32 The demi-god’s eyes shot back to her face, met her eyes. And she smiled. Cruelly. “Look,” she said softly. The demi-god cried out as the sound of glass hit the rocky ground. Drawing his dagger, he tried to leap forward, but his feet were firmly planted. Stone. “You vile—” She lingered just out of reach, placed a delicate hand on the shoulder of a stone centurion who had his teeth and gladius bared. Her head turned towards another statue, on his knees, whose hands grasped the air, and another who groped, with back bent and belt pulled, something unseen on the floor. Then she watched him. The demi-god’s skin stiffened, his muscles seized, his arms grew heavy, his agonized cry ceased as his vocal cords cobbled. Before his eyes glazed over with rock, he saw Medusa, snake-hair coiling, silk dress swaying. She walked towards the bubbling stew of onions, tomatoes, and olives where four velvet pillows and four wooden bowls circled the cackling fire.
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