Authors: Kendare Blake
“No,” Athena sighed. “Aside from help them bury or burn their dead. And I don’t think they’d want our help.”
A voice sounded from their right, paper thin but strong. The white-haired elder walked toward them on stiff knees, her woven dress splashed with blood. She looked at Athena and spoke.
“She says she dreamed of you,” Hermes translated. “Like silver fire. She dreamed your pain. She—” He stopped.
“What? What did she say?”
“She said she dreamed of you, the dog of war. The dogs of war are your home. Or something.” Hermes shook his head. “I’m sorry, lady. I’m a poor and rusty translator.”
The elder drew closer, a tall woman hunched over and become small. An illusion of curved back and stiff knees to hide strength like steel wire. Athena took comfort in that, at least. With this woman at their head, the people would recover. The elder’s hand shot out like a whip and grasped Cassandra’s arm, too fast even for Hermes, and Cassandra flinched, frightened. The elder let go and muttered something into Hermes’ ear. Then she patted his arm, almost tenderly, and touched his face.
“God,” she said, and walked away.
“What was that?” Cassandra asked. “What did she say to you? Was it about me?”
“I don’t think I understood. She said that you were without dreams. Or that she dreamed of you without dreams. It didn’t make sense.”
Athena looked after the elder and frowned. Two thousand years ago, she could’ve protected these people. “Let’s just go home.”
* * *
At the airport, they changed clothes and cleaned up as best they could to hide the blood. Odysseus tied a scarf around his neck to cover Ares’ handprint of bruises. It looked ridiculous. But the effort was wasted anyway. Aside from a few uncomfortable glances, no one paid them any attention. Their boat guide back upriver had asked if Athena needed help getting to her seat with an air of careful politeness: your business is your business.
“I like these people,” Athena said to Cassandra as they took advantage of hot water and soap in one of the airport bathrooms.
Cassandra arched her brow.
“You’re in a good mood,” she said.
“I am,” Athena replied, even as the smile died on her face. “The village. It shouldn’t have happened. That was my fault.”
“Normally I’d agree with you. Everything’s your fault. But he got around you. Even the goddess of battle has to have a hard time against the god of war.”
“No, she doesn’t,” Athena said. “And she won’t. At least you’re safe. And Odysseus. And Hermes.”
“It’s my fault as much as yours,” said Cassandra. “I should have stopped him.”
“He’d have crushed you with one hit. You were smart to stay back.”
“No,” Cassandra said. “There were lots of times. Lots of chances when he wouldn’t have seen me coming. I could have saved them. Some of them at least. But I was scared.” She paused. “I suppose you think that’s stupid. That I should have killed him.”
“You almost did,” Athena said. “Burst his back like a blood balloon.”
Cassandra scrubbed her hands under the hot water. She scrubbed hard, like she was soiled.
“What about Hera?” she asked. “Do you really think she’s alive?”
“I do,” Athena replied. “But it doesn’t matter. Hera lost once, and she’ll lose again.”
“How did she lose if she’s not dead?”
“She lost because I beat her to you.” Athena shook water off her hands and stared at their reflections in the mirror. “Next time, though, we stay until it’s finished. Until she’s dead. There’s no healing from dead.” Next time they would check with a stethoscope and heart monitors. They’d get an official certificate from a munchkin MD with a funny mustache. Cassandra didn’t reply, and Athena grabbed a few paper towels and handed them to her. “You got some sun. Are we going to have to tell your parents that part of our girls’ week included a tanning bed?”
“I don’t know if they’d buy that,” Cassandra said. “I don’t even know how they buy that we’re friends. I’m just glad to be going home. That we’re all going home.” She dried her hands and looked at Athena in the mirror. “And I’m a little glad you got stabbed.”
Athena snorted.
“One good thing about Ares showing up,” she said.
“What’s that?”
“He and Aphrodite are always thick as thieves. He’s sure to lead us to her.” She gave Cassandra a small smile, and left before she saw the girl’s eyes turn black with hate.
* * *
They boarded the plane after a short wait. Athena buckled her seatbelt and took quick stock of the magazines and movies available in-flight. The trip would be long.
“You must’ve been really worried about him,” said Odysseus, from the seat beside her.
“What?” Athena asked.
“Hermes. You must’ve been really worried about him.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You let him book us first class.”
