Aidan watched from across the room, standing with his own lab partner. He smiled. They’d seen him go headfirst out a window. She’d felt the inhuman heat of his hands and wondered why she’d never noticed it before. But she still loved him. He was still Aidan.
(Aidan but not Aidan.)
And he hadn’t changed.
“He’s still our friend,” Andie had said to her and Henry when Aidan left them alone. “We can’t treat him any different just because of his past. Right? If we say anything, he’d probably get locked up in a government lab or something.”
“He’s a god,” Henry said. “They’d never be able to hold him.” And then he’d shaken his head like he couldn’t believe the words out of his own mouth.
Cassandra wasn’t sure. He didn’t seem like much of a god. Who knew what he was or wasn’t capable of? She looked away, back at the glass tube, the liquid inside still slightly pink. The past was the past. But it stretched out so far, farther than even her imagination could go. How could she catch up? It seemed impossible that she could matter to a being like that. Her whole life would pass and to him it’d be no longer than a moment. Aidan would remain, and eventually their time together would diminish to a dot.
“Maybe we should give up.” Sam leaned against the table staring at their titration, which seemed an even darker pink than before. He raised his hand, the white flag for Miss Mackay. Beside Cassandra, Jeff kept working, adjusting drips and reading and rereading the handout. The flask of base on the table rattled with his efforts.
“Easy, Jeff. You’re going to lose something.” Cassandra reached out to steady it. Then she felt the vibration through her feet. She glanced at Andie, who had finally gotten into a real argument with Sam over how the mistakes had been made and whose fault it was. Neither of them noticed the shaking.
But there was shaking. Reverberating through the entire room. The glass of the titration stations blurred at the edges. Metal desk legs clanged against the linoleum floor; the back row of desks started to slide. Somewhere, a piece of wood split with a loud crack.
Around her, clear glass tubes bounced, and several Erlenmeyer flasks hit the floor and shattered. But everyone kept working. Even Jeff beside her, though she had no idea how he was able to.
“Stay still.”
“Cassandra?” Aidan asked. She heard him from across the room. The floor shifted violently and her legs buckled. She had to grab on to the table to keep from falling. Jagged cracks raced through the linoleum and up the walls, splitting it like an earthquake, and Aidan walked across the room. Dust from the ceiling fell into his hair. An intense heat grew somewhere below them, and the floor rippled like water.
Get out. We’ve got to get out.
The light fixture fell from the ceiling and sliced into Miss Mackay’s head, right through her pixie cut and into her brain, cleaving her skull open. Cassandra’s stomach lurched. Miss Mackay walked calmly toward Andie and Sam, talking while reddish fluid ran down her cheek and dripped from her chin onto her white lab coat.
Aidan grasped her shoulders. “What’s happening?”
Pressure. It built below them, sucking the air out of the room, and it built in her brain until she thought she might scream. Then it exploded, hurling her backward, boiling her insides. Only the strength in Aidan’s arms kept her on her feet, but she pulled him down, crouching against shattering and flying glass. Women screamed. They were screaming, and then they weren’t screaming, which was worse. In the aftermath she smelled dust. It filled her lungs and choked her. She couldn’t hear anything over the ringing in her ears.
Miss Mackay knelt by her side and Aidan said something; they each took an arm and dragged her to the eye-flushing station. She found herself bent over into two soft jets of water. The cool of it brought her back, out of the dust and broken things. Away from the blood.
“Hold your eyes open as much as you can,” Miss Mackay said. “How much got into them? Cassandra?”
“None,” she said shakily. “I mean, I’m okay. I thought it got into my eye, but it didn’t. It doesn’t hurt.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Miss Mackay sighed. “Okay. You scared me. We haven’t lost an eye in here in years.” She clapped Aidan on the back. “I’m kidding. Just to be safe though, keep your eyes in the water for a little longer. And rinse all over your face.” She stayed until Cassandra did it, then ordered the class back to work. Cassandra wondered if she’d ever be able to look at her again without seeing her head split open.
