Page 168 of Hades

“You don’t get her,” she screamed. “You don’t get to come here after all this time and take what’s mine.”

Rykard looked like she’d shot him. Apollo looked worse. Brock moved in front of me. Not away. Never away. Just half a step, one shoulder angling between me and the crowd when Mother lunged forward like she might claw through him to get to me. His hand slid from mine to my hip, then to my stomach, pushing me back gently while his body became a wall.

“Stay behind me,” he said.

I heard him.

I knew I heard him. But the words came from far away. Colette. That name kept striking inside my head, over and over, each hit knocking something else loose.

Colette Rush.

Rykard’s daughter.

Apollo’s sister.

A missing girl.

A stolen girl.

A dead woman’s child.

A stranger wearing my skin.

Violet Foster was a lie. Lettie was the name I’d built from what was left. Colette was a grave someone had forgotten to fill. I couldn’t make those things fit inside one body.

My mother kept crying. Not my mother. Claire. The name made me nauseous. She grabbed the edge of the table, sending two salve tins rolling. “Violet,” she sobbed. “Tell them. Tell them you’re mine.”

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. Because some sick, trained part of me still knew what answer she wanted. Still knew how much easier it would be to soothe her. To say, I’m here. I’m not leaving. Don’t cry. Sit down. Let me fix it. Let me carry the pieces so you don’t have to.

Then Rykard said, “Don’t do that to her.”

His voice was wrecked and furious. Mother’s—I closed my eyes tight—no, Claire’s head snapped toward him. “She owes me.”

Brock’s whole body went cold. I felt it even though he stood in front of me now. The change in the air. The sudden absence of mercy.

“Say that again,” he said softly.

Claire heard the danger and staggered back, but the crowd had tightened around us, phones lifted, whispers spreading like fire. Zeus appeared near the left side of the booth, massive and grim, with Hermes behind him and Ares already forcing people backward. I saw them in flashes. Cuts. Beards. Hands. The black edges of the club moving around my booth like storm clouds. Too many faces. Too many voices. Too much of everything.

“Baby.” Brock’s voice. I reached for it. Well, I tried. Someone knocked into me from the side as the crowd shifted again. Not hard, but enough. My hip struck the table. Pain sparked. A woman apologized. A man cursed. Claire cried louder. A child started screaming somewhere behind the jam booth, and the sound went straight through my skull. My lungs forgot how to open.

Then a hand touched my elbow. Not Brock’s. I knew that even before I turned. The touch was lighter. Careful. Familiar in the way festival things were familiar, like the smell of kettle corn and sun-warmed pavement, or the same quilt booth in the same place every year.

“Violet,” Zander said quietly.

I looked at him. His face was full of concern. Gentle concern. The kind people used when they didn’t want to startle a wounded animal. He wasn’t crowding me. He wasn’t grabbing me. His fingers rested just above my elbow, easy to shrug off if I wanted to.

“You look like you’re about to fall over,” he said.

I almost laughed because that sounded right. I did feel like I might fall over. Behind him, Mother was still crying. Rykard was saying something to Zeus. Apollo had bowed his head, one hand pressed over his mouth. Brock turned slightly toward Zeus, only for a second, his jaw hard, his hand reaching back for me. I saw his fingers. I meant to take them. Another shove moved through the crowd as Ares forced a man with a phone backward. Someone’s shoulder blocked my view of Brock’s hand. Zander’s fingers tightened just a little on my elbow.

“Let’s get you some air,” he said.

Air.

That sounded reasonable. Safe. Small. Not a decision. Not leaving. Just air. Just two steps out of the press of bodies and voices and pity. Zander had been coming to the festival for years. He bought lavender. He carried chairs. He called my mother Carol in a voice that made her blush. I didn’t fear him. I didn’t feel much of anything. That should’ve scared me. Instead, the numbness felt like mercy.

“I should tell Brock,” I said, but my voice sounded thin and strange.