God of Thieves. Aimee CarterЧитать онлайн книгу.

      There’s a rumor going around that I stole my big brother’s cattle the day I was born. That hours into my life, I not only managed to wrangle fifty prized cows and hide them from Apollo, but I invented the lute, as well.

      Hours into my life. Not days, not years, but hours.

      Come on. I’m good, but I’m not that good.

      So let’s set the record straight: I was seven when I invented the lute, and Apollo spent the next four years trying to steal it from me. But since he’s not me, he failed time and time again, and that’s when I stole his cattle to see if I could—when I was eleven.

      Eleven years old, not eleven hours old. I guess it sounds better to say that a newborn did all those things, somehow making me more godlike or powerful, but I’ve never met a newborn who could sit up, let alone herd cattle.

      It’d be pretty cool though, I have to admit.

      But it did get one thing right: Apollo was pissed. And I did have to give him my favorite lute in return for not getting thrown off Olympus. So there’s that.

      Ever since, it feels like I’ve been living that down. Every time I do something the council doesn’t like, Zeus rolls his eyes and brings it up again, while Apollo sits there smugly. I don’t know what they expect—I’m just doing my job, exactly like all the others. No need for them to act all high and mighty and ignore me.

      But this time, I admit I deserved it. I sat in the otherwise empty throne room of Olympus, throwing a ball against the wall and catching it as it flew past me. Nothing much happened in the throne room without the council present, but it was never completely abandoned for this long, and I knew exactly why.

      Me.

      Ever since Persephone had given up her immortality and single-handedly thrown the council into chaos three decades ago, I’d been persona non grata. No one spoke to me. My suggestions during meetings were completely ignored. Even the minor gods and goddesses gave me the cold shoulder, as if being a pariah was contagious or something. For all I knew, it was. One touch and they’d never have a decent conversation again.

      Normally it wouldn’t have bothered me as much as it did. Wasn’t the first time I’d been shoved into social exile, after all. But this time Zeus hadn’t brought up cattle even once. And when Zeus missed an opportunity like that, clearly it was serious.

      Funny thing is, none of this was my fault. If they were going to blame someone, they should’ve blamed Aphrodite or Ares. She was the one who’d messed things up so badly with Adonis, after all, and Ares had been the one to kill him. I’d just had an affair with Persephone eons ago.

      That was it. That was my entire involvement—falling in love with my best friend and giving her some freedom when everyone else had been trying to keep her in chains. Not exactly a capital crime if you ask me, but no one ever does.

      The council needed a scapegoat though, and I was convenient. No way Zeus would ever punish Aphrodite for anything, or Ares, Hera’s favorite son. So I, the screwup, was forced to take the blame even though I’d never said a single word to Adonis.

      Not fair, not at all, but the council doesn’t exactly run on fairness.

      Scowling, I threw the ball hard against the wall, and it bounced off at an angle, heading directly toward the circle of thrones in the center of the room. With a muttered curse, I stood. Couldn’t give Zeus any more of a reason to get pissed off at me. I was already way over the line as it was, at least as far as he saw it. And on the council, that was all that mattered.

      “Looking for this?”

      At the sound of that familiar voice, I grinned and turned around. Apparently not everyone had completely given up on me. Just almost everyone. “Iris. Haven’t seen you for a few decades.”