet crept forward as the red haze descended over her eyes. The serpents had taken over and led her nimbly, eagerly, towards their prey.

As she made her way into the light of their campfires, the men began to react. One stood suddenly, his face a mask of horror. But he turned, crackling to a brittle shell before the other men had time to react.

A shout went up, and one man threw a spear. It sailed past her, cleaving a serpent from her head and igniting a fire in her temple. The man was caught that way, his hand aloft as he’d released his missile.

There were more than she’d thought, too many to count. The snakes turned a handful quickly, turning five more before the pain in her head, her wound, forced her to withdraw into the shadows.

She fell, praying the soldiers would follow her and end this chore for her. As she lay on her back, the serpents moved about her head and neck. Blood, hot and thick, flowed down her temple, marking the loss of her companion.

She felt no sorrow at the loss, only pain and frustration that she had not completed her task. She must, in order to gain Hera’s protection for the children.

She sat up, watching the men as they gaped at their stone comrades. Some were fearful, speaking in hushed tones. One began to chant, falling to his knees. She rested on one elbow, willing the pain to recede and her strength return.

Even her companions were distracted from

their prey. They seemed to recoil, twining into themselves – grieving over the loss of one of their own.

She waited until the throb in her head was bearable before venturing back onto the beach. She’d made Hera a bargain and she would see it through. She had not finished with these men, not yet.

When the beach was quiet, she walked amongst them. Contorted faces, defensive arms, wide eyes and pleading mouths fell still and silent. She touched one, flinching against the smooth hardness of the statue. How cold they were, how empty…

She had done this.

There was no time to grieve for them or for her. Hera had sent a boat. It would carry her to Crete – far from Athens and Ariston.

Peace was hers now. She would gladly go, gladly serve, knowing the children were safe – with Ariston.

###

“Is Polydectes such a tyrant?” Ares scoffed.

Poseidon knew the name, but cared little. Then he heard Aphrodite mutter, “It has nothing to do with Polydectes. This is about Perseus.”

Perseus? The boy was another of Zeus’ bastards.

Poseidon glanced at his brother. Why would Zeus risk angering Hera, his wife, by speaking of his bastard at council? There had been peace between them for some time now. Long enough for his brother to forget the wrath of his jealous wife? Surely not.

“We are speaking of Polydectes, sweet Aphrodite,” he answered.

She turned to him, a knowing smile on her perfect face as she whispered, “Are we? We shall see.”

Zeus was speaking loudly. “… shown troubling leadership. He is demanding every man in Seriphos give him a tribute, a horse.”

Poseidon laughed. “Every man? He demands a steep tribute, this king. What warrants such an extravagance?”

“Yes, husband, what is his purpose?” Hera’s eyes narrowed.

“Polydectes? Have we not discussed him before?” Demeter asked. “Is he not the same king who denied me tribute at Harvest?”

“He is,” Zeus nodded, relaxing ever so slightly – or so it seemed to Poseidon.

“The same king who misused sweet Chara. A beast of a man,” Aphrodite said.

Poseidon watched his brother closely, curious.

“He has long since forgotten his offerings to us,” Apollo said. “He has claimed that Seriphos suffers poor harvests and famine.”