Mortal Gods (12 page)

“And what about you?” she asked. “What death waits for the god of war?”

“Who says I’m dying?”

“You’re dying,” Athena said. “I’m not blind. Not all of that blood belonged to Artemis.” She gestured to a long, shallow cut running along his elbow. “Unless Hermes did that to you.”

“Hermes? Not on his best day. And this is nowhere near his best day.”

“Screw off,” Hermes muttered.

“Brave now, aren’t we?” Ares said. “Brave, once Athena is here to hide behind.” He made a fist and squeezed a few drops of blood back onto the forest floor. “So this is Artemis?” He looked at his gore-streaked hand. “I don’t know whether to feel dirty or comforted. Like she’s a blanket.”

“She’s dead, you asshole.” Athena kept still, uncomfortably aware of her sister’s blood, and worse than blood, beneath her shoes in a grotesque carpet. The sight of it, and the smell, made her stomach tighten. She should’ve known. She never should have let Hermes and Odysseus come. But they were there. A vision had led them there, straight to her handsome, grinning brother. Ares, just like she remembered him. His face full of blood.

“She’s dead,” Ares mused. “And I’m dead. And you’re dead. Spitting out feathers like a cat in a canary cage.” He snorted. “That’s funny. Can you do it now? I’d like to see.”

“It is funny, I suppose.” Athena kept her breath shallow. She didn’t need him to know how spot on he really was. The feather that had wormed its way into her lung was starting to tear loose. It was a maddening tickle every time she breathed, a gristle-coated fan, waving back and forth. “As funny as the god of war bleeding to death without taking a single blow. As funny as your bitch mother turned into a statue.”

The insult didn’t touch Ares. Maybe he didn’t care. He wiped a little more of Artemis onto his pants. Something was wrong. In the corner of Athena’s eye, Hermes tensed like he was trying to tell her something, and a familiar feeling ran through her frame. The same feeling she’d had when Hera had tracked them so effortlessly that fall. But Hera was dead. Cassandra had killed her.

Odysseus coughed, a raw sound, and got to his feet. Ares had a lot of balls, coming after him.

“What the hell is going on?” she asked. “What are you doing here?”

“These days, sister, I do what I’m told. And I was sent”—he pointed at Odysseus—“for him.”

Only not really for Odysseus. For what he could lead them to—Achilles. The other weapon. What was it about Achilles that made him so special? If Cassandra was the girl who killed gods, what could he do?

“Who sent you?” Athena asked.

Ares walked to the right, nonchalant and closer. Athena moved, too, staying in his path, and in her shadow Hermes did the same. It was a lovely little conversation they were having, but of the three of them, only Ares allowed himself to blink.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he said.

“Try me.”

He sighed and looked up at the sky. After a few long moments, he said, “My mother sent me.”

“That’s impossible,” said Athena. “Try again. Hera’s dead.”

“It’s true.” Cassandra spoke suddenly. “I killed her.”

“Yes, but unfortunately for you, it didn’t stick.”

“I turned her into a freaking rock,” said Cassandra. “Half of her face was granite.”

Athena looked from Cassandra to Ares. She’d seen Hera’s face half-fused to stone. Hera had lost the ability to work her jaw. Most of her chest and shoulder had solidified. Her cheek, even her hair on the right side, was statue. It should have killed her.

“You’re lying. I was there, Ares. She couldn’t speak. She’s dead.”

“You should have stayed longer and made sure the job was done,” he said. “She can speak now. Mostly about your foolishness. She’s being healed. You never used to be this sloppy, sister.”

“It’s not possible for her to be alive,” Hermes said.

“Don’t talk about possible and impossible. You have no idea. You’re on the wrong side, little brother.”

“What side is that? The side that hasn’t gone insane?” Hermes asked. “The side that doesn’t want to blow up buildings with innocent witches in them?”

“Innocent witches. And innocent mortals,” Athena said. What Ares said couldn’t be. Hera couldn’t be healing. Yet Ares wasn’t lying.

“You’ve always been so fond of saving mortals,” Ares said. He looked at Cassandra and Odysseus, standing near a thick trunk. “You curried their favor and accepted their accolades. Had cities named for you. You had their love, and I had their fear.

“Hera says it’s you or us. I don’t know if that’s true. I don’t get bogged down in the politics. All I know is that you’ll try to save these people, and I will try to kill them.”

The words came so easy. Life to him was a shrug of the shoulders, even when his was ending.

“Why, Ares? Do you even know?”

“I know better than you do. What we are. Why we’re here. We are two sides of a coin. You save and I kill, but blood runs because of us both. We are the dogs of war, Athena, and we always have been.”

“No,” Odysseus said, his voice ragged. “Don’t put yourself in the same sentence with her. War isn’t battle. It’s not the same.”

Ares smiled smugly. War, battle. Semantics.

“Hermes,” Athena said. “Are you well? Can you take them to a safe distance?”

“What are you doing?” Hermes asked. His eyes shifted from Cassandra and Odysseus to Ares and back again.

“Take them and stay with them. Don’t leave them alone.” She clenched her fists. “The gods of war are about to bleed.”

