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“And what do you think of that?” he asked, his eyes darkening.

“Everyone wants to be worshipped.”

“Do you?” he asked.

He was eager for her answer. He expected something generic—a comment along the lines ofwhat woman doesn’t wish to be worshipped?

Instead, she said, “I could be feared for all I care. I just want power.”

There was a glint in her eyes he had not seen before, a darkness he wanted to prod.

After a moment, he stood.

“Come with me,” he said, and though she stiffened, she took his extended hand.

Once his fingers closed around hers, he teleported.

When they appeared, it was in the shadows of a large warehouse, on a balcony that overlooked a crowded floor.

Theseus called this the Forum.

Those in attendance were there by invitation only and chosen based on their grievances with the gods—those whose prayers had been rejected.

“Where are we?” Helen asked.

“You are safe,” he said.

She turned her head but did not look at him. “I was not asking if I was safe.”

“That’s all you need to know.”

Theseus placed his hand on the small of Helen’s back and guided her toward the rail. He caged her within his arms, pressing her against it, his erection settling against her ass. Her back ached, her shoulder blades biting into his chest.

A man stood at the head of the crowd facing six demigods who sat, half shrouded in darkness.

“I have begged Apollo,” he said as he made his case. “I have laid golden honey and hyacinths at his altar, but my prayers have gone unheard.”

“Unheard or unanswered?” The question was posed by Okeanos. He was the twin brother of Sandros, both sons of Zeus.

“Unanswered!” someone shouted. Others roared in agreement.

That was the beauty of a crowd of followers—it took one leader to incense them, to shift the energy and inspire anger.

“Who are they?” Helen asked, her voice quiet, nearly inaudible over the noise below, which echoed all around them.

“They are agents of their people,” he said, speaking near her ear. “Within Triad, they are called high lords, demigods, descendants of the gods.”

The man who had at first spoken with a quiet disposition was now riled. His voice rose to a shout.

“Listen,” Theseus said, directing her attention below again.

“I have lit candles and picked laurel leaves, I have carved symbols into stones that have basked in the sun, all in the name of a god who ignores my pleas!”

The crowd roared in anger and began to chant, “Death to Apollo!”

“Have mercy on me, my lords!” the man petitioned. “I only wish to be well so that I may continue to support my wife and daughter.”

A demigod stood and took two soft steps into the light, and the room grew quiet. He was large and warriorlike. Despite this, he had the gift of healing.