Chapter 41 | The Devil of Siren City

ZEUS LEANED OVER THE WAR ROOM TABLE.

He scanned the photos lying on top through the holes of his mask. There were four photos. Each one a location throughout Old Town, just north of Market Street. Each one showing a sigil written on walls in golden yellow paint.

His sigil.

A two-pronged pitchfork surrounded by ocean waves.

Zeus rolled his fists. “And there are no others?” he asked.

Ares cleared his throat before speaking. “None we’ve found, sire,” he said, standing a few feet behind Zeus. “I have teams on the ground now. If there are more, they’ll be removed within the hour.”

Zeus exhaled slowly through his nose. That wasn’t nearly fast enough. “How many have seen them?” he asks.

“We’re not sure—”

“Be sure,” he said through his teeth.

“We can’t be sure,” Ares said, doing his best not to flinch. “But they weren’t up long. Maybe an hour, at most.”

Zeus pressed his fists even harder against the glass table. “Every second that passes is long enough for this rot to spread throughout Olympus.”

“I understand, sire. I’ll put another team on it immediately.”

“Put every man you have on it,” Zeus growled. “We cannot allow for this ghost to interfere with our plans. I want this sigil banned. Immediately. Send out the decree.”

“Sire…” Ares chose his words carefully as he regarded Zeus with his good eye. “Perhaps it might be best to wait. At the moment, this is merely graffiti, harmless street art. The ghost itself is… just a rumor. If we shine a spotlight on it, I fear it’ll only spread further—”

Zeus pounded the table, cracking the glass beneath. Ares flinched. “Then you catch every rat who knows about it! You drag them from their homes, beat them in the streets, and then you hang them from posts along the boardwalk until every last one of them is dead!”

Ares swallowed. He said not a word as Zeus’s rage echoed throughout the War Room.

“Hades is dead, and he will stay dead or else I will raze his precious Old Town to the ground and piss on the ashes!”

Zeus pushed off the shattered table. He took a moment to compose himself, to straighten his jacket and set his mask back into place over his nose. Then, he took a breath and said, “See to it, Ares.”

“Yes, sire.”

Zeus walked to the tinted windows, his eyes on the Olympian sky. His sky. His city.

Not Hades’. Not anymore.

And never again shall be.

He followed the streets southward toward the bridge and along the harbor. There, now, hid a ghost. Zeus still wasn’t sure he believed the rumors. He’d yet to see this ghost for himself, and he wouldn’t allow himself to believe it until he did.

Hera, however… she believed.

Hera. His beautiful Hera.

Just when she was free. Just when she was ready to see the sun again, Hades sent her right back into the shadows.

Zeus wouldn’t let his darkness take her light again. Not this time.

Zeus felt a quiver of excitement in his stomach despite himself. If Hades was truly alive, then Zeus longed for the moment when he’d come face-to-face with him once again.

“Show yourself, you bastard,” he whispered softly, briefly catching his masked reflection in the tinted glass.

Show yourself, Adrian.

Then, I’ll finish the job I started.

“Sire?”

Zeus angled his head to show he was listening.

“It seems the vandal has been apprehended,” Ares said, a bit of pride in his voice. “Rouge is bringing him in now.”

Zeus and Ares entered the elevator and rode it deep underground to sub-level four. It’s a level Zeus rarely went to himself — he had people who would get their hands dirty for him — but he wanted to question this vandal himself.

Within a few minutes, Rouge and his team exited the elevator. The vandal in question was half-dragged-half-pushed along, his hands and ankles chained and shackled.

Rouge looked up when he noticed his father waiting, and he straightened up entirely when he saw Zeus himself standing beside him. “Sire,” he said, quickly giving a respectful bow. “We’ve brought in the man responsible for the sigils.”

“What’s your evidence?” Ares asked.

“We spotted him on Market Street,” Rouge answered promptly. “In the alley between Third and Fourth. He was painting another sigil on the wall.” Rouge slid a backpack off his shoulder and opened the main compartment. “He carried this as well.”

Ares checked inside, finding three other cans of spray paint. All gold. “And the other sigil?”

“Wiped clean, as ordered, sir.”

Ares nodded and looked at Zeus, his obvious pride for his son shining through his one good eye.

Zeus noted it. “Good work,” he said to the young man.

Rouge bowed. “Thank you, sire.”

Zeus followed the others into the first cell. The vandal sat in the center chair, his chains connected to a bolt on the floor. He leaned forward, his dirt brown hair fallen over his eyes, tattered with sweat. Blood dripped from a wound on his brow, falling in a broken line between his eyes and along his busted nose. He took rapid breaths, each one as shallow as the last as he sat at an angle, clearly favoring one side.

Zeus eyed the golden yellow paint stain on his hands. “Do you know why you’re here?” he asked.

The vandal said nothing.

“The sigil,” Zeus said after a minute. “Do you know what it means?”

The vandal spit out blood, purposefully aiming for Zeus’ shoes.

Centurians lurched forward. Zeus raised his hand to stop them, unbothered, and they eased back into place by the walls.

Zeus knelt to get a better angle of his face. The man was old and tired, too old for children’s pranks like this. “Why did you paint this sigil?” he asked.

“False god.”

Zeus’ eye twitched. “What did you say?”

The vandal spat again. “We do not answer to false gods,” he said.

“We?” Zeus caught. “There are others?”

Laughing, the vandal showed his bloody teeth. “He lives,” he whispered.

“You’ve seen him?” Zeus leaned closer. “Where?”

“Everywhere.” The old man’s eyes widened. “The Devil hears all, sees all. And when he sees what you’ve done to his kingdom…” He smirked. “You will beg for his mercy.”

“I beg to no one,” Zeus said, his temper churning. “Now, tell me why you painted these sigils.”

The old man’s chin lurched to one side. “We paint them… to give his people…”

“What?” Zeus asked. “Give them what?”

He looked at Zeus, fearlessly. “Hope.”

With that, the old man bit down, destroying the capsule pinched between his teeth. Centurians rushed forward again, but it was already too late to stop him from swallowing the cyanide burning his throat.

Zeus stood. He watched the old man die as his final word echoed in his thoughts.

Hope.

The sigils gave Hades’ people hope.

“Sire?”

Zeus turned to Ares. “Search him,” he said. “Find out who he is, then seek out his family.” He stared into Ares’ eye. “Start with them.”

Ares’ lips parted, an argument on his breath. But he closed his mouth quickly, then nodded once. “Yes, sire,” he said.

Zeus walked out of the cell.

He did not look back.