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.
The Moirae sat in a puddle of stitched-together fabric. Red, silver, and black merged in a sadly extravagant patchwork quilt to cover them up like old ladies. To hear Zeus tell it, the Moirae were three beautiful girls. Ivory cheeks and sparkling eyes. Curves and temptation along with wisdom and war. Clotho, the spinner of life, had red hair that flowed over her shoulders. Lachesis, the weaver of destiny, tantalized with silver-blond hair down her back. And Atropos wore her black braid long and thick.
At least Zeus had gotten the hair part right.
Lovely red hair hung down Clotho’s back, and a mop of silver stuck to Lachesis. But they were wigs glued onto mummies. Clotho and Lachesis themselves were pale, withered husks, so thin and limp he would’ve thought them dead had the shears in their hands not opened and closed.
(WHAT DO YOU SAY)
Ares swallowed. He fixed his eyes on Atropos, the Moirae of death, the only sister who was still beautiful.
“Thank you.”
(YOU ARE WELCOME, GOD OF WAR)
“You’re ill,” he said. Hera grasped his ankle, but he ignored her. The Moirae’s illness was obvious. Clotho and Lachesis barely functioned. Their eyelids and lips drooped. Their shoulders slumped into Atropos. They breathed, and that was about it.
“Forgive him,” Hera said, dragging herself half-upright. “He is in awe of you.”
But to Ares’ surprise, Atropos smiled. It was lovely and horrid, and he hid his shudder.
Atropos brushed her sisters’ hands aside and tugged at the cloth that covered them until it fell away.
In the hall, Aphrodite began to cry. Ares could only stare.
Three voices melded into one. As three bodies melded into one. Five of six arms remained mobile. The fifth, one of Lachesis’, had grown into Atropos’ stomach. Clotho and Lachesis’ hips and legs had merged with Atropos’ and seemed to have broken, as if sucked inward, or as if pulled and knotted with string. Clotho and Lachesis were on the outside, with Atropos in the middle, and the sickness worked its way inward.
Ares looked into Atropos’ eyes, black as ink and hungry, and wondered if it didn’t work outward.
Clotho’s head jerked. Her milky eye swiveled and fixed on his face, and all at once, he knew. The Moirae were the source.
The source of their deaths. Gods died as their gods fell ill.
“What do you want?” he asked.
(THE WEAPONS OF FATE. BRING THEM. NOW)
“The weapons of fate. Achilles and that girl. Athena has them both.”
(BRING THEM)
“Easier said than done,” he said, and the Moirae pierced his mind hard in punishment. Fresh blood gushed down his chin, and a vessel in his right eye popped. Aphrodite and Hera whimpered. Oblivion whimpered, too.
“Oblivion!” Ares squinted at the wolf through the blood. It cowered on all fours. Behind it, Pain and Famine cowered as well. At the wolves’ entrance, the Moirae backed off again and tugged their silk back into place. What a relief.
“Where’s Panic?” Ares asked.
Took Panic, the black wolf answered. Your warlike sister. And the boy killer of men.
So Athena was already putting Achilles to good use. The bitch. He clenched his fists.
“They took Panic. But is Panic—?”
Alive. Yes. They torture Panic. They mean to be led here.
“Fools,” he muttered. The red wolf would never talk. Never betray him. It would hold its tongue until they lost their temper and cut it out. Until they killed it. And if she killed it,
Athena would pay. She would pay already.
Reluctantly, he turned back to the Moirae. They’d listened to Oblivion and become incensed or excited, writhing like snakes beneath the silk. Clotho’s and Lachesis’ pale heads jerked back and forth.
“I’ll go,” he said. “I’ll get my wolf, and your weapons.”
(YOU CANNOT. YOU HAVE FAILED)
“I haven’t,” he said. Though he had. Twice. “I won’t. But I’m going to get my wolf.” He thought of Panic, constantly agitated. Constantly afraid. “My sister,” he said through gritted teeth, “needs a lesson on what she can and can’t touch.”
(NO. SHE HAS THEM BOTH. LET THEM COME)
“Not at the cost of my—” he said, and Hera rose and grabbed his shoulder.