“Hey,” said Aidan, his hand on her lower back. “What just happened? What did you see?”
She took a deep breath and looked up helplessly.
“A building just blew up somewhere.”
8
THE ISLAND OF CIRCE, REDUX
“Ay caramba.”
The scene in the room hadn’t paused when the door opened. It was a jumble of caressing, and giggling, and soft sighs. The scent of amber incense wafted up, cloying and strong.
“Shut up, Hermes.” At the sound of Athena’s voice, Odysseus’ eyes fluttered open; his brow creased as he tried to focus.
This is just like it was before.
The scene from thousands of years ago and the room she looked into now. Odysseus had been marooned on Circe’s island after the Trojan War. His men had been transformed into pigs and beasts, and he’d been taken as Circe’s plaything. He’d lingered there for a year in Circe’s bed, while Athena labored to send him home.
And here you are again. Tangled up in a ball of witches.
Athena and Hermes stood in the doorway as Celine snapped her fingers at the girls, telling them to grab their things, quickly, quickly. This evoked whines of protest, but the look in Celine’s eyes silenced the noise. All three left in a flurry of bare legs and perfumes that made Athena’s nose crinkle as they passed. Before she left, the blonde ran a lingering hand across Odysseus’ chest while he lay dazed in the center of the bed. Celine looked at Athena, for a moment seeming like she was going to explain. Then she ducked her head solemnly and quit the room, closing the door behind her.
Hermes walked quickly to the bed and peered down into Odysseus’ face. He narrowed his eyes and scrutinized him, his mouth dropped open comically. Athena stayed where she was, near the door. She hadn’t known what to expect, but it certainly hadn’t been this. To have the reincarnated body of her favorite hero lying before her had jolted her brain to a catatonic stillness. She felt almost peaceful. Shocked but peaceful.
“It’s really him,” Hermes said. “Younger. Better haircut. But it’s him. Wily Odysseus.” He bent and pushed the boy’s head with a stiff forefinger. “Something sure as hell took a good bite off him.”
Athena took a deep breath and walked to the bed and looked down on his face. Two thousand years had passed since she’d seen him last.
Odysseus. I thought your story was told. That you’d live and die on Ithaca, quietly, with your loyal Penelope.
Odysseus lifted his hand to his forehead and grimaced like a man fighting a cheap whiskey hangover.
“Hey,” Hermes said sharply. He snapped his fingers before Odysseus’ face, then looked at Athena. “They were like freaking Dracula’s wives. I think they put the whammy on him. What should we do? Cold shower?”
“That won’t be necessary,” Odysseus replied. “But if you could hand me my shirt, that’d be nice.”
“He’s British,” Hermes observed while he bent to retrieve the rumpled cloth from the floor. “That’s interesting.”
“Not as interesting as what he’s doing here.” Athena glanced around at the silk pillows. “Didn’t you get enough of this two thousand years ago?”
Odysseus sat up wearily and caught the shirt Hermes threw. When he slid into it, Athena could see the halting protests of his torn back muscles, but he didn’t wince or moan. His fingers stayed steady as he buttoned it up and stared at her. There was nothing in his expression, but she expected that. He never gave away anyth
ing that he didn’t want to.
“Enough for a lifetime. But this isn’t the same lifetime, now is it?”
The same lifetime. Not by a long shot. In the old days, he’d been a king. A leader of the Greeks during the Trojan War. He’d fought alongside Agamemnon and Achilles. He’d helped them break down Troy’s walls. Cassandra’s walls.
And now we find you here. At the same time we seek her.
Odysseus rolled the sleeves of his black shirt up to the elbows. When he stood, he was as tall as he had been then, tall enough to look into her eyes. “In any case, I was looking for you.” He stepped closer; the movement was intimate and challenging. “Athena.”
“You know who I am.”
His brows knit and he smirked. “You knew who I was.”
“Hello?” Hermes waved his hand. “Anybody know who I am?”
