Blood of Hercules: Chapter 4

Alexis

“Five minutes until the test is over,” the proctor announced from the front of the gymnasium. Mercenaries stood around the perimeter with their Spartan guns on display.

“Finish writing your answers,” she said. “Remember, after pricking your finger, do not press your finger to the paper—squeeze your finger and let your blood drip into both bubbles . . . you only need a small amount.”

Papers rustled as hundreds of students flipped pages.

My hand cramped around my pencil as I wrote desperately. Twelve hours of testing had taken its toll.

The clock ticked.

They couldn’t have given us another hour?

I focused desperately on finishing my essay on the physics of quantum mechanics—the answer had to be written in Latin.

As the Spartan merit test progressed, the difficulty of the questions increased exponentially.

Halfway through, every question had to be answered in Latin. From the amount of flipping the other students were doing, I was the only one on the last question.

“Three minutes left!”

Crap, what is the Latin word for “quantum chromodynamics” or “quarks”?

Sweat dripped down my sides.

A translation was on the tip of my tongue, but the time was taunting me.

“One minute left!”

I scribbled down “parva pila,” which translated roughly to “small spheres.” It wasn’t exactly correct, so I hastily scribbled out the context and hoped it would be enough to⁠—

A bell rang.

“Time’s up—everyone put your pencils down!” the proctor announced. “Teachers will come around and collect your tests. Make sure your name is written on the front page. Take the time now, if you haven’t already, to prick your fingers and fill in the two bubbles on the last page.”

I slumped over in my seat and pulled my hood up over my head, gasping like I’d run for miles.

If you didn’t score high enough, you and Charlie are doomed.

My hands trembled.

Breathe, calm down. It didn’t seem too difficult, and you got through everything.

“Is it finally over?” Nyx asked from underneath my sweatshirt. “I don’t know what’s going to kill me first, the hunger or the boredom.”

“I told you to stay at home,” I whispered.

Nyx coiled tighter around my stomach. “And leave you to fend for yourself?”

“I’m nineteen—I don’t need a babysitter.”

“Kid, I’m not a babysitter. I’m a full-time nanny, without any of the benefits of getting to kill people. My life is tragic.”

“Oh yes, such a calamity.” My teeth chattered from the adrenaline of taking such a long test. “Also, what nannies get to kill people?” I asked in confusion.

“The good ones,” Nyx said. “Who actually protect the children—obviously.”

Nothing was obvious to me in this situation.

“You’re so weird,” I whispered.

The student sitting in front of me turned around and gave me a strange look.

They wrinkled their nose.

I sank lower in my seat, rubbing at the hair ties on my wrist. The holes in my sweatshirt sleeves mocked me.

You’ve survived high school. You never have to see these people again.

An unfamiliar teacher walked slowly down the rows, collecting tests. She stopped and asked each student a question, so it took forever.

I tapped my foot to a classical melody only I could hear.

The ancient AC sputtered loudly and barely cooled the humid room. Gym lights flickered neon green and hummed as the power grid struggled to sustain so much electricity.

It was late June and humid.

I was trapped with hundreds of students, in the middle row, surrounded on all sides.

When the teacher finally got to me, I picked up my booklet and handed it to her, eager to be done and get out.

She took it with a smile and moved to the next⁠—

“Wait.” She handed me back my test. “You forgot to prick your finger—good thing I checked. Make sure to do both bubbles.”

Taking the sheet from her, I picked up the small finger-prick device we’d all been given and jammed it down on my finger. Blood spurted out.

“Oh, sweetie,” the teacher gasped. “Be gentle with yourself.”

I barely felt it.

“It’s f-fine.” I held my dripping finger over the two bubbles on the back.

Quickly, I handed the paper back to her.

Wiping my finger on my sweatshirt, I waited for her to walk away.

She didn’t move.

I looked up at her. What is it now?

Her face was pale, and the paper was shaking in her hands as she trembled.

“What’s happening?” Nyx hissed. “Why did your heart rate just increase?”

“I don’t know.”

The teacher didn’t move—she looked like she’d seen a Titan.

Her eyes flickered to my face, then back to the page, and her pupils were blown out. A tendril of smoke curled off the paper like it was on fire. She took a step away from me like she was afraid.

“What is it?” I asked.

Nyx’s warm scales slid against my neck. “What did you do to her?”

“Nothing.” I gripped my wrists tightly as phantom pain spiked up my arms. “I didn’t do anything.”

The teacher opened her mouth and closed it, like she couldn’t find any words. Students turned to see what the holdup was.

Whispers started.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood up.