“We will be ready,” she said, and hauled him out like any mother might. She stopped just short of taking him by the ear. Aphrodite and the wolves trailed them, through doors and down hallways, until the Moirae were left far behind.
“Get off me!” He shrugged loose and called the wolves to him. Athena wouldn’t get away with this. Even if the Moirae wanted her and their precious weapons for themselves. There was a price for offending the god of war. There was a price for everything. They’d just said so.
“Ares! Where are you going?” Hera hobbled after him. “Have you gone mad? You heard what they said!”
“I heard, Mother. And I saw. And I’m thinking that even they have limits now. So I’m going. Athena’s earned herself some bloodshed.”
20
BLOOD AND SMOKE
A late winter storm covered Kincade in eight inches of wet, white fluff overnight. Kincade High closed for the day, and Cassandra sat on the couch in the den, flipping through channels. Any minute, a special report would break through about a building blown up and gone down in flames. People dead and bodies to bury. But at least it would be over, and the uneasy feeling in her guts would go away.
She craned her head, trying to keep the screen in view as her mom dusted it for the umpteenth time.
“Mom, seriously. You’ve got, like, a cleaning complex today. And you’re blocking the remote.”
Her mom turned around and blocked as much of the TV as possible.
“I remember when snow days meant you and Henry would put on snowsuits and go make angels and snowmen in the yard. Now they mean two teenage slugs underfoot, saying, What’s for lunch, and I’m bored, and When are we going to get a snowblower. Can’t you go make me an angel or something?”
“I outgrew my snowsuit when I was nine.”
“So use your dad’s Carhartts.”
“They smell like turpentine. Also, he’s in ’em.” Cassandra jerked her head toward the garage, where her dad continued work on the armoire. Now sanding, or maybe varnishing.
“Well,” her mom sighed. “Talk to me while I clean, then. How’s school?”
“Fine. They’re holding Ody back.”
“What? But he’s so smart.”
“Maybe he just doesn’t apply himself.”
“Or maybe he helps himself to extra days off with Athena, like you do,” her mom said. Cassandra flipped the channel fast. “I still think we should’ve grounded you for your little spa day.”
“You don’t know how to ground me,” said Cassandra. “I’ve been too good for too long. Henry, too.”
Her mother started off on a tirade about what was and wasn’t within her powers of punishment. It was easy, these days, to change the subject. To talk without really talking. She’d gotten good at it, so fast.
But it was better than the truth. The truth involved too many things no one would understand.
“I wish I could make you an angel,” Cassandra said quietly.
“What?”
“I wish I could do anything that would make me feel not so powerless.”
Her mom sighed and dropped the dust rag.
“You have a lot of strength in you, Cassie,” she said. “All the strength in the world.”
Cassandra flexed her fingers. “Yeah. All the strength in the world. But I still get dragged around like a”—she gestured broadly—“thing in a current.”
“What are you talking about, honey?”
Her mom blinked big, open eyes. How Cassandra wanted to tell her. She wished for that magical mom-telepathy to kick in. You’re my mother, don’t you know? Don’t you know just by looking at my face? But of course she didn’t. It wasn’t the kind of thing someone guessed.
On the TV, a special report broke in.
“Mom. The TV.”
“Oh.” Her mother reached down for the remote and turned up the volume. “What’s happened now?”
The cameras panned over blackened, smoking buildings, some still in flames.
“A fire claimed at least three dozen lives in the early hours of the morning,” said the news anchor. “At approximately seven oh five AM, firefighters responded to an emergency call in Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania. They arrived to find the entire block engulfed in flames. It is unknown yet what caused the fire, and the names of the victims have not been released. Several houses were involved in the blaze. Most were fraternity houses.”
“Henry.” Cassandra pushed her hands into the hair at her temples. “Henry!”
His and Lux’s footsteps pounded down the stairs. “What, Cassie?”
Their mother shook her head. “All those kids. Asleep in their beds, probably.”