She looked at her brother, sitting a row ahead across the aisle, with Cassandra next to him in the window seat. He’d already charmed the entire cabin crew, and they hadn’t even pulled back from the gate. As soon as they reached cruising altitude, he’d be head-to-toe hot towels and champagne. He looked so happy. Her throat tightened, but she swallowed it down angrily. It shouldn’t mean so much just to see him smile on an airplane.
“Maybe I thought we all deserved some pampering,” she said.
Odysseus laughed. “Bollocks. And stop doing”—he pointed at her face—“what you’re doing there.”
“What’s wrong with my face?”
“You saved our lives. Got us out of the bleeding rain forest and home in first class. So until we land, don’t think about the rest of it. It’ll still be there when we’re back on the ground.”
Athena frowned.
“It feels wrong to forget about it. Even for five minutes.” And it felt dangerous, too, to allow her mind to wander away from the objective. At least when she was waging a war, she had something to do. She looked down at their hands, at their arms almost touching. At least when she fought, she knew what she was doing.
“Besides,” she said. “We still have so much to do. Achilles, for a start—”
“Don’t,” he said. “We’re not having that conversation at thirty thousand feet. Especially when I can think of other things to do at thirty thousand feet. Have you heard of this club? Something about mile high—”
“Shut up, hero,” she said, but she couldn’t keep from smiling. When Cassandra had told her she’d seen his face covered in blood, it didn’t matter that she thought he’d survive. Part of Athena’s heart had stopped beating. “Sometimes I think the cleverest thing about you is your ability to manage me.”
“The cleverest?” he said. “No. Not the cleverest. Not by a mile. And speaking of miles, back to this club—”
“Shut up and help me order the entire in-flight menu for Hermes.”
“Come on.” He leaned in and brushed his fingertips across her arm. “When are you going to let me kiss you again? In the back of that truck I was half-asleep. I’m so much better when I’m awake. I promise.”
Athena’s cheeks flushed hot. She thought of Odysseus’ kisses in the sleeper of that truck more often than she cared to admit. The way his lips had made her tingle. It was hard to imagine it could be any better.
“Not on a plane, in front of a flight crew, with my brother four feet away and the ligaments in my knee held together with one of your socks,” she said, and tugged away.
Odysseus chuckled and put up the armrest. So gently, he pulled her injured leg onto his lap.
“As you wish,” he said. His fingers walked up her calf and over her knee. “But I don’t know how you stand it.”
“So sure of yourself,” she said, and her voice came out breathless. She grabbed his hand and held it tight, safe and sound, inside her fist.
11
THE WOUNDED AND THE DYING
Ares’ blood-soaked return sent Aphrodite into hysterics. Her wailing rang off the walls, from the caverns of Olympus to the peak.
“Calm, calm,” Hera said. She hugged Aphrodite, pinning her arms to her body to stop her flailing. Aphrodite moaned and went limp. Her slender form was no match for granite. “Go now, pet.” Hera kissed her. “Lie down and rest. Let Mother tend to her boy.”
“It’s not bad,” Ares whispered, and watched Aphrodite go. The way she’d screamed, one would have thought he was spraying arteries instead of slowly leaking.
“Not that bad?” Hera asked when Aphrodite was out of earshot. “You’re wet from the neck down. It’s soaking into our silk rug.”
“Not all of it is mine. Some of it is Artemis’. We fought in her remains. And some of it’s Athena’s.”
A shadow crossed Hera’s face when Ares spoke of Artemis’ remains. Another god gone. It didn’t matter that she would have joined Athena’s side. Artemis had been one of them. Hera cleared her throat and bowed her head.
“A fitting tribute,” she said softly. “The huntress would approve.”
“I hope so.”
“Show me your back,” Hera said, and gestured with her good arm. Ares pulled at his buttons sheepishly.
“It was the girl,” he said.
“I know it was the girl. I can smell the stink of her hands.” Her face crumpled as his exploded flesh came into view. Rock rolled through her half-flesh cheek. “You weren’t supposed to let her touch you. You said you’d be safe.”
“I got carried away.”
“Carried away doing what?”
“Killing.”
Hera made an exasperated sound in her nose, but she didn’t scold him. Instead she wrapped an arm around him and squeezed. Not a word about his being careless or stupid. She knew what he was, and how he was when he killed. He was the god of war. Her terrible son.
