Neon Gods by Katee Robert
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Electric Idol
“Bring me her heart.”
“Yes, you said that already.” I don’t look up from my phone as my mother paces from one side of the room to the other, her skirt swishing about her legs. Knowing her, she chose her clothing today in order to maximize her dramatic flouncing.
She’s nothing if not a showwoman.
“And yet you’re still sitting here.” She spins on her tall heel and glares down at me. She’s fifty, and though she’d skin me alive for saying as much in public, no wrinkle or gray hair betrays her. She spends a fortune to keep her skin smooth and her hair a perfect icy blond. Not to mention the countless hours with her personal trainer to accomplish a body twenty-year-olds would kill for. All in the name of her title, Aphrodite. When one has the role of the goddess of love, one must meet certain expectations.
It’s unfortunate for everyone that my mother takes replicating the original Aphrodite’s reputation to heart. The goddess wasn’t exactly known for her even temperament, after all, and my mother is even worse than her namesake.
“Eros, put down that goddamned phone and listen to me.”
“I’m listening.” My bored tone betrays my waning patience, but I’d like to fast forward past all the dramatics to where she tells me what she wants done and I take care of it so she can keep her hands lily white. “You’re going to have to be more specific, Mother. Do you literally want her heart?”
She makes a sound suspiciously like a hiss. “You are such a little shit. Call me by my title or nothing at all.” This is the Aphrodite she doesn’t show anyone else in Olympus. Only I get the dubious privilege of witnessing what a monster my mother truly is.
But then, I’m not one to throw stones.
I make a show of turning off my phone and giving her my full attention. “You’re about to send me out on another one of you little errands, so why don’t you dial it back and give me a pretty smile before you ask me again—this time with more details.”
Another person would flinch in the face of my mild tone with the threat of violence beneath it. Aphrodite just laughs. “Eros, darling, you really are too much. You know very well that I want her literal heart. After what Demeter pulled last fall, nothing else will do. With Hades in her corner and the new Zeus untried, she’s throwing her weight around as if she’s anything other than a glorified farmer.”
Considering Demeter is responsible for ensuring that all of Olympus gets fed, and Aphrodite mostly handles arranging for vapid Olympians to marry other vapid Olympians, one could argue that Demeter should be in charge.
That’s not how Olympus works, though. No matter what my mother thinks, there will never be one ruler of this city. Instead, we get the Thirteen. Zeus, Poseidon, Hades, Aphrodite, Demeter, Artemis, Hephaestus, Ares, Athena, Hermes, Dionysus, and Apollo. And, of course, Hera, though that title will be unoccupied until the newest Zeus marries someone and fills the position.
That’swhat my mother should be focusing on. She arranged all three marriages for the last Zeus—the fucker kept killing off his wives, which suited my mother quite nicely, as she loves a wedding and hates everything that follows. She should be frothing at the mouth to parade Olympus’s eligible people in front of the new Zeus.
Instead, she’s hyper-focusing on her revenge. It’s annoying as hell. “How’s Zeus doing these days?” Up until a few months ago, he was Perseus, but names are the first thing sacrificed at the altar of the Thirteen. Part of me wonders if that bothers him. I let the thought drift away. Perseus isn’t my problem. He’s been Zeus’s heir for his entire life. He knew he’d take the title when his father died. If it happened a bit earlier than anyone expected… Well, that’s also not my problem. I didn’t kill the asshole.
“Don’t change the subject,” she snaps. “Ever since Persephone ran off and shacked up with Hades, the power balance in Olympus is off. Someone needs to check Demeter, and if no one else will step up, then we’ll have to.”
“You mean I’ll have to. You might be demanding a heart, but we both know that I’m the one doing all the work.” It’s not even that I mind it, exactly, though I try to keep murder to a minimum. It’s messy and I have no desire for someone to start calling for my head. It’s so much easier to remove an opponent with a well-placed rumor or simply observe them until their own actions provide the ammunition for their downfall. Olympus is filled to the brim with sin, if one believes in that sort of thing, and no one in the Thirteen’s shining circle is without their fair share of vices.
Except, apparently, Demeter’s daughters.
I’ve been keeping an eye on them for months, ever since the old Zeus decided he wanted Persephone for his own. I snort. For all that good that did him. He drove her right into Hades’s arms, which in turn, brought Hades out of the shadows of the lower city. No one saw that coming.
