Authors: Kendare Blake
“Come on then, Hermes,” Achilles said, and stretched his arms like a lazy cat.
“No.” Athena tossed him a
b
ō
. “You’re with me.” There would be no more marks on her brother’s limbs. No more bruises, if she could help it. “Hermes, coach Henry and Andie. Odysseus, you’re with Cassandra.”
Hermes tossed Andie her wooden kendo sword. But as they walked into the yard, every eye lingered on Athena and Achilles.
“You and me?” Achilles smiled. “I’m flattered. Honored.” He dropped the
b
ō
and let it clatter against the cement patio.
“Pick that up,” she said.
“I don’t want the distance between us.”
Athena circled. “We’ve done that before. I broke your neck.”
“Right. And if you do it again, it’ll cause a three-second delay in the action.” He sprang and struck her in the face.
* * *
Odysseus said they should practice the only thing Cassandra would find useful against a god: dodging. For several minutes he stood across from her and threw punches at half-speed, all the while listening to Athena’s and Achilles’ fists.
“I’m fine, you know,” Cassandra said. “You don’t have to treat me with kid gloves.”
“I’m not treating you with kid gloves,” he said. “But that vision had to take a little wind out of your sails.”
“Not all the wind. These punches are pathetic.” Even when she didn’t dodge fast enough, the blows landed with as much authority as a tossed pair of socks.
“Fine. How about some holds, then?”
He twisted to demonstrate, and she elbowed him in the nose.
“Ow.”
“How about you pay attention?” she asked.
“I am.”
“To me. Not to Athena and Achilles.”
It was a lot to ask. Athena and Achilles slammed into the side of the house, and it shook to the foundation.
“They’re pulling their punches,” Odysseus said.
“How do you know?”
“If they weren’t, that wall would’ve caved.”
He was probably right. They should keep away from the house altogether before they cracked something important. Achilles pulled Athena in close, her back to his chest. He whispered something into her ear, and she smiled.
“He’s been pulling her in like that a lot,” Cassandra whispered to Odysseus.
“I’ve noticed.”
“Jealous?” she asked. “Threatened?”
The storm clouds vanished from Odysseus’ face. He flashed his typical Odysseus smile, and went for weapons.
* * *
Athena shifted her feet. The boy kept her on her toes. So much power, encased in mortal skin. A human being who could stand against gods. But she would save the philosophical questions for later. Achilles demanded all of her concentration. Even when he held back.
Of course, she held back, too.
“So, what do you think?” he asked.
“That your tale hasn’t grown much in the telling,” she said.
“Would you be angry if I made you bleed?” He wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand and left a wet, red streak.
“No. But you aren’t likely to.”
He looped an arm around her neck and twisted her close. The muscles of his forearm squeezed her throat like a constricting snake.
“Your bones are steel,” he said admiringly. “Fat chance of me breaking your neck like you did mine.” He let her go a fraction of an inch and placed his free hand on her hip. “But I think I’ve found a weak spot.” His fingers slipped up her waist, underneath her shirt.
“Enough!”
Athena jerked loose as Odysseus shouted. Achilles had been going for the feather working its way out underneath her ribs.
“It is,” she said. “I want to see how Cassandra’s progressing.”
“Not so fast,” said Odysseus. In his hands he carried two swords: thick and short bladed, like the ones they’d used in their last life. He tossed one to Achilles. “It’s been awhile.”
Achilles shook back his blond hair. The sword flipped in his palm. “Feels familiar.”
“Those aren’t practice swords,” Hermes said. “They’re sharp enough to dice a tomato.”
But of course Odysseus would know that.
“It’s okay, Hermes,” said Athena. “It’s only play. Two old friends sparring. Right?”
“Like we used to,” Odysseus said. Except back then Achilles hadn’t been truly invincible. Back then he’d been just a boy.
“Blunt swords would be just as good,” Hermes said, but Athena shushed him. She wanted to know who would swing first. What tricks Odysseus would use.
The swords clashed once, hard. Andie flinched at the sound, and Henry nudged closer to her. The two fighters grinned. Achilles slashed and drove Odysseus back; Odysseus parried and spun away to give himself fresh space.
“Careful,” Achilles said. “No armor.”
Odysseus laughed. “What? Afraid of a few scars?”
