The Sixth Life of Medusa

35. The Helm of Darkness

Poseidon rested his head on her lap and gazed up at her. Her eyes were vacant as she stared ahead, and her lips were marked with self-inflicted bite wounds. Yet to him, she was still beautiful.

It has been a full day since her husband's death, and she has yet to give a satisfactory reaction. Even having her dressed in a black chiton, the see-through type that guaranteed humiliation, had triggered nothing but more lip biting. Her vacant stare remained as she was led through the opulent hall holding revelling gods, dancers and servants.

Her husband had been a delight, offering a rich array of emotions before he was reduced to ashes. But things had taken an... intriguing turn with Rea. She had sensed something amiss the moment he embraced her, despite her husband's face masking his own. Not that it mattered. He always preferred his lovers reluctant.

What Poseidon had found both amusing and mildly infuriating was this stubborn insistence to remain absent yet present. In a bid to get a reaction, he'd killed her son instead of giving the child his blood as he initially planned. And she had flatly watched, not even turning away at his last moments.

How? Did she hate her family? No-no. Poseidon shook his head. Rea loved her family, especially that bumbling scholarly husband of hers.

Maddening curiosity and determination burned in Poseidon. This was good. This was very good. It's been centuries since he last witnessed a similar composure in the face of sudden tragedy.

Smiling, he brought a finger to the corner of her battered lips and pushed it up. "Come on, Rea. Would you not smile for your husband?"

Though her husband's face was average at best, he still wore it for her sake, but she wouldn't even look at him.

"Ah, blood. You know?" Poseidon brought her limp, cold hand to his lips and kissed it. "You remind me of a burrow anglerfish. Elusive creatures found in the Neerid Deep. They have this...this hanging lamp extending from their head, packed full with aether."

He rubbed the back of her hand against his jaw and continued talking. "Disturb its habitat, catch it, expose it to sunlight. It pretends it's fine. Pretends it's fine. Swimming in circles for days and days—even months, pretending it's fine. Then suddenly!" Poseidon clapped. Not even a flinch from her. "It bursts like an overripe hupa melon, offering the most bountiful harvest of aether."

Tightly embracing her slender waist, Poseidon pressed his ear against her chest. From the moment he harvested her little town, he'd been listening. The heartbeat never lies. "Rea. Rea. Rea. My lovely anglerfish. Keep pretending you're fine; it'll be worth it in the end."

And by Nyx, where was Athena? Poseidon scowled as he looked beyond the gauzy curtains of his booth. Were his calculations wrong?

Theologos' stone slab and her encounter with the hag must be shredding that over-analytical mind by now. To cool off, she'd visit Tartarus. The plan was to make it seem like their second encounter in less than two days was purely coincidental.

"Do you know..." Poseidon flicked his wrist and held a pulsing red stone between two fingers. "Your husband and child are not dead... yet."

He was past expecting a reply, but he showed her the stone anyway. "Their lives are an offering. A gift to the gods who permit mortals to exist."

To Poseidon's shock, her gaze dropped to the stone. Even though her eyes remained empty, at least she'd looked. He responded to her reaction like a thirsty man, pleasure racing through every vein.

"You looked! Haha." He grinned up at her, but she resumed her forward stare.

Poseidon sensed the shift in the air before the sound of the harps and flutes lowered to silence. Athena's aura, a mix of jasmine and something else, wafted into the hall as the tall doors silently swung open. The hall manager, a robust low deity, huffed over and offered a bouncy bow, which Athena accepted with a gracious smile.