We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from The Games Gods Play, a new romantic fantasy novel by Abigail Owen, out now from Red Tower Books.
I have never been favored by the gods. Far from it, thanks to Zeus.
Living as a cursed office clerk for the Order of Thieves, I just keep my head down and hope the capricious beings who rule from Olympus won’t notice me. Not an easy feat, given San Francisco is Zeus’ patron city, but I make do. I survive. Until the night I tangle with a different god.
The worst god. Hades.
For the first time ever, the ruthless, mercurial King of the Underworld has entered the Crucible—the deadly contest the gods hold to determine a new ruler to sit on the throne of Olympus. But instead of fighting their own battles, the gods name mortals to compete in their stead.
So why in the Underworld did Hades choose me—a sarcastic nobody with a curse on her shoulders—as his champion? And why does my heart trip every time he says I’m his?
I don’t know if I’m a pawn, bait, or something else entirely to this dangerously tempting god. How can I, when he has more secrets than stars in the sky?
Because Hades is playing by his own rules… and Death will win at any cost.
3
The Last Mistake I’ll Ever Make
Raw emotions bubble inside me like a poisonous potion in a witch’s cauldron.
I haven’t entirely decided what I’m going to do when I get to the temple. I’m either going to beg that egotistical fucking god Zeus to remove his punishment or I’m going to do something worse.
One way or the other, my problem will be solved.
And, unlike earlier, now I don’t give a shit that midnight is the start of the Crucible and all the “rules” that come with the cryptic festival.
We mortals know only how the festival begins, how it ends, and how we celebrate in between. They begin with each of the major Olympian gods and goddesses choosing a mortal champion during the rites at the start. The festivities end when some of the mortals selected return. Some don’t. The ones who do make it back don’t remember a thing, or maybe they’re too scared to talk about it. And the ones who don’t, well, their families are showered in blessings, so it’s supposedly an honor to be chosen either way.
Regardless, mortals have been throwing this festival every hundred years since what feels like the dawn of time, everyone hoping they’ll be chosen by their favored god. What can I say? Humans are foolish.
Zeus is probably in his heavenly city on Mount Olympus, busy preparing for the start of the Selection Ceremony, but I’m having it out with him right now.
It can’t wait. I just need to get his attention is all. Luckily, everyone knows the one thing Zeus is most attached to in our world—his fucking temple.
Adrenaline pumps in my veins as I hurry through the trees. The temple is already cordoned off, but at least I’ve got enough thief training to be able to get around the barriers with no one noticing.
I skirt past a row of perfectly manicured bushes and approach the place from the back, where I’m less likely to be seen. The arcs of lightning overhead fill the air this close to the temple with charged electricity, masking the sounds of my footsteps as the hairs on my arms stand on end like toy soldiers.
I should take that as a warning.
I don’t.
I keep going.
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Staring at the pristine columns surrounding the walled-off inner temple rooms in the center, I try to formulate a plan. Praying and begging first would be the smart move. But now that I’m standing here, alone in the dark, with my hands clenching and unclenching at my sides, every unbearable, excruciating millisecond of misery caused by Zeus’ curse flashes through my head.
I’m shaking so hard with a vile concoction of anger and heartache and mortification that I rock on my feet. But the worst part of all is that, maybe for the first time ever, I admit to myself how fucking lonely I am.
I’ve never known what it’s like to whisper secrets to a friend, or hold someone’s hand, or have someone to just sit with me when I’m feeling low. We wouldn’t even have to talk.
And I just…
In a haze, almost as if I’m watching myself from the outside, I search the ground around me and grab a rock. Cocking my arm back, I go to hurl it at the nearest column.
Only, a hand clamps around my wrist mid-throw, and I’m jerked back against a broad chest. Strong arms encircle me. “I don’t think so,” a deep voice says in my ear.
I forget every self-defense technique drilled into me and instead thrash against my captor’s hold. “Let me go!”
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says, and for some reason, I believe him. Doesn’t mean I don’t want to be free, though. I have shit to deal with.
“I said”—I grit out each word—“Let. Me. Go.”
His grip tightens. “Not if you’re going to hurl rocks at the temple. I don’t feel like dealing with Zeus tonight.”
“Well, I do!” I kick out, trying to twist away.
“He’s an asshole, I get it. Trust me,” my captor mutters in a low voice. “But if I thought throwing a tantrum would change that, I’d have brought that temple down with my bare hands years ago.”