They fought, and talked, and never drew the slightest blood. It was all for show, but Andie gasped and held Henry’s arm so tight it was about to turn purple. Achilles cut the air inches from Odysseus’ face, and Odysseus arched backward just right.
“They look good together,” Hermes said. “Your heroes.”
“Yes,” Athena agreed. “They do.”
Odysseus’ lines were beautiful. He kept his pacing erratic to keep his opponent off-balance, and even though it was Achilles he fought, Athena couldn’t keep her eyes off him. He could’ve been fighting the Chimera. To her, Odysseus was always the only thing worth watching.
If this is how Aphrodite feels every day, I envy her.
“Lose the shirts!” Hermes catcalled, and Odysseus glanced over. Achilles didn’t, and Odysseus jerked quickly to maintain his block.
Too quickly. The block was twenty times as fast as Henry or Andie could have done it. It was closer to Hermes’ speed.
Athena’s eyes narrowed.
“All right,” she said. “That’s enough. Exhibition over.” The swords lowered, and they clapped each other on the shoulders. Odysseus returned to Cassandra.
“That was impressive,” Cassandra said. “But next time why not save the sweat and just pee around her in a circle?”
Athena’s skin crackled. Pee around her in a circle? Like she was a tree a dog could claim? Exhibition, indeed. A show for Achilles, so he knew how things stood.
“What time do we start tomorrow?” Hermes asked.
“We don’t.”
Everyone paused.
“That’s it,” she said. “You know what you know. You’re as ready as you need to be.”
“But couldn’t we be, I don’t know, readier?” Andie asked.
Athena looked at Achilles. Then Cassandra. Two weapons, fully loaded. Surely she wasn’t the only one who saw that.
Hermes crossed his arms, and the bones moved beneath his clothes. His lovely bones. Ready to tear through the skin.
“Time grows short,” Athena said. “I’ll crack that wolf soon, and then we go. There’s nothing more you can learn here.”
She bent to pick up their equipment as the first fat drops of rain fell. Polite weather, to wait until they’d finished.
“Well, I’m not sleeping tonight,” Andie said. “Anybody want to rewatch all of the Harry Potter movies?”
“I’m down,” said Henry.
“I’ll get Cally,” said Odysseus.
“Let me.” Hermes walked into the house. “I’ll relieve her wolf-watching duty.”
Andie, Henry, and Cassandra started to follow, and Henry stopped short at the sliding door.
“Achilles,” he said, and paused. “Did you…”
“No, he didn’t,” Cassandra said. She grabbed Henry by the arm and dragged him inside.
Achilles chuckled and leaned down to help Athena with the weapons.
“She’s a tough one,” he said.
“No, she’s not,” said Athena. “But she’s getting there. Pretty damn big of Henry to invite you over for popcorn. Don’t you think?”
He flashed a killer smile. “A bit bigger than I am, yet.”
“Why’s that? I killed you not a month ago, and you don’t hate me.”
“I would, if you’d killed someone I loved.”
Fair enough. But given enough time, blood enemies may yet become friends. It was on her, she supposed, to give them the time.
She looked through the glass as Calypso came upstairs and grabbed Odysseus by the hand, smiling and tugging him toward the door. So damn pretty. So maddeningly sweet. Odysseus dragged his feet half a second and looked back at Athena, who bent quickly to pick up an imaginary practice sword.
She let the cold rain run down her back in icy rivers as their cars drove away. Let it make her feel wild, instead of chained. Defiant, instead of foolish and love-struck. Instead of so heavy with sadness and plain old dumb loneliness that she couldn’t breathe.
“Don’t let them bother you,” Achilles said. He shouldered the weapons. “They can watch their movies and have their laughs. They’re not like us. They never will be.”
“Not like us.” Athena took a breath. The world smelled like it wanted to freeze again.
“I like Odysseus,” he said. “Always have. But he never understood the point of it all. The glory.”
“He understood it,” she said. “His glory just wasn’t the same as yours.” And Odysseus understood something else, too. Strategy. Secrets. That speed he hid in his arms. And strength, too, probably. Achilles hadn’t noticed, but she had. That one little move. That one mistake.
“Nah,” Achilles said. “Ody’s only a man. Not like me. Not a demigod, half-divine and growing by the minute.”
“True,” Athena whispered.
So how does he have that speed?