Odysseus looked over his shoulder. “Messenger. Nice to see you again. You’re looking a bit thin. You given up meat or something?” He looked at Athena and jerked his head back toward Hermes. “Why couldn’t you send him for me like you did before? Would have been nice to have a winged escort. Might’ve kept the fucking Cyclops off my neck.”
“He can’t fly anymore,” she replied, and ignored Hermes’ offended glare. “And I think I’ve seen you home safely often enough.”
“Right, right, right. You fought Poseidon so I could make it back to Ithaca after the war, and I’m supposed to be eternally grateful. Never mind that it took ten bloody years to get the job done, and that everyone I was traveling with died—”
Athena laughed. The sound cut through the air, surprising everyone.
“You can’t blame me if you keep pissing off Poseidon. Though you might just come in handy. Perhaps I could feed you to him as a distraction.”
You’re still so much the same. Clever. Balanced on a razor’s edge. They gave Achilles all the credit for the war in Troy. Manslayer, they called him. Sacker of cities. But it was you who thought of the Trojan Horse. Hollowing out that wooden steed to sneak Greeks inside the city. Without you, Achilles was nothing.
“Enough of this.” Hermes’ voice was deep and impatient, and uncharacteristically godlike. “There are questions to be answered and work to be done, and since when do I have to remind you of that?” He arched his brow at Athena. “Banter with your favorite hero later, when we’re not knee-deep in throw pillows and body glitter in the middle of a brothel bedroom. When we’re not fighting for our lives.”
Odysseus smiled. “I see he’s still dramatic.”
“Shut up.” Hermes crossed his arms. “Why were you looking for us?”
Odysseus’ eyes flickered from him to Athena. “For protection,” he replied. “Why else would you seek out a goddess?”
“We’ve got our own problems,” said Hermes. “Sister’s suggestion wasn’t half bad. Maybe we should use you as a distraction. Throw Poseidon off our scent for a while.”
“Counterproductive, mate.” Odysseus turned and walked to a Louis XV–style chair in the corner of the room. It was covered in garish red velvet to match the walls. Everything in the room was a shade of red. It was supposed to be seductive. Instead it evoked claustrophobic thoughts of blood and being swallowed whole. He picked up a green-and-black canvas pack from the seat and slung it over his good shoulder, then looked back at Hermes with a grin. “If Poseidon and his little harem get hold of me, you all”—he gestured to them with a tilt of his chin—“are dead.”
“What are you talking about?” Athena asked.
“Listen. I know that Hermes isn’t on some wonky diet. His body’s eating his flesh away. He’s dying. All the gods are dying. I also know that Poseidon and his lady friends have a plan to keep that from happening, and it involves gathering weapons and eating the two of you. And then maybe sinking the whole world under the fucking waves or some bollocks.”
“How do you know that?” Hermes asked.
“Never mind how I know that. The important thing is, I know what they’re after, and they know that I know. Figured that out when that insectian Cyclops popped out of the dark like a frakking jack-in-the-box.” He flexed his injured shoulder and grimaced.
Athena looked at her brother. When the door had opened, she’d prayed for an ally. Instead she found an informant. Still, a gain was a gain.
“Let’s get out of this nauseating room,” she said. “And then you’re going to tell us everything.”
* * *
They found Celine waiting near the bar. Three glasses of red wine sat on the polished wood beside her. When they approached she stood, her expression apprehensive but pleasant.
“I have sent the girls away,” she said, and gestured to the wine. “Please. Join me. Take some refreshment.”
“That seems about right.” Odysseus set his pack down on the floor and moved toward a glass, but Celine took it gracefully away from his seeking fingers.
“You are not of age,” she said.
“I’m eighteen,” he said. “In the UK, that’s age plenty.”
“Ah, but you are in America now.” Celine smiled. Athena grinned and tipped up her own glass. Odysseus gestured toward her.
“Come on. I’m almost as old as they are.”
Celine lifted her chin and pursed her lips. Her head shook demurely, once, right to left. “No, no, monsieur. They are ageless. You, though an old one, have a new body. And that body is not yet of age.”