It’s not just the words—something in his tone makes me still in his arms, almost as though the two of us are sharing the same emotion. The same anger. The feeling steals my breath, and I find myself leaning back, reveling in the moment. As if, for the first time in my life, I don’t feel utterly alone.
Is this what it’s like to connect with someone?
Crickets chirp in the distance, their slow cadence in sync with his even breaths. In sync with mine now, too, I realize.
“If I let you go, do you promise not to attack a defenseless building again?” he asks softly.
“No,” I admit, and I feel a sigh rumble in his chest. So I add, “That fuckhead doesn’t deserve any prayers.”
“Careful.” His voice wobbles. Is he laughing?
“Why?” I ask, a surprising grin spreading across my lips when only a few seconds ago, I was ready to throw down with a god. “You worried someone might want to hit me with a bolt of lightning while I’m in your arms?”
“Talk like that could win a few hearts.” His voice is soft, his breath rustling the hair at my ear.
I go stiff against him, my chin falling to my chest.
“Highly unlikely,” I mutter at the ground. “Zeus made sure no one can ever love me.”
A gaping hole of silence greets my bitterness. My interfering do-gooder drops his arms and takes a step back, probably worried curses are contagious. I immediately miss his warmth and shove my hands in my pockets.
“I…” He trails off as if considering his words. “Find that hard to believe.”
I’m so desperate to escape this whole scene, the change in his tone doesn’t entirely penetrate as I round on him. “Listen, I’m fine now. You can move on…”
The rest of my words wither on my lips.
If I went dead still earlier, I might as well have looked Medusa in the eyes now. The only thing about me that moves is the blood pumping through me so hard and fast, my ears thrum. My mind races to make sense of what my eyes are telling me.
Oh no. This can’t be happening.
Suddenly, it’s as if all the emotions that drove me here like a banshee with a bone to pick blow themselves out, leaving me empty.
I finally felt a smidgeon of connection with someone, and it’s… I mean… I did come up here to have it out with a god. Just not this one.
Even in the dark, only illuminated by constant strobes of lightning, I can see the perfection of his sculpted face—with its hard jaw, a high brow, dark eyes, and lips almost too pretty for his otherwise harsh features—as a clue of what he is. Only the gods and goddesses boast that kind of beauty. But it’s the pale lock that curls up off his forehead into the blackness of the rest of his hair that gives him away.
Every mortal knows the story of how his brother tried to kill him once by taking an axe to his head while he slept, but only succeeded in leaving a scar that changed his hair in that one spot. Unmistakable. Not to mention unforgettable—and extremely unfortunate for me.
Tangling with this god is so much worse than my original plan.
Run. The instinct finally punches through me, urging me to make my legs move. But there’s no point. Besides, the instinct to freeze in place is stronger.
“I’m afraid one of us shouldn’t be here,” I quip, my mouth always filling in for my brain when I’m nervous.
Not helping, Lyra.
I’m also not entirely wrong. What is he doing at this particular temple?
He says nothing, standing with his arms crossed, taking me in the same way I did him, only with a tension that fills the air with more electricity than Zeus’ lightning.
I know what he sees—a slip of a woman with short raven hair, a smallish face, pointed chin, and catlike eyes. My one vanity. They are deep green with a darker outer ring and gold at the center, fringed by long, black lashes. Maybe if I bat them at him? Except beguiling is not in my list of skills, so I nix that thought.
He’s still staring.
There’s an intensity to him that sets me more on edge with every passing second, every part of me prickling.
Silence fills the gaps between us for so long that I reconsider running as an option.
“Do you know who I am?” he finally asks. His deep voice would be smooth except for the harsh growl at the bottom of it. Like a silky, still lake broken by ripples from something under the surface.
Is he serious with that question, though? Everyone knows who he is. “Should I?”
Holy hells, stop popping off, Lyra.
The god’s eyes narrow slightly at my flippant response. Face assuming a hard cast, he takes two slow, long strides directly into my space. “Do you know who I am?”
Everything inside me shrivels like my body already knows I’m dead anyway and is just getting a head start. Fear has a taste I’m more than familiar with—metallic in the mouth, like blood. Or maybe I just bit my tongue.
The gods have punished mortals for much less than what I’ve done and said so far tonight.
My entire body quivers. Merciful gods.
“Hades.” I swallow. “You are Hades.”
The god of death and King of the Underworld himself.
And he does not look happy.
Excerpted from The Games Gods Play by Abigail Owen. Reprinted with permission from Red Tower Books, an imprint of Entangled Publishing. All rights reserved.
