Chapter Text
“I don’t like this,” Percy muttered under his breath, adjusting his collar for the fifth time. For once in his bratty little life, he was wearing something sharper than a ratty T-shirt and jeans with beaten-up sneakers.
He had to. They all did.
Luke looked the part, more than that, he owned it. He’d gotten the lead from some monster disguised as a taxi driver. Said monster had been gently persuaded to talk, with repeated threats of being stuffed back into Tartarus. Over and over. Eventually, it had spilled about a place—magical, underground, the kind where demigods, monsters, nymphs, satyrs, all sorts gathered. A neutral zone, where deals were struck and secrets bartered. The kind of place you went if you needed information.
They did need information. Something about a god’s dearest possession being stolen and demigods being sent after it like glorified delivery boys. Not that they had the option to say no—unless suffocating under divine wrath was their thing.
But the part that interested Luke most was the rumor of a figure called the Lady in Red. She was supposed to appear there tonight. No one knew who she really was—only that she was important, always veiled, always hidden behind a wide-brimmed hat.
A perfect cover.
Which was exactly why Luke had gone on a little five-finger shopping spree, studying clothes with the eye of someone casing a heist. Everything red, naturally—the name was a dead giveaway. He picked the pieces with the most Lady in Red vibes, and while he was at it, grabbed outfits for the brats too. Annie and Percy had to look the part. His lackeys.
And now, here they were.
“You don’t have to like it, kid,” Luke said, hand resting casually on his disguised sword. He’d gotten creative—shoved the thing into a stolen red umbrella from his fashion spree. It was flashy. He liked it. He sent Percy a look, the red lipstick he’d applied curling into a faint smirk.
Yeah, maybe he got a little too into character. What of it?
“You just have to follow my lead and not blow our cover until we get what we need and leave.”
“Yeah, Percy,” Annabeth said, already deep in her lackey character, back straight, arms folded behind her. She wore sharp black slacks and a fitted red blouse, her curls pinned back and a hard look in her eye like she’d actually rehearsed this. “We go in, let Luke talk, keep our ears open, and stay close.” She gave Percy a pointed look from the corner of her eye. “We play our part.”
“Our part,” Percy muttered, scowling. “Obeying Luke like little slaves?”
“Not slaves. Lackeys,” Luke corrected without missing a beat, smirking as he sauntered toward the casino entrance.
He ignored the mortal man who nearly tripped over himself trying to get a better look—Luke didn’t even spare him a glance. One hand rested on his hip, the other tapping his red umbrella to the ground as he walked, the heels of his stolen heels clicking in time.
“And I’m the most experienced one here,” he continued, pausing at the door with theatrical flair. His hat tipped low, shadows over his eyes, but his red lips curled up—pretty, smug, and just a little mean. “Also the only one who can actually pull this off.”
He turned slightly, just enough to look at Percy from under the brim. Percy couldn’t see his eyes, but he still went stiff like he’d been stabbed with judgment.
“You’re not pretty enough.”
Percy spluttered, indignant.
“And Annie,” Luke said with a dismissive flick of his fingers, “wouldn’t know how to act the part.”
Annie sighed, clearly annoyed, but kept going like he hadn’t just insulted her acting—or her even worse communication skills. “We keep low, look for the types who might know something, let Luke do his thing, then get out as fast as we can.”
Luke didn’t bother replying. He just turned with a swoosh of red and strolled toward the entrance. The guard took one look at him and stepped aside without a word.
Easy.
He knew this plan had been a good one.
Luke stepped inside with all the ease of someone who’d killed for less, taking in the casino with a glance. It looked exactly like you’d expect from a place crawling with supernatural filth—neon lights casting everything in red and gold, chips clinking, slot machines humming in the shadows, and smoke hanging thick in the air.
Gross. Not his kind of thing. But he kept the smirk on, strutting forward with a sway in his step like he owned the damn place.
Annabeth and Percy trailed after him—perfect little lackeys. Annie was all sharp lines and no-nonsense, like a bodyguard who’d break your nose for breathing wrong. Percy, on the other hand, had no idea what to do with himself, so he shoved his hands in his pockets and trudged along like a grounded brat.
Silly fish brat.
They made a few rounds, slow and casual, Luke ignoring the stares thrown his way and steering clear of the sketchier corners—he didn’t need the brats catching sight of some guy spread out on a couch with half-dressed pretties crawling over him, eyes lingering too long.