Athena drank while Odysseus grumbled, trying to look like she was enjoying it. But swallowing took some effort, both because of the feathers in her throat and the liberal amount of honey Celine had added to the wine. It was meant as tribute, but it hadn’t been watered, and tasted too heavy and sweet. Hermes guzzled his like water. Athena grabbed a few blackberries from a silver tray to cut the sugar.
“Are you pleased to find him?” Celine asked. “We healed him as best we could, in the tradition which has always been our way.” There was nervous unease in her eyes, like she thought Athena was about to wrench her head off of her shoulders.
“You’ve done well. And you have nothing to fear from me. I’m sure that Odysseus had no objections.”
Celine smiled. “And now you will take him and leave us in peace.” She sipped her wine, and Athena watched her shoulders relax.
“Don’t you want to know what’s happening?” Hermes asked incredulously. “Two gods and an old one turn up at your door, and you don’t think that something might be, I don’t know—afoot?”
Celine sipped again and stood. “I have no doubt. And no care. We keep to ourselves. We keep our own, and let the rest of the world do as it will. We do not interfere with it, and it does not interfere with us.”
“And if it did interfere with you?” Odysseus asked.
“It has not for over a thousand years,” Celine replied, and shrugged. There was a disaffected air in her demeanor that Athena didn’t like. It was passive and haughty. “It would be best, I think, if you went as soon as possible.”
“We need your help,” Hermes pressed. “That’s why we came. We didn’t even come for him.” He gestured toward Odysseus, who smiled and raised a grape in a “thanks and fuck you” salute.
Some of the serenity drained out of Celine’s large brown eyes. Her warm smile faltered and became brittle.
She’s afraid. She’s known all along the danger we brought with us.
It must’ve killed her to put on a demure face and play the polite hostess. Everything inside her must’ve screamed to lock the door, to protect herself and her coven. But what was a locked door against a god? Even a door locked by witches. It wouldn’t have done any good.
Athena saw the denial quickly chipping away from Celine, taking her calm, capable exterior with it. These witches were not warriors; they were not Amazons. They had never been allies of anyone save themselves. But they had to help. They were needed.
“We have given you shelter and care.” Celine stood and folded her arms in front of her, then pulled them, trembling, to her sides, palm
s up. “We are glad to offer you food and drink, rest and relaxation. And then we ask you to leave at once. As your host, it is our right to do so.”
“Don’t pull that ‘code of Xenia’ bullshit on them,” Odysseus said. “They’re your gods, not your guest-friends.”
“They are no one’s gods,” Celine snapped. “Not anymore.”
Odysseus looked at Athena with wide eyes. The look demanded action. It called for punishment for such disrespect. Athena smiled. He had always had so much pride, and it had always been so easily wounded. Only her hand on his forearm kept him in his seat. She stood and sighed.
“You’ve hit the nail on the head, Celine. We are no one’s gods.” Athena’s tongue drifted over the feather nestled beneath the swollen skin on the roof of her mouth. It had begun to emerge. A quarter inch of smooth quill could be felt, and it tasted faintly of birds. “We are barely gods at all, anymore.” She locked eyes with the other girl, drawing herself up, and in Celine’s eyes she knew that she must seem huge, larger than life and shimmering, blotting out the world. Mortals were easily dazzled. Even witches. “You think by turning us away you will save The Three Sisters, that you will save your coven and your world. But you are wrong.”
“No,” Celine said softly. Her hands fluttered and shook as they clasped together and started to wring.
“The gods are dying. We’re banding together, one side against the other, and those who seek to kill us would gladly send you and twenty-two other witches with us. Circe’s coven has to choose a side.”
Athena could see the mantra repeating inside the frightened woman’s head. We are not fighters, it said. We are modernized, we are comfortable, we keep to ourselves and let others solve their own problems.
“No. You are immortal! You do not need us!”
“Have Circe’s witches become such cowards?” Odysseus spat. “I remember when they trapped my men to put them in stew!”
Celine ignored him and touched Athena’s hand. “You are immortal,” she said again, her voice growing high with fear. “You do not need us. We ask nothing from you. Please go!”