Asleep in their beds. Only if they were very, very lucky. Henry put his hand on Cassandra’s shoulder. The news would get a lot more interesting as the day went on. Investigators would wonder how a fire removed victims’ limbs. How it could bash in a skull or leave half a body in the kitchen and the other half in the dining room. They would wonder why none of the fraternity members had managed to make it out of the house, despite unlocked doors and ground-level windows. They would puzzle over a pile of bodies, neatly stacked eight deep, in an upstairs hall.
* * *
Athena met them at the door.
“Why’d you walk?” she asked.
“The Mustang’s snowed in,” said Henry.
“You saw?” Cassandra asked, and went inside. Odysseus, Calypso, and Achilles stood in the living room in front of the TV. “Where’s Hermes?”
“In the basement with the wolf.”
Cassandra gestured to the TV. “What is this? And who?”
Athena glared in disgust. “This is a message for me. From Ares. Killing young men. Athletes and scholars. Modern-day heroes I would have favored.”
“Why?” Cassandra asked, and then eyed the basement. “Because you took his dog.” She advanced on Athena, and Odysseus stepped into her path. “You didn’t think of that?” she spat over his shoulder. “You didn’t figure your psychotic brother would want payback?”
“I don’t know anything he’ll do,” Athena said. “But last I heard, he preferred combat. Wars in Central America. Not this Ted Bundy shit.”
“She thought he’d come at her directly,” Odysseus said. “I thought so, too.”
“Some excuse,” Cassandra said.
They watched in silence for a few moments as reporters commented on the actions of emergency crews. How unfavorable road conditions might have hindered their response time.
Cassandra’s fists burned. She turned to demand that Athena do something, but the goddess’ eyes were already black.
“Get the wolf out of the basement,” Athena said. “He wants it, so we’ll bring it. Achilles, you’re coming with me.” She looked at Cassandra. “And so are you.”
* * *
Getting the Dodge out of the snow-filled driveway wasn’t a problem. Athena simply picked the back end up and dragged it until it was clear. She wiped ice off her fingers against the sides of her jeans.
Achilles waited in the doorway with the massive, chained red wolf, its jaws taped shut. Athena grabbed it, lugged it down to the car, and shoved it into the trunk. It looked up with questioning eyes.
“Yes, your daddy called. Now, stay
.” She slammed the trunk hard and waved to Achilles and Cassandra. “Come on!”
“Wait,” Odysseus shouted. “What if the Dodge breaks down? How do you even know he’ll be there?”
Athena listened with half an ear.
“Hurry,” she barked at Achilles as he got in. “It’s a long drive. We don’t want our passenger suffocating in the trunk.”
“We don’t?” he asked, and smiled.
Cassandra came after, slogging through drifts.
“Cassie!” Henry yelled from the door. “Don’t go!”
“Make my excuses for me,” she yelled back.
“The rest of you stay on guard,” Athena said. “Someone go check on Andie.” She ducked inside the Dodge and started it up. Odysseus continued to shout concerns from the door. When no one responded, he started down the driveway.
“Better get moving,” Achilles said, “or he’ll grab onto the roof.”
Athena hit the gas. The tires spun for a second before grabbing exposed asphalt and jerking forward. Odysseus started to jog, and then run, shouting as they drove away.
“What’s he saying, anyhow?” Achilles asked.
Athena glanced into the rearview mirror.
“What if it’s a trap,” she said.
Cassandra frowned. She and Achilles belted themselves in tight. The roads hadn’t been plowed in hours, and Athena’s foot was heavy on the accelerator. Their journey might be short lived. They might careen into a ditch before even hitting the freeway.
“Don’t go so fast,” Cassandra said.
“I know how to drive,” Athena said.
“Oh god, you’re one of those,” Cassandra groaned. “It’s not the driving, it’s physics. Traction and the lack thereof. Don’t flip the car. Not all of us are impervious to twisted metal and broken glass.”
Athena smiled.
“What’s so funny?”
“You. You’re afraid of the ice but not of my brother.”
“Why should I be afraid of him?” Cassandra asked. “He’s just a bag of blood to me, right? Isn’t that why you brought me?”
“Yes. That’s why.”