Luke had no patience for perverts. He huffed, kept walking, scanning the room for someone loose-lipped enough to fall for a smile.
Naturally, that’s when everything went wrong.
A cyclops stepped right into their path, single eye locked on them—on Luke—narrowed and unblinking. He didn’t move. Not even when Luke cleared his throat and tapped his umbrella against the floor with deliberate, echoing slowness.
Then the dumb creature opened his mouth.
“I know you. Demigod.”
Luke’s brain stalled for a second, but the smile stayed right where it was—painted red and sharp. His hand tightened slightly around the umbrella, fingers calm, controlled. Behind him, the brats tensed, already prepping for a fight.
Luke tilted his head, slow and smooth. “Do you?” he said, like it was mildly interesting gossip. “That’s odd. I don’t remember you at all.”
He blinked once, veil shifting with the movement, mind racing. He’d killed so many over the years—hard to tell which corpse had crawled back looking for round two.
“I know who you are,” the thing said, slow and smug, like it had Luke cornered. “And if you don’t want to be exposed, you’ll do as I say.”
Luke’s eyes flicked around the room from beneath the veil. No one was looking. No one had noticed. Yet. If this idiot blew their cover, half the creatures in this place would be on them in seconds—and in this dress, too.
He couldn’t risk a fight. Not here.
“Mayhaps,” Luke said, voice light and airy, like a sigh over tea, “I’ll humor you, little half-brained creature.”
He smiled, smooth and sharp, as if he wasn’t currently panicking and trying to piece together a dozen escape routes at once.
Then the thing leaned in and whispered something so absurd, Luke’s brain just… stopped. Half a second. Blank.
Then came the fury. And the disgust. A crawling kind of horror.
What did this filthy thing just say?
He didn’t give himself time to think.
Luke stepped forward with perfect poise—then kicked the cyclops out of his path without warning, heel slamming into its side with brutal force.
“Get out of my way,” he said coldly, lifting his chin as he stepped right over the creature, pressing down on its back with the sharp point of his heel.
And recoiling instantly when the thing actually moaned.
Luke nearly gagged. “Vile little pig,” he spat. “You should be rotting in Tartarus.”
“Yes, I should!” the cyclops agreed, a little too eagerly.
Fuck.
In front of the kids, too. Luke glanced back—Percy had the expression of someone who had just witnessed something deeply wrong and had no clue how to file it in his brain.
Annabeth, though—
She wasn’t looking at the cyclops.
She was staring past him.
Luke followed her gaze, slow, calm.
The pervert from earlier—the one draped in half-dressed things like a king in a den of sin—was standing now. Heading their way.
Something was off. The way he moved. The way the air shifted.
Aura curling around him like a snake about to strike.
Wait.
Aura?
Luke’s smile froze in place. A slow, cold shiver slid down his spine.
A god?
Then Luke started to recognize him.
Button-up silk shirt, deep red, unbuttoned enough to show off his chest and abs like he knew exactly what he was doing. Slacks, sharp and dark, dress shoes too clean, too polished. Gold chains resting against his collarbones, hat low over artfully messy black curls. He looked like the kind of man who didn’t just belong here—he ran it.
He stopped in front of them, arms crossed, aura blazing. Blue eyes locked on Luke, furious and bright, not even blinking.
Then, slowly, his gaze dropped to the cyclops on the ground—still and quiet, like he’d just realized what kind of predator was standing in front of him.
And he was right.
Hermes.
Luke’s dad.
Here. Of all places.
“Lord Her—” Percy started, already spluttering like someone with a long, tragic history of being cursed by gods for breathing wrong.
Hermes snapped his fingers.
The cyclops turned to golden dust without a sound.
Percy shut up instantly.
Hermes turned back to them, slow, measured. That smile was still there—but too perfect, too smooth. Luke saw it for what it was. A warning dressed up in charm.
“What a surprise, son,” Hermes said, voice light. Too light. His eyes flicked down—dress, hat, umbrella—then back up, sharp and bright. “Dressed like this. In here.”
“Dad,” Luke said, tone even—neutral, measured. Just controlled enough. “We’re on a quest. We needed information. This seemed like the most efficient place to find it.”
