The Sixth Life of Medusa

16. The Red God

Ares sensed it the instant he stepped out of the box. The buzz at the nape of his neck, though faint, was unmistakable.

There was a cursed being in the vicinity.

Quite odd. Ares knew the identity of every cursed immortal in Cosmolith, so whoever this was must have sprung up within the fifty years he was away from Tartarus.

Eyes reduced to slits, his gaze roamed the busy lobby of the auction house. An obscene amount of luminescent orbs illuminated every nook and exposed Plutus' ridiculous obsession with gold. It was almost blinding at this point.

There were more gods present than mortals, but no matter how hard he strained his senses, he couldn't pinpoint the location of the one bearing the curse. Strange occurrences like this reinforced Ares' loathing for Tartarus. Olympus was odd but this place was a thousand times more so behind its facade of normalcy.

Shaking off his curiosity, Ares strolled past the lobby and ignored the all-teeth-and-eager-to-help attendants who approached him. He took the walkway to his left and made his way deeper into the establishment.

He planned to be quick with this business. Purchase the thnitos elixir and find a probably unhinged mortal willing to bear the risk of taking his blood. That part should be easy.

A bitter laugh escaped as Ares massaged the bridge of his nose. "By Nyx, I'm running on the bloody palm of his hand."

At the end of a secluded corridor, Ares halted before an iron door. Intricate runic patterns adorned the frame above it, emitting a faint amber glow.

Chuffing, Ares pushed the door open and strolled into the cluttered room. He wrinkled his nose at the abhorrent smell of old parchments mixed with dyed sealing wax.

"At least open the windows," Ares said with a displeased huff.

The room's only occupant, a portly man with a wispy beard and large nose, looked up from what resembled an observation orb and narrowed his eyes. "Greetings?"

There was caution in his voice, probably because of the hooded robe Ares wore and how easily he rendered the high-grade lock on the door useless.

Grabbing one of the chairs by the wall, Ares dragged it over and straddled it. The colour drained from the low-deity's face when he pushed his hood away.

"Gallam." Ares flashed a smile. "It's been what? Five? Six decades since we last met. I see you've done quite well for yourself." He made a show of looking around. Though the room was a treasure trove, nothing snagged Ares' interest.

Gallam surged to his feet, his large belly heaving with the hurried movement. "This servant greets the red god."

Ares glared at Gallam's bowed head. "It's Ares. Say it. Your lips will not burn." It's been centuries and he still longed for a meeting with the clod who started the tasteless rumour about his name bearing a curse.

"H-how can I—"

"Say. It." Ares allowed a minute fraction of his essence to leak out. Items toppled off a shelf and clattered to the floor.

Gallam squeaked and bowed again, his forehead nearly touching the table. "A-Ares."

"Quite easy, yes?" Ares extinguished his essence and went straight to business. "I need information on all training schools in Tartarus."

Straightening, Gallam wiped his sweaty brow with the sleeve of his robe. "All the schools?"

Ares cocked his head and glared at the merchant. "Are you hard of hearing?"

"All the schools." Gallam nodded hard enough to make his jowls vibrate. "Of course. Of course." He hurried to the shelf to his right and began retrieving scroll canisters. Ares counted about five. There were five schools now? Fifty decades ago there were only three—another unsettling change.