But the bottom line is that the remaining three of Demeter’s daughters are careful to color inside the lines. They don’t drink too much, they don’t do drugs, they don’t date or sleep with anyone they shouldn’t. The most scandalous thing any of them have done in the last two months is when Callisto, the oldest, attacked a guy who grabbed her youngest sister’s ass in a bar. It was a gorgeous takedown. One second he was leering at Eurydice, and the next she’d punched him in the throat, knocking him on his ass, and said something in his ear that made him turn a sickly shade of green.
If I have my choice, I wouldn’t cross Callisto. I’m better than she is, but she’s got a rage that makes her unpredictable. Being unpredictable makes her dangerous.
“Eros.” Mother snaps her fingers in front of my face. “Stop daydreaming and do this task for me.”
I sigh. “Which daughter?”
“The daughter no one but her mother will miss.” She smiles slowly, her blue eyes going icy. “Psyche.”
Years of training keep my response to a minimum. I should have known Psyche would be her choice. Callisto is a wild card and as likely to harm Demeter’s reputation as help it. Persephone is untouchable as Hades’s dark queen of the lower city. That leaves Psyche and Eurydice. Eurydice is sweet and as close to innocent as someone can be in Olympus, even with her recent heartbreak. Beyond that, she flits back and forth across the River Styx and spends too much time in Hades’s domain to risk messing with.
Psyche?
She’s something else entirely. She plays the game and plays it well, all without seeming to. She’s got this unassuming thing going on, but I’ve been watching her long enough to notice that she never makes a move by accident. I can’t prove it, of course, but I think she’s got just as savvy a brain in her head as her mother does. “The daughter no one will miss?” I raise my brows. “Or an excuse to punish the Dimitriou daughter who gets more press than you do?”
She sneers. “She’s a fat girl with little style and no substance. The only reason MuseWatch and the other sites follow her around is because she’s a novelty. She’s not even close to my league.”
I don’t argue with her because there’s no point, but the truth is that Psyche is gorgeous and has a style that sets trends in a way Aphrodite can only dream of. Which is exactly the problem. My mother’s decided to take down two birds with one stone.
“The reason is irrelevant.” She props her hands on her hips. “I want this taken care of, Eros. You have to do this for me.”
Something in my chest twinges, but I ignore it. If I believed in souls, I would have sacrificed mine long ago. There is a price for power in Olympus, and with a mother in the Thirteen, I never had a chance at innocence. I don’t mourn the loss, not when I enjoy the benefits so immensely. If it means that sometimes I’m required to do these little tasks for my mother? It’s a small enough price to pay. “I’ll see it done.”
“Before the end of the month.”
That doesn’t give me much time at all. I stomp down on the flicker of resentment and nod. “I’ll see it done.”
“Good.” She twirls away, her skirt once again flaring dramatically around her feet, and strides out of the room.
That’s my mother, all right. Here for the proclamations of revenge and heavy with the demands, but when it comes time to actually do the work, she’s suddenly got somewhere to be.
It’s just as well. I’m good at what I do because I know when to be flashy and when to fly below the radar. Aphrodite wouldn’t know how to be subtle if her life depended on it. I wait a full thirty seconds before I push to my feet and walk to my front door. If she changes her mind and comes back to spout off some more bullshit, she’ll be pissed to find my door locked, but I don’t like being interrupted once I get to planning.
And, frankly, it’s good for my mother to be foiled from time to time.
I head down to the ground floor and flip the lock there and then lock the actual door to my apartment for good measure. Then I head through the rooms to the safe room. Oh, it’s not technically a safe room even if I like to refer to it as such. I use it to store things I don’t want nosy guests—or Hermes—to get their hands on. She’s tried at least a dozen times to break into it, and so far my security has held, but I’m all too aware that eventually she might prevail. Still, it’s the best option available to me.
Once I lock that door, I sit down behind my computer and consider my options. This would be so much simpler if Aphrodite just wanted to make a non-lethal example of Psyche. She might be crafting a reputation as an influencer in that quiet way of hers, but reputations are easy to burn to ash. I’ve done it dozens of times over the years, and no doubt I’ll do it many more. All it takes is some patience and the ability to play the long game.