“I see,” Hermes answered, flat, though his eyes sharpened as they flicked to Percy—too intense for the smile he was still wearing. “I wonder which one of you brilliant minds suggested this.”
“It wasn’t me—” Percy started.
“It was me,” Luke cut in, smooth and steady. Hands folded over his umbrella, posture perfect. Controlled. “I heard rumors about a woman. Thought it smart to take on her look and come here. In and out. Quick.”
Hermes hummed, gaze locked on him now. His eyes drifted down, taking in the dress, the veil, the heels. The smile on his face didn’t move, but something behind it shifted.
Then it changed.
He stepped forward.
Luke forced himself not to flinch.
“Of course, son,” Hermes said, soft. Almost fond. His fingers brushed the veil, adjusting it slightly like he had every right. “You’ve always been clever.”
There was a look on his face—smug, almost pleased—and Luke didn’t know what to do with it.
He tried to smile, but it came out stiff, wrong. The kids behind him said nothing. Holding their breath.
And then—
“Lord Hermes,” came a voice. Sweet. Theatrical. The kind of tone that clung to perfume and too many nights spent being wanted, used, and wanting to be used again.
His dad didn’t even look. Fingers still lightly adjusting the brim of Luke’s hat, like it was a piece of art that belonged to him. He just hummed—unbothered, uninterested.
“Come back,” came another voice, this time a boy. Barely dressed like the others, tone playful, needy.
Jesus. Luke hoped the kids weren’t looking. That was extremely inappropriate.
He knew his father was a whore—he’d figured that out by the sheer number of half-siblings—but seeing it?
Yeah, that was different.
Godly or not, distant or not, watching your dad surrounded by a bunch of half-naked sex workers was just… weird.
“Sorry, dearest,” Hermes said, breezy and distant, hand sliding from the hat to clamp around Luke’s neck like it belonged there. His grip was casual. His smile lazy. “I’m occupied now.”
He didn’t look at the boy again.
“You can find someone else to play with.”
The boy pouted, theatrical, throwing Luke a once-over like he was sizing up the competition. “I see we’ve been supplanted,” he said, voice dripping. “This one’s pretty.”
Hermes didn’t bother to answer. Just waved a hand dismissively in their direction, still focused on Luke.
A blink later, the sex workers were gone.
“Well,” Hermes said brightly, as if none of that had happened, leaning in and throwing an arm over Luke’s shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Let’s find your information then, son.”
Luke tensed, but his dad either didn’t notice or didn’t care.
“I know all the usuals here,” Hermes went on, already steering him forward. “That one talks too much over wine. That one’s insecure about his wings. That one? Always lies, unless you compliment his shoes first.”
The kids followed—because what else could they do? Hermes didn’t spare them a glance, too busy keeping a firm hand on Luke and glaring down anyone who got too close.
Luke followed—more like got dragged—nodding when needed, his whole plan overturned the second his dad decided to crash it.
Jesus. I want to go home.
Still. Maybe it’d help. Maybe. Hermes was giving tips.
If he’d just let go and let Luke do the charming part—
“Dad,” Luke said, spotting a potential lead, “I can talk to that one.”
“Of course,” Hermes nodded.
Luke stepped away.
Hermes followed.
Luke blinked. “Dad—I need to do this alone. You know gods aren’t supposed to interfere—”
Hermes made a face, mild and displeased. His eyes glowed faintly as they scanned the casino. Then he looked back at Luke, all smiles again, mood snapping like a rubber band.
“Nonsense,” he said. “This kind of place isn’t for you. You’re much too innocent. And dressed like this—” His gaze flicked down, pausing a beat too long.
“No. I’ll come with you.”
Luke stared.
Hermes smiled wider, then tilted his head toward the target with a go on look.
Luke sighed, deeply, full of regret.
And then—
“Is it just me,” Percy whispered—not low enough—“or does your dad act like an unhinged, jealous ex?”
Hermes paused. Luke froze.
No. No no no, fish brat, shut up—
Annabeth jabbed Percy hard in the ribs, eyes wide. Percy immediately paled, like he’d watched his life flash before his eyes in real time.
Hermes was still smiling, but Luke could hear the shift in his voice. Calm. Smooth. Dangerous.
“You, Poseidon’s boy,” he said, eyes on Percy now, “are quite lucky to have the father you do.”
The smile stayed.
“Be grateful for it.”