*   *   *

Wild dogs,
was the first thought in Henry’s head. Then
wolves
. Then something exponentially worse. One was white, but not like snow. It was white like bone, with a long, thin snout and lips a size too small, stretched back and dried out past its purple gums. Another was red, and it moved faster than the others. The sound of its fangs snapping was like something trapped in a box. Then a slow gray one came, hunched and panting. Blood dripped from its mouth and ran down its chest, into the sores matting its fur. But the worst one was the last, so black it didn’t appear to have eyes.

“Henry,” Andie whispered. They huddled back to back, with Lux between them. “What are they?”

Dogs,
he almost said, but couldn’t quite manage it. They weren’t dogs any more than they were ponies. What they were was something that Henry couldn’t quite see, as if what he was looking at were just skins taken from some other animal. A sheepskin tossed over a wolf’s back. But what could be so horrible that it would use a wolf’s skin to hide under?

Between them, Lux whined and leaned into Henry’s leg. Whatever they were, they were closing in fast. Henry looked each one in the eye, except for the black one whose eyes he couldn’t find. He couldn’t remember if that was the right thing, making eye contact, or if he should’ve been appearing submissive. Somehow he didn’t think it was going to matter.

The creatures around them stopped. They rose up on two legs, and their forelegs stretched until they hung like arms. Their torsos shifted until they were upright, and Henry could barely imagine them on all fours.

“What are you?” Andie asked angrily.

Pain.

Said the gray with the matted fur. It hadn’t spoken with its mouth. Its tongue hung out, mute, bleeding drops onto its chest.

Panic.

Said the one with red fur and fierce yellow eyes.

Famine.

That was the white. Flecks of something dropped from its dingy fur: dry skin or parasites.

Oblivion.

The black wolf. Its voice was deeper than the others, and more terrible. Hearing it, and looking into the utter blackness where its eyes should have been, made Henry sick to his stomach.

Pain, Panic, Famine, and Oblivion. The names felt familiar. But Henry couldn’t think. He couldn’t do anything besides stare, and breathe, and move closer to Andie.

“What do you want?”

Is this the boy?
asked the wolf called Pain.
The boy he said to kill? Who they said must be killed?

This can’t be the boy.
Famine sniffed and snapped its jaws.
He smells like ordinary meat to me.

Oblivion snarled, and the other three whined and stepped sideways.

He smells like blood. And a job to be done. As does the girl. As does the pup.

Andie,
Henry thought feebly.

The wolves attacked together. Pain collided with him with the force of a small truck, Henry’s nose stuck deep into sick-smelling fur. Claws tore into his coat, down to the skin and straight through. Henry shouted and twisted his head away, and saw the red wolf sprawled in the snow like it had tripped. It snarled and kicked, and he refused to blink, terrified that the snow would turn red, that he’d see black hair and hear Andie screaming. Blood dripped onto his face from Pain’s tongue, and he pushed back hard, on instinct, so the teeth missed his throat and sliced through his cheek instead.

The gray wolf was heavy and incredibly strong. Cold snow worked into Henry’s coat, and claws dug deep into his shoulders.

Lux growled loud, and in the corner of his eye Henry saw the brave dog up on two legs, biting the neck of the thin, white wolf. He bit and held, until Oblivion came at him in a flash of black. Then he yipped, and flew, and lay still.

“No! Get away from my dog! Andie! Run!”

Henry wrenched himself hard, as hard as he could, and Pain wheezed as his knee crunched the wolf’s ribs. Fear and surprise washed away. He looked at his dog, and the wolves, and the fear washed away red.

“Get away from him!” Andie shouted. She swung a thick branch across Oblivion’s back, coming out of nowhere, running into the clearing from the trees. Henry wanted to scream for her to
run, run, you idiot,
but he couldn’t. She looked so damn brave. She’d gotten out, somehow gotten away, but she’d come back. For him and his dead dog, when she might have lived.

“Lux, get up! Henry!” She swung the branch between herself and Panic. Famine edged around behind her. And Oblivion wouldn’t stay down in the snow for long.

Andie adjusted her grip, and her balance. She ducked fluidly when the white wolf jumped, and then looped the branch at Famine’s feet to send it rolling. The other end she thrust into Oblivion’s chest, popping it back. Watching her, Henry could almost believe she could win. He watched so close he didn’t notice Pain regaining its feet in the snow beside him.

“Andie, run!”

“Not without you,” she shouted, and Henry barely dodged left as Pain sprang again. He caught the wolf’s jaw in his hands and its fangs slid into his palm.
Don’t let go. Tear its head clean off.
But it was the wolf who pulled, jerking on his arm like Lux at the end of his tug rope.

He didn’t know how, but he caught the creature’s shoulders and lifted it, his hand coated in hot blood and spit, and threw the wolf away. He ran to Andie, his eyes on the wolves and not on the motionless bit of black and silver fur at her feet.

Henry leaked blood from his hand and cheek. The wounds on his shoulders were hot and wet. The wolves hadn’t taken much worse than a couple of tosses into soft snow.

“We have to move together,” Andie said.

“Right.” But it wouldn’t matter. They were going to die. Torn apart, red and steaming in the snow. Pain would slice them open. Panic would spread them out. Oblivion would swallow their hearts and eyes, and Famine would eat the rest. All their families would find was red snow. Red snow, and the body of a discarded German shepherd.

