Percy Jackson's Greek Gods (Percy Jackson and the Olympians companion #5.5) - Rick Riordan Page 0,41

lose interest in her immediately, stop being so charming, and go off to flirt with other women. Hera couldn’t stand that idea.

One night at dinner he told a particularly funny joke—something about a donkey, a god, and a Cyclops walking into a temple—and Hera couldn’t help laughing. She had tears in her eyes and couldn’t breathe.

She gazed across the table and met Zeus’s gaze a moment too long. She cleared her throat and looked away, but Zeus had glimpsed her feelings.

“You like me,” he said. “You know you do.”

“I certainly do not,” she said. “You’re a fool, a womanizer, a villain, and a liar!”

“Exactly!” Zeus said. “Those are my best qualities!”

She tried hard not to laugh. She’d never met a guy who was so immune to her insults. Zeus was almost as stubborn as she was.

“When will you give up?” she demanded. “I’m not interested.”

“I’ll never give up,” he said. “And you are interested. You and I…king and queen of the cosmos. Imagine it! We’d be an unbeatable couple. Clearly, you are the most beautiful goddess in creation. And I, of course, am devilishly handsome.”

He flexed his muscles. He was a ridiculous show-off, but Hera had to admit he was buff.

She shook her head. “How can I convince you that you’re wasting your time?”

“You can’t. I love you.”

She snorted. “You love anything in a dress.”

“This is different. You’re the right goddess. I know it. You do, too. Just say I love you. You can do it. You’ll feel better if you’re honest.”

“Never,” she said. “I will never tell you that. Ever.”

“Oh, sounds like a challenge!” Zeus grinned. “If I can get you to admit you love me, will you marry me?”

Hera rolled her eyes. “Sure, Zeus. Since that will never happen, I can safely say that if I ever admitted to…you know, what you said…then sure, I’d marry you. Which I can only promise because IT WILL NEVER HAPPEN!”

Zeus winked. “Challenge accepted.”

He left the dinner table, and Hera began wondering if she’d somehow made a mistake.

By a few nights later, Hera had almost forgotten about the conversation. Strangely, Zeus hadn’t mentioned it again. In fact, he hadn’t paid much attention to her at all since that night—which should have filled her with relief, but somehow it bummed her out.

Forget him, she told herself. He finally got the message. He’s probably accosting some other poor goddess.

She tried to convince herself this was good news. She wasn’t jealous. That would be ridiculous.

During the night, a huge thunderstorm raged over Mount Olympus—which probably should’ve made Hera suspicious, since Zeus was the god of the sky, and all—but she was too busy covering her windows to keep out the rain.

She ran to her bedroom and was just closing the last shutters when a small bird fluttered in and collapsed, exhausted, on her floor.

“Yikes!” Hera stepped back in alarm. “How did you get here?”

The bird flapped helplessly on the marble tiles. Its chest heaved, its whole body shivering from the cold. Hera knelt down and saw that it was a cuckoo.

Have you ever seen an actual cuckoo bird (not the carved ones that pop out of old clocks)? I haven’t. I had to look it up. It’s a weird-looking little guy. It’s got a sort of Mohawk thing going on with its head feathers, which don’t match its sleek brown-and-white wings or its long tail. Basically, it looks like its head got zapped in some mad scientist’s device, so I can see why cuckoo became another word for crazy.

Anyway, Hera knelt down and scooped up the bird. She could feel its heart beating against her palm. One of its wings was bent the wrong way. Hera didn’t understand how such a small bird could have flown all the way up to Mount Olympus. Usually only eagles flew that high, since the airspace around Olympus was restricted.

On the other hand, Hera knew that storms had powerful winds. Possibly the poor bird just got swept away.

“It’s a miracle you’re alive,” Hera told the bird. “Don’t worry, little guy. I’ll take care of you.”

She made a nest of blankets at the foot of her bed and gently set the bird inside. She dried its wings and fed it a few drops of nectar, which seemed to help. The cuckoo puffed up its feathers. It closed its eyes and started to make whistling, snoring noises, like soft notes played on a flute. Hera found the sound pleasing.

“I’ll just keep him overnight,” she said to herself. (She’d decided it was