19
MOIRAE IN THE MOUNTAIN
Ares hesitated with his hand on the doorknob. But he’d made it this far, so deep into Olympus that he could no longer tell whether they were nearer the summit or the belly. Right up to the Fates’ door. The Moirae. Clotho, the spinner of life. Lachesis, the weaver of destiny. Atropos, the shears of death.
Aphrodite placed a hand on his.
“I won’t stop you,” she said. “But take care. They’re weakened. But they’re still our gods.”
“Hera’s inside,” he said. Half-question and half-deduction. He hadn’t seen her in almost a day. And Olympus, despite its endless size, had few places where a god could truly disappear.
He pushed the door open, and a strong draft of herbal smoke hit him in the face. Braziers. Hera must’ve burnt herbs of offering. Or maybe she’d burnt them to cover the smell. Decay, sweet and sinister, clung to the walls, and not the smell of a rotting battlefield, the kind Ares enjoyed. This was the scent of sickness.
His eyes swept over the marble floor. Hera lay near one of the gold braziers, her eyes open, sweat on her chest and face.
“Mother!”
“Ares?” she asked. Her arms trembled against the stone floor. He picked up her granite fist to stop the rattling.
“What happened?”
“Healing me,” she whispered. Stone molars clacked against her upper teeth as she shivered. “Trying.”
They must not have tried that hard. Aside from a slight softening on her neck, she seemed worse: in more pain, feverish, and exhausted. Silk rustled behind them. He thought it was Aphrodite, finally brave enough to come inside, but Hera braced herself and pushed up onto her elbow, her eyes wide and terrified.
“Smile,” she whispered.
“What?”
“Smile,” she hissed. Her lips stretched as well as they could, pulled taut against her stone jaw. “They like it when we smile.”
“I don’t smile,” Ares said. “I look ridiculous.”
(ARES)
The voices hit the center of his brain like a truck. Hera cupped her hand under his chin to catch the blood that fell from his nose. He put his palms to his ears, but it didn’t matter. The voices weren’t in his ears.
(JUST FOR YOU)
The voices backed off by decibels. Because they could. Now that he knew what they were capable of.
(WE WOULD BE GENTLE, BUT WE KNOW YOU LOVE THE BLOOD)
“Not my own blood,” he said. “Or at least not as much.” He licked a little of it, strong and salty, and pressed his mother’s hands together. The Moirae stood at his back, and suddenly he wanted to keep them there. To never, ever lay eyes on them, and rewind straight out of this hot, firelit room. He would forever lie happily wounded with Aphrodite on their ruined bed.
But it was too late for that. The Fates put their hands on his back, and an electric shock passed through his skin and through the blisters of blood Cassandra had burst. It burned. It sliced with more pain than when the girl had done it in the first place. Their fingers dug like insects, sharp legs burrowing and embedding into the muscle. No wonder Hera lay panting on the floor. If he hadn’t been the god of war, he would have cried like a tiny baby.
“This is your healing?” he gasped.
(PRICES FOR EVERYTHING. THAT IS THE WAY. THAT IS THE LAW)
“The law is for me to feel every scrap and fiber stitching itself together?”
“Ares,” Hera whispered, and he shut up. Because they could always make it worse. They could make it worse, and they could stretch it out. They could refuse to help him at all.
Sweat beaded on his lip, but he sat silent as a biker in a tattooist’s chair. It would be over soon, and then he could wear shirts again without the fabric sticking to him the minute he put them on.
The Moirae worked for a long time. Twice he almost passed out from the pain. Every now and again he heard something sharp and metallic, like razors rubbed together: the shears of the Moirae, opening and closing. Not on his skin. They opened and closed in their idle hands, just an absent habit. Hera stayed with him as they worked, her flesh hand on his knee. Aphrodite hummed a soothing tune from the open doorway.
(THERE. ENOUGH)
He stretched his mostly healed back, reformed from ribbons into one piece. Yes. They were his gods. They decided what was enough. Even though his godhood called for more, for all, like it always did.
“Turn,” Hera whispered. “Turn and thank them.”
He didn’t want to. He wanted to wave and jet the hell out of there. Leave a fifty on the brazier and promise to call them sometime.
“Yes, Mother,” he said. At least the Moirae had moved away, receded to wherever they’d snuck up on him from. Better than turning around and finding his nose stuffed into their silk dresses. He imagined they smelled half-rotten.