Looking at his wounds, Hera gritted her teeth, and the granite of her lower molars scraped against the regular enamel of her uppers. Ares would have rather taken another knife to the gut than listened to that sound. The motion made the rocks and cracks in her face tremble.
“Come and sit.” She motioned toward a pair of brocade-covered chairs.
“But the blood.”
“I’ve got other chairs. Two thousand years of collecting mortal finery. We’ll never want for new rugs, or art for the walls, or fine clothes. But you’ll want for blood, if you don’t sit down and slow your heart. I’ll bring some food.”
Ares sat in one of the chairs, and his blood sank hotly into the fabric. Hera set down a tray piled high with fruit and cheeses and some sliced cured ham.
“When this war is over,” she said, spreading cheese on crusty bread, domestic as he’d ever seen her, “Olympus will return in gold. No more caves. It’ll be a palace again. And we’ll come out from underground. Except for Hades, I suppose. But he likes it that way.” She turned her cheek, and for a second only her beautiful side showed. Ageless. Light blond hair and cream skin. Second only to Aphrodite. Then she turned back, a monster cobbled together out of drying clay.
“Will they heal you more now?” he asked. “Since we’ve tried to do as they asked? Will they heal me?”
“The Moirae do as they will. Don’t presume to guess. You know better.” She thumped her stone fist against the tabletop. “But perhaps they will. Tell me about your wayward half sister. About the damage you did. Tell me where Achilles is.”
Ares hesitated. When the Moirae realized he had failed, would they crumble his mother to dust before his eyes?
“I stabbed Athena,” he said. “A few times. Nearly cut her leg off. She’s still—”
A force
, he almost said.
Still the goddess of battle
.
Still more than a match for me
. But Hera looked as eager as Aphrodite’s puppy, and he didn’t have the heart to disappoint her. “She’s just as much of a bitch as I remember.”
Hera laughed. “Some things are hard to forget. And what of Achilles?” She ground her teeth again and moved her heavy stone hip to rest more comfortably.
“Let me tell them myself,” he said. “I want to see them.”
Hera blinked, like his words made no sense. “But they haven’t asked for you.”
“I’m asking for them.”
“You can’t … do…” she trailed off and looked everywhere but into his eyes. She stood, with effort, dragging her stone parts. She had to be in constant pain, and the Moirae didn’t fix it. Why? As punishment? Or was the job too much for them? Ares had to know for sure. What they were. What they could do. He would see it for himself before he bent his head to their whims.
“I’ll settle for one of them,” he said. “Take me to Clotho. I want to see if her hair is really as red as they say. I want to know if the Moirae of life and birth remembers mine.”
“One of them,” Hera said, and made a mad sound. “One of them. Of course they remember your birth. As I do. The god of war. You bit through your own umbilical cord. I was so proud of you.”
“Don’t try to charm me,” he said. “And don’t change the subject.”
She made a fist and her nails dug into her palm until they drew blood. When she spoke, her voice was hesitant, and careful.
“Ares. I want you to listen. I want you to try and understand. Can you do that?”
“I should think so,” he said.
“I wasn’t…” she started, and stopped. “I was never truly a mother. I was your mother, but you were a god.” She rubbed her fingers over her stone fist. “What did I know about fear? Or about worry? I never had to watch you bleed and wonder if it would heal. I never had to understand that you could die.” She pressed her hand to his cheek. “But I know that now.”
“Mother—”
“So don’t ask me to take you before them. Don’t ask to look upon them before you are forced to. Just trust me when I tell you that they are terrible.”
* * *
Cassandra walked into her house quietly. If she was lucky, no one would see her and she could sneak up to the shower before her dirty hair and the strangely identifiable odor of jungle raised questions. All she had to do was clean up, stash her bag, guzzle a pot of coffee, and she’d be good to go.
Her luck held. The house was silent.
“Lux?” she whispered, and waited for his cover-blowing woof, or the click-clack scramble of his toenails on the floor. Nothing. Henry must’ve taken him out. But the lack of clamoring dog wasn’t the only thing missing. “Mom?” she called. “Dad?”
The clock on the kitchen wall read six thirty. On a Wednesday. They should have been sitting around the table eating dinner. Maybe they had gone to a movie, she supposed, but then where was the dog? She pulled her phone out of her bag, but it was dead. No outlets in the rain forest. “Dammit.” She fished her charger out of the front pocket and plugged in her phone, then called her mom.