But no, my mother wants her literal heart. How very Evil Queen of her. I shake my head and bring up my files on the Dimitriou sisters. I have files on all the Thirteen and their immediate family, as well as close friends, but Demeter is a relatively new addition. She’s been around over a decade, and since then her daughters have become something of favorites among the Olympian paparazzi. There’s not a week goes by without some kind of info about them being dropped on the online gossip site MuseWatch.
I click through the most recent articles, if one can call them that. Persephone visited her family last weekend briefly and caused quite the stir because she brought her new husband with her. The Hades-Demeter alliance is one nobody saw coming, and it’s feeding into my mother’s paranoia. She had the last Zeus on a leash, but his son hasn’t taken the bait she keeps dangling in front of him. It’s got her worried.
I stop on a picture of Psyche and Persephone together shopping. They always seem to be shopping. It’s enough that someone who isn’t paying close attention would assume they’re just as focused on appearance and power and money as the rest of those who surround the Thirteen. Everyone with a little bit wants more than what they have, and they’re all willing to drag others down to claw their way higher, closer to the Thirteen.
But then, if that were true, Persephone Dimitriou wouldn’t have braved crossing into the lower city to try to get away from a marriage with Zeus.
Psyche wouldn’t have helped her.
Even I’m not sure exactly what happened that night, but I know Psyche was involved—and it wasn’t to play the part of the rational party convincing her sister that this marriage would help their family’s position. If they were any other family, Psyche would have taken advantage of her sister’s absence and placed herself in front of Zeus as a candidate for the new Hera.
I study the image of her. She’s got long dark hair and pouty full lips that she never seems to wear bright color on. There’s a reason that she’s become something of a trend setter in Olympus. She’s never overt about it, but one week she’ll be wearing high-waisted pants and a flouncy crop top and within two weeks, I’m seeing the look everywhere. The fact that she’s plus-sized only makes people watch her more closely. She seems comfortable in her body, and that kind of thing is sexy as hell.
Or it would be if I was interested in someone like Psyche Dimitriou.
I curse and close the window. It doesn’t matter if she’s hot as hell, or that I respect the way she’s so effectively dodged the power games since her family arrived on the scene. My mother has a task, and I know the consequences of failing.
Exile.
I might not love Olympus most days, but it’s my home. Normally the threat of exile would be bullshit—it’s not easy to leave this city, and that’s for people who actually want to get out—but when your mother is one of the Thirteen, anything is possible.
Best not to think about that too closely. I’ll take care of the task and then I’ll find a few partners and lose myself in a week of fucking and drinking and anything it takes to numb me out completely. Just like I always have.
I already know how to lure Psyche in. She might not play the power games, but she’s got a weak spot a mile wide. With another curse, I pick up my phone.
A chirpy female voice answers. “Eros, my favorite little sex god. It’s my lucky day.”
“Hermes.”
She gives a sigh. “So it’s business, then?”
“If it was personal, you’d be breaking into my house and eating my food. But I suppose you’re too busy doing that to Hades’s house these days.” She and I have hooked up a few times over the years, but ultimately settled into something resembling friendship. I don’t necessarily trust her—her title is practically spymaster, after all—but I like her.
“Don’t be mad just because Hades banned you from his sex dungeon. You would have done the same thing in his position.”
She’s right, but that doesn’t mean I’m about to admit it. When Hades cut me off, he cut off my main outlet to blow off steam. “I have a message I’d like you to deliver, but it’s delicate in nature.”
A pause. “Okay, you have my attention. Stop toying with my emotions and tell me what you’re up to.”
I allow myself a grin as I sketch out what I need from her. Hermes’s role in the Thirteen is a little bit messenger, a little bit spy, a little bit agent of chaos for her own amusement. Her only real allegiance is to Dionysus and even then, I’m not sure that friendship would hold if things got really intense. He’s not my aim, so I have no doubt she’ll do exactly as I request.
When I finish, she gives a merry laugh. “Eros, you sly rake, you. I’ll have the message delivered by morning.” She hangs up before I can respond.
I sit back with a sigh and rub my chest. No matter my personal thoughts on this, things are in motion.
Psyche Dimitriou will be dead before the end of the week.
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