The entire gym stared at us.

“Steal a gun from a mercenary,” Nyx said. “Shoot her in both legs, then run for it. Do it quickly. I’ll cover you.”

My eyelid twitched. “You can’t just shoot people,” I whispered (I wasn’t built like Dorean).

Nyx hissed, “Sorry I’m the only one of us actually trying to problem-solve.”

“Shooting people is not problem-solving,” I hissed back.

“That sounds like something someone would say—” Nyx paused dramatically. “—who’d never actually solved a problem.”

“You’re insane.”

“If I had opposable thumbs, the things I would do,” Nyx said. “The sexual moves I would try out, the positions I would⁠—”

“Please stop talking,” I begged.

Miraculously, Nyx listened.

Mr. Brewer walked quickly down the aisle toward the rapidly paling woman holding my test. “Julie, what is it? Why did you stop collecting the tests? We have to get out of⁠—”

She showed him the test, and he went dead silent. There was a rapidly growing hole on the page, and it was steaming, like someone had dripped poison on it.

Mr. Brewer staggered back.

“Protocol,” Mr. Brewer blurted out loudly, and every head in the gym turned to stare at him. He pulled a small handbook out of his back pocket and flipped through it. His hand was also shaking.

I wanted to retch.

“We need to call it in.” Mr. Brewer grabbed the teacher’s elbow and steered her through the desks toward the far wall of the gym. They stopped in front of the emergency phone.

Mr. Brewer took the hammer off the wall. Crash—he shattered the glass around the phone.

He dialed three numbers, and someone answered on the other side.

“Per protocol,” Mr. Brewer said with an unnaturally high pitch to his voice. “I’m reporting that we had a student whose blood turned the bubble yellow, and . . . then it burned through. No—it’s not the bottom creature bubble. No, it didn’t set the page on fire. It’s the . . . top bubble.”

The page disintegrated to ash in his hand.

“Yes . . . yes . . . yes . . . the page just disintegrated,” Mr. Brewer said into the phone.

Students turned in their desks and openly talked to one another as they glanced back at me with disgust.

Nyx clicked her teeth. “Everyone mind your own business,” she hissed.

No one heard her.

“The coordinates are . . .” Mr. Brewer squinted at the phone panel and read, “. . . 46.5891 degrees north and 112.0391 degrees west—yes, we are one-hundred-percent sure . . . yes . . . understood.”

He hung the phone back up on the wall.

Boom.

There was an explosion.

The gym shook. Desks clattered. Green lights turned off, then flickered rapidly.

A flash of white light burned my eyes, smoke billowed, and air gusted in a sharp burst like a bomb had detonated.

Two men stalked out of the smoke. They were Goliaths: extremely tall, covered in layers of muscles with tailored suits contoured to every curve of their unnaturally powerful bodies.

They glowered.

The lion of the House of Zeus was engraved on their chest pockets in gold.

“Where is he?” one man shouted.

The room went dead silent.

His voice echoed.

From their outfits, impressive physiques, and lack of crowns, it was obvious who they were—Olympian Spartan mutts from the House of Zeus.

Mr. Brewer pointed directly at me.

A pencil dropped off a desk, and students jumped at the loud sound. Nyx slithered tighter around my neck, and hissed, “Stay away from her!”

The two towering men stomped toward me.

I tasted blood.

“Take off your hood, son,” one of them bellowed. “Look us in the eyes when we speak to you!”

He ripped my sweatshirt off my head, then froze.

“It’s another girl, boss—fuck . . . not another one,” the other man said with a gasp.

The boss frowned. “I see.”

They moved closer.

I was surrounded.

Nyx tightened around my neck and hissed louder, “I’ll bite them, then you run. Just tell me when.”

Neither man reacted to her threat.

I couldn’t have responded even if I wanted to.

The boss scowled and spat, “Under article three of the test, impersonating a Spartan, and using Spartan blood, is a capital offense punishable by death—are you aware?”

“Holy shit, kid,” Nyx said, “I had no idea . . . did you know?”

The room spun faster.

“Yes or no?” he shouted in my face, his voice explosive and cruel. “We need your informed consent that you are aware of this. Answer me!”

The student in front of me burst into tears.

Another kid sobbed.

“ARE YOU AWARE?” he screamed, his spit spraying.

I blinked. “Y-Yes.”

Something silver flashed through the air, and my hand was held upward in a vise grip.

A thick needle was stabbed into my hand.

He pushed a syringe.

Silver liquid was emptied into my veins—iciness spread beneath my skin.

I stared at it blankly.

