Furious

Chapter Three

"Gods? Like Hercules and Zeus and those gods?" His eyes darkened at the mention of the only two Greek gods I could remember and his lips puckered ever so slightly before he caught himself and reigned in whatever displeasure he experienced. "You can't be serious. And what makes you think I'll eat anything that you've cooked?"

Poison was a good reason to stay away from his food—even if it did smell deliciously edible. Rohypnol was another. Pride another still.

"You want answers, you'll eat. It's just that simple really." He waved his hand towards the chair before him, less an invitation now and more of a demand. It was the seat to the right of the head of the table; the Right Hand Man's chair. I sat wordlessly because, let's be honest, I wanted answers. As much as I wanted to go home and pretend this whole day had just been a really bad, really lucid dream, I knew that there would always be that lingering 'what if' thought if I never so much as listened to him.

Or if I never figured out the right questions to ask. Remember how satisfaction brought that cat back to life? If the curiosity killed me I had hope that what came next would revive all signs of life in my corpse.

And that eventually I could go home, because at some point I had stopped trying to convince myself that this was a dream.

I stalled, feigning interest. "Why don't gods need to eat?"

"Gods feed on energy and ambrosia, not peanut butter and jelly."

A snort escaped my mouth before I could stop it. "Is that the best combination you can come up with?"

He did not answer.

The room we stood in was the most ornately furnished room I had ever had the privilege of entering, a dining room worthy of kings and queens and all manner of nobility: intricately-carved chairs and a ten-foot table, tapestries depicting a world far greener than anything I'd ever seen; a chandelier made of a million light-catching gems hung in the center of the room, not attached to the ceiling, just floating on its own. The carpet under my feet looked brand new—it squished with each step—the newest adornment in the room when compared to the silver place settings and the wall hangings.

In sixth grade we took a trip to the Chicago Art Institute. Sarah dragged me around to see the Van Gogh exhibit and we lost the rest of the class. These paintings, tapestries, candlesticks, even the carpet, looked like they belonged in the museum, carefully behind glass with wide perimeters rather than within arm's reach. I had an odd urge to touch every single piece just because I knew I shouldn't. Instead I looked at the only other living entity in the room, accidentally into the brown eyes that hadn't looked away from me. He belonged here, somehow; it wasn't an obvious fit, but I had the distinct feeling that he would be out of place in, say, a mall or rock concert or a high school. Maybe it was the air about him, or the way he carried himself, as if he had been the subject of one of the portraits. I tried to ignore him in favor of the artwork surrounding us.

"Your entire place looks like the Renaissance threw up in it."

"Thank you. I think." He cleared his throat through his pleased smile, vying for my attention. I wasn't exactly sure my comment was a compliment but he seemed to enjoy the way I appreciated his art.

Pride oozed from him; pride in his decorating skills and pride in me, though misplaced. Should I forget how Mysterio kidnapped me I would never lose the mental image of the way he looked at me.

Hungry. Proud. Excited.

Not that I would claim to understand him: first he kidnaps me, then he offers me food, he takes me to a museum where I'm allowed to touch all of the ancient pieces I want, and he pulls out my chair. Chivalry is not dead! But what kind of crazy person steals someone away only to treat her with kindness?