He scowls at my use of his own words, against him.
I chuckle.
“I promised I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.”
“I’m sure you control many things. This just isn’t one.”
He clearly disagrees, based on his still stiff posture.
“But you came, Harpoc. You saved me. Me and Eser, actually. You get bonus points for fixing his situation.”
I don’t know why I’m working to assuage his guilt. Maybe it’s because he helped me similarly, or maybe because not many people have ever truly valued me and he does, or maybe I’m realizing no matter how much or little power a person has, something unexpected can bite you in the butt. Even if you’re a god, it seems.
He rolls his eyes. “You deal out ‘bonus points,’ do you?”
I shrug. “Seems so, and you’ve just earned beaucoup.”
He tilts his head like I’m crazy.
“So logic saved the day,” I say. “Hurray for logic.”
His eyes go wide, and he looks me up and down, but doesn’t reply.
“What?”
I can see the wheels turning, weighing potential words like they’re going to change things. But he finally closes his eyes and shakes his head.
Not again.
“Damn it, Harpoc, talk to me.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
I stretch. The couch, where I spend the night is better than the lumpy bed in my hovel motel room.
Even though I don’t want them to, my eyes linger on Harpoc’s bare, sculpted, tattooed chest that rises and falls evenly where he still sleeps, askew on the king size bed across the room.
You’re a frustrating, frustrating god, I think to myself, although my temper doesn’t flare. I’m past that, though I’m in no way accepting what he does, because I’m not.
He’s the god of secrets, and he’s hiding so many of them. Especially from me, based on the number of times he refuses to tell me what he’s thinking.
He doesn’t trust me, even after I showed him I trust him. Nope, all that got me was the revelation that he facilitates secrets that have hurt my best friend and allowed political crooks to get away with murder. I can’t do this.
I clear my throat, shaking it off.
Once I’m done doing whatever I have to for King Midas today—that thought sends a shiver through my gut—I’ll have Harpoc drop me back off in Mycenae, I’ll collect my stuff, and regroup in earnest.
Maybe I’ll even pay Jude a visit at the hospital, assuming he’s still there. I stop. I dislike most of the guys on the dig, one overbearing monster in particular, but Jude’s an exception. He’s reasonable and not swayed by snot-nosed asses.
Emotion I’m not expecting wells up at the thought of Jude and his condition when I last saw him, and I swallow it back down, then brush auburn locks behind my ear.
There’s too much to think about concerning my future this early in the morning.
I head to the bathroom and dress in my newly clean clothes. Boots in hand, I stop to write Harpoc a note, then slip out the door, doing my best to close it quietly, which is damn near impossible with the weight of the thing. I slide down the wallpapered wall outside and sit on the stubby hall carpet to put on my footwear.
Quickly locating the dining room, I grab a coffee, charging it to the room, which I’m told is an option—heck yeah—then find a cozy, screened off nook, set my coffee on the shortish circular table between mine and another chair, and pull out my phone.
As a rule, I dislike reading news on the ant-size screen but seeing as I don’t have my computer I nestle down in the overstuffed lime-green armchair and make do, pulling up the usual sites.
As I scroll, I sip on the amazing brew. If nothing else, Harpoc’s right about where to find amazing coffee.
Surprise, surprise, not much has changed in the three days I haven’t been able to read the news. That political scandal I’ve been diligently following is nearly dead, only a few lingering comments still fill a random article or two, and justice has not been meted out as far as I’m concerned.
I guess Harpoc won. Bitterness fills me.
Charges of Abuse Alleged at St. Joseph Group Home.
The headline grabs my attention, and I set my coffee down, my hand trembling.
I draw a hand over my mouth as I read. Margo. She’s spoken out. She’s charging Mr. Foutsey with rape and sexual assault.
I cheer inwardly, but wonder what’s made her finally speak up.
Unfortunately, no others are coming forward so Foutsey’s claiming she’s making it up.
No surprise there, ya pervert.
A wave of sadness washes over me as I wonder what she might do if I show up to help her. We haven’t spoken since she found out I narked despite her wishes.
I wipe away a stray tear that’s welled up.
Political scandals, drug lords, riddles, disobedient underlings in Zephyr’s case, corrupt rulers if I’m understanding right in Midas’s, now this?
I shake my head. There’s so much ugliness in the world, and secrets are at the heart of so much of it.
“There you are.” Harpoc smiles like he’s a proud detective whose used cunning and deduction to sleuth me out.
I bob my head, raising my cup. “Morning.”
“Thank you for leaving a note telling me where you are so I wouldn’t think you’d been abducted again.” A corner of his mouth hitches.
I take a sip. “Welcome.”
I have no desire to revisit the argument of last night.
“May I?” he asks, holding two coffees.
“Please.” Harpoc sits and slides the spare beverage toward me. “Oh, thank you. That’s sweet of you.”
He’s trying. While there’s no way he yet understands what’s driving me nuts, I can still be civil.
“Are you okay, Pell?” he asks, as