An orchestra played Chopin’s Funeral March.

The Spartan spoke, and it sounded like he was talking underwater. “Per the Spartan Federation’s merit test law, we’re giving you enough purified adrenaline to kill a Cyclops . . . if you’re actually an abandoned Spartan mutt—which is extremely rare—then you’ll survive.” He sounded doubtful as he held up a timer.

“But—if you’re a human who illegally obtained Spartan blood on the black market and are lying to me, then you’ll be dead in three minutes.”

He clicked the timer on.

There was a retching sound, and more students cried, which was confusing, since they weren’t the ones who had seconds left to live.

I stared at the needle in my hand blankly.

Damn.

My heart sank.

Charlie’s going to be devastated.

Also, Carl Gauss proved the fundamental theorem of algebra at twenty-one, and I haven’t discovered anything new in mathematics yet. How embarrassing.

The Spartan interrupted my mental breakdown.

“Humans are ridiculous. Another simpering girl trying to get close to the Crimson Duo. It’s a fucking epidemic.” He scoffed. “Kronos save us from that stupid web page. You’ve thrown away your life, young lady—and for what? Now you’re dead. You’re probably still fantasizing about them like an idiot⁠—”

If I die right now, I’ll never solve the Riemann Hypothesis. Just a few more months and I would have had it.

The Spartan shook his head with disgust.

“There hasn’t been a female mutt in centuries,” he said. “And while there are some heiresses, they’re the most honorable and pure of us all—you’re nothing like them.”

He gagged after he spoke, like the thought of comparing me to them made him sick, then continued ranting.

“An heiress would never be caught dead participating in any Spartan initiations, or found in a—” He looked around the room with disgust. “—dump like this.”

He shivered dramatically and muttered about dishonor and protecting the pure House ways.

He shook his head again. “Mutt or heiress, no Spartan would ever voluntarily abandon a female baby—it’s blasphemous.” His expression was horrified. “Our female numbers are so low.”

We stared at each other for a long awkward moment.

Is he waiting for me to say something?

I didn’t speak.

Unfortunately, he took that as a sign to continue. “Guess what, you’re not even the first one to do this—last year we had eighteen fraudulent positives, all simpering girls . . . do you think we like to waste resources leaping across the globe, only for you to be fangirls who we have to fucking murder? Kronos, it’s embarrassing the state humanity has fallen to. Fun fact, because you’re about to be six feet deep, mutts used to microdose on this stuff to compete with heirs, but that stopped because every single one of them went insane. Not that you need me to lecture you on insan⁠—”

The timer beeped, and the Spartan who’d been standing silently gaped at it. “Boss . . . look.” He held it up with wide eyes.

They stared at it.

Looked down at me.

Glanced back at it.

“Stand up,” the boss said softly to me.

Is he going to break my neck because the drugs didn’t work?

I didn’t move.

Crap. I’m not mentally ready to be snapped.

I covered my trachea.

“Alexis, you need to listen to him,” Nyx said with urgency. “Stand up now.”

With shaking knees, I pushed out of my desk and flexed my core, unsure what proper neck-breaking decorum was.

Should I try to crack it first to get it loose? Should I turn in the same direction to make it easier?

The Spartans stared down at me like they were telepathically willing me to drop dead, and I waited for them to attack. Somewhere in the afterlife, Carl Gauss waited for me (I was delusional).

We . . . kept . . . waiting.

I hummed with desperation.

Who knew getting murdered would be so awkward?

“Fuck, boss, holy Kronos—this is going to . . . it’s going to change everything. This is huge.”

The boss cleared his throat. “I know.”

He gently pulled the needle out of my skin. “Per article three,” he said, “you have been confirmed as an abandoned female Spartan mutt. You are hereby declared a citizen of Sparta.”

Wait . . . what?

“Are you nineteen years old?” he asked softly.

“Yes,” I whispered on numb lips.

He swallowed thickly. “Are you already associated with any of the twelve Spartan Houses, including heirship or sponsorship?”

“No.”

“Do you have any reason to believe that you are an heiress to a House?”

“No.”

“Under the article three amendments, all Chthonics are required to compete in the SGC at eighteen years old. They are also required to join the Assembly of Death, if they survive the crucible. Do you have any reason to believe you are Chthonic?”

“No.”

“Have you, at any point in time in your life, been recruited, lived with, or had any contact with a Titan?”

Foster Father begging at the bathroom door, “Please call the Spartans now. Please, children.” Foster Mother howling in agony as she was ripped to pieces.

“N-No,” I said.

