Free The Deep End of the Sea by Heather Lyons Page A

I’ve been clinging to evaporates. Tears spring forth in its place, along with the impulse to run and hide and have a good cry in private. Knowing my luck, though, these skinny, weak legs would give out within two steps, so my only recourse is to blink rapidly and pray I do not cause more offense. And now my heart’s beating hard in my chest, feeling just as trapped here in this moment as I have been for ages.
    I’m a killer. I’ve murdered people. Sixty-three people lost their lives because of me, never to draw another breath. I can only pray they’re in the Elysian Fields right now.
    I’m a monster. I’m—
    I’m the river, pounding furiously at the walls of the dam. Breathing slowly does no good. I cannot get a proper breath. And now I’m clutching at my napkin, the skin across my knuckles white and strained, and a horrible sound escapes me, one born from shame and despair.
    This tremulous happiness of having the curse removed—I do not deserve it. Not after what I’ve done.
    In the next moment, I’m in Hermes’ arms, pulled from my chair to his lap for the second hug in our existences together, and he’s saying, as one hand bunches in my hair and the other goes to my back, “She was just joking. Don’t—you are not what you’re thinking. It’s okay. It’s going to be okay. You are not at fault. None of this is your fault.”
    The waters in me find the right cracks in the concrete, because the dam explodes. I bawl, clinging to his shirt with my new, smooth hands, soaking the fabric with my hot tears. I can hear Persephone in the background, bewildered and apologizing, and Hades chastising her for careless words, and I ought to be horrified that I’ve somehow made a goddess feel as terrible as she’s claiming, but right now, all I can do is cry.
     

     
    A good cry, as I’ve learned over the years, is a cathartic experience. I don’t do it often, as it can be a fruitless endeavor—it changes nothing, but sometimes, there’s this sweet spot I can find where I simply feel better afterward, even if just for an hour. This time, though, breaking down not once, but twice in front of three of Olympus’ own, I find no catharsis.
    Hermes has stopped saying anything—they’ve all stopped speaking—but his heartbeat is steady under my ear as I grapple to get myself back under control. I have no idea how long I’ve been hysterical, and that scares me. “I’m sorry,” I eventually choke out, hating how my voice is as unstable as my emotions. “I didn’t mean to break down in your presences. Please, forgive me.”
    I feel the frustrated sigh Hermes lets go at the same time Persephone says, her hand joining his on my back for the briefest of moments, “It is me who is sorry. I should not have joked so carelessly about something such as this.”
    I don’t know what to do. She seems so genuine, but a goddess, apologizing to—well, I’m not sure what I am anymore. Still an immortal? Or just a mere mortal? But this sort of behavior doesn’t coincide with what I know about the Assembly. On one hand, it’s obvious Hermes is close to Hades and Persephone, and I trust him and don’t believe he’d willingly bring me to gods whose first impulse is to toy with me. But on the other, I can’t yet let go of the wariness I’ve cultivated toward their kind for ages.
    “Is there anything I can get for you?” Persephone asks, and amazingly, worry saturates her words. “Would you prefer we wait until tomorrow to talk about the next steps?”
    Every muscle in my body tenses again. Hades mutters something to his wife about this being an excellent time to stop talking.
    “She means your options,” Hermes murmurs, his face lowering down so he can speak in my ear. And then, lifting his head, he says, “Can we have a few minutes by ourselves?”
    “Of course. Just—let us know if there’s anything ...” Persephone trails off, sounding even more unsure of herself.
    “Wife, you’ve done enough. Leave the