“Do you have any reason to believe you failed to fill in both bubbles—and you also have a creature heritage?”

“No,” I whispered hoarsely. This is really happening.

“What’s your name?”

“Alexis.” I cleared my throat. “Hert.”

He took a step toward me. “Per article three.” His tone was grave. “Alexis Hert, you are now a candidate to initiate at the Spartan War Academy . . . immortality is not a right, but a privilege. May the fates guide you, child of Kronos.”

Time to panic.

He grabbed my arm and whispered, “Domus.”

The world exploded.

Smoke whipped around me. Agony flared along every one of my nerves, and I opened my mouth to scream, but darkness tore me to shreds, reality morphed into a⁠—

The excruciating pain stopped.

Loud noises thundered all around.

I stumbled.

We were no longer inside a green-lit gym.

We were outside.

The Spartan boss, the same terrifying man who’d screamed in my face, cupped my cheeks gently. “Good luck, child, you’re going to need it.” His voice filled with regret.

Sighing, he walked away.

The sky was gray with a rainy drizzle, and the air had a slight chill to it, like it was still spring and not late June.

There was wet sand beneath my feet.

Ears ringing, my jaw dropped as I spun in a circle.

A sparsely filled stadium towered around me, but the regal looking people and animals in the stands chanted loudly, “Amor fati, memento mori . . . amor fati, memento mori . . . amor fati, memento mori!”

Goosebumps prickled.

Remember death, love your fate.

No.

It couldn’t be.

It was.

The crowd was full of Spartans, their animal protectors, and creatures dressed in all-black robes.

Boys my age already stood on the sands, like they were waiting for something to begin.

They all turned and stared at me.

The highly upsetting chant echoed all around.

Jagged mountains towered behind the stadium, and the sun peeked out behind the clouds, but it had been late at night in the school gym.

The skyline was strangely familiar.

Oh my freakin’ god.

It hit me like a cigarette pressed against my flesh. At first, I felt nothing. Then the excruciating pain was overwhelming.

I staggered backward.

The Italian dolomites pierced the sky, which meant the awful agony had been the Spartan teleportation system.

My jaw dropped—we’d leaped halfway around the world.

I breathed shallowly as my heart twisted.

Charlie was hundreds of miles away.

Around me was the Dolomites Coliseum where the SGC was held. It was also where young Spartans and creatures were rumored to fight to the death in a secret hazing process that was more rumor than reality.

I have a bad feeling it’s about to be confirmed.

A horn blared loudly.

The sparse crowd pumped their fists, and twelve flags were raised around the arena.

An ancient immortal civilization cheered.

Sparta.

Eight colorful Olympian House flags waved with about a dozen people in each section.

The gold lion of the House of Zeus.

The rainbow peacock of the House of Hera.

The purple owl of the House of Athena.

The green fish of the House of Hermes.

The blue dolphin of the House of Poseidon.

The brown pig of the House of Demeter.

The yellow eagle of the House of Apollo.

The purple-and-green goat of the House of Dionysus.

In contrast, the Chthonic Houses stood out among the Olympians like a sore thumb. Half the coliseum had empty seats, which separated them from the rest of the colorful crowd.

There were only ten Spartans in that section.

Total.

A handful of terrifying creatures in long black robes stood among them.

Four black flags waved, and their symbols were all equally spine-chilling, each covered in blood with gruesome red eyes.

The charging Minotaur of the House of Ares.

The skeleton hellhound of the House of Hades.

The rabid horse of the House of Artemis.

The black swan of the House of Aphrodite.

Even from afar, the Chthonic Spartans looked menacing. The men and women were taller and stronger (more attractive, the teenage pervert inside me noted unhelpfully).

Dressed in black three-piece suits and dresses, they stood with their arms crossed in various poses of boredom.

They were the only section not cheering.

However, it was their animals that really set them apart.

Most of the Olympian section was filled with colorful bird protectors: crows and ravens with flaming wings, lion tails, and strange beaks. There were also a few gargoyles, pink monkeys, and other strange-looking creatures among them, but the vast majority were birds.

But underneath the black banners of the Chthonic Houses, the animals were . . . different.

They were land predators.

Big jungle cats.

A brown dog with three heads towered.

A shaggy wolf stood next to a sleek jaguar, and a tan man with a muzzle leaned against a stunning black man with short wavy hair.

Holy crud, it’s the Crimson Duo.

Memories of a Titan screaming as he was tortured played in my mind.

Shaking with fear, I ripped my gaze away from them and looked around the arena. There were barely any women in Sparta.

It was even worse in the arena.

About fifty boys stood with me on the sand, and they were all staring at me.

I was the only girl.

Please tell me I’m lucid dreaming right now. Please, don’t let this be real.

Three boys wore small gold laurel-wreath crowns—the symbols of Olympian heirs—and they looked around cockily, heads held high like they were better than everyone else.

ROAR.

A menacing animal growl reverberated through the air.

The crowd went dead silent.

A Nemean lion slunk forward on a white platform that extended from the bottom of the stadium, and it shook its majestic golden mane.

To the right, a beast of a man in an all-white suit walked beside it.

He wore a magnificent gold laurel crown, which was covered in sparkling jewels (much fancier than the boys’ in the sands). The famous headwear indicated that he was the leader of an Olympian House.

He was the Spartan royal.

The famous leader of the Spartan Federation.

Curly gold hair, a matching full beard, shocking gray eyes, and glowing skin were unmistakable. He wasn’t very tall, but he was wide and stocky.

Power exuded from him.

He stopped at the end of the podium, framed by two towering white columns, and spread his arms wide.

Electricity leaped across his glowing skin like he was a live wire. Zapping noises echoed as the energy mixed with the rain and created sparks.

It was the most godlike Spartan to ever walk the earth.

It was Zeus.

His Olympian powers were legendary; the electricity he naturally generated enhanced his speed, intelligence, and strength. He was simply better than everyone . . . ever.

“The House of Zeus welcomes all of Sparta on this summer equinox,” Zeus’s voice projected around the coliseum.

“With our Olympian labs and scientific advancements, we are mightier than ever!” he shouted. “We are the gods of this new age.”

Sand vibrated as the Spartans stomped their feet, and the drizzle became a heavy rain. Sparks leaped brighter on his shoulders.

Zeus smiled widely and waved to the crowd.

“The twelve ancient Houses of Power stand before me united and stronger than ever, and it is my greatest honor to welcome all of you—Spartan generals and the trainees who are working to obtain general status so you, too, can someday be members of our illustrious federation.”

Spartans cheered and stomped. Animals flapped their wings and roared. House flags waved.

Zeus turned toward the sand. “And a special welcome to this year’s initiates—the heirs, mutts, and creatures of the new generation. In this Kronos-blessed coliseum, you are all equal. There are no Chthonics this year, but there is an impressive array of Olympians.”

His white teeth flashed.

After the Great War, Spartans had struggled to produce heirs, and it was rumored that they were getting desperate, creating as many mutts with humans as possible to keep their race going.

Since only three boys on the sands wore crowns, that rumor seemed to be true.

Only two wore the black cloaks of creatures.

Bolts of electricity twined around Zeus’s arms as he once again spread them wide. “Memento homo quia pulvis es et in pulverem reverteris!”

Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return.

It was strange hearing Latin spoken aloud. The fact that the words were spoken out of order made my head pound as I struggled to translate them.

This is real.

They are speaking a language that’s dead to humans.

I took another step back.

Zeus’s golden curls rose with static electricity.

“Welcome, initiates, to the Spartan War Academy’s initiation massacre. If you survive, you’ll have the honor of participating in the crucible—the most rigorous test of intellect in the entire world. This initiation massacre is a sacred privilege.”

My eyes widened.

What had happened to a good old-fashioned welcome lunch?

The crowd (bloodthirsty monsters) cheered louder and clapped in cadence with their stomps.

“You’re all nineteen years old.” Zeus nodded like our age was of grave importance. “Your powers have developed by now. However . . . most of you will not reach the age of immortality until you’re twenty. So this is your reckoning—the first, and . . . for most of you . . . last hurdle you will ever face.”

Wet sand vibrated beneath me.

I debated raising my hand—What do we do if we have no powers? Can we opt-out of the massacre?

Also, who was going to tell them my entire life was a hurdle? I hadn’t stopped hurdling since I’d come out of the womb.

Zeus tipped his head back, sparks streaming from his mouth as he bellowed to the sky, “As Kronos declared at the dawn of time—immortality is not a right, it’s a privilege!”

The crowd shouted alongside him, and I winced as the feedback caused a sharp sting.

What’s the next step after panicking? I need to do that.

Zeus looked down at us and asked, “Initiates, do you have what it takes—TO BECOME A GOD?” he bellowed at the top of his lungs.

My gut reaction is no.

The sky opened up, and rain poured harder. Cold droplets splattered across my face, and neon-blue bolts exploded around Zeus.

“This is concerning,” Nyx whispered against my right ear.

I nodded numbly.

I had a bad feeling I was about to unlock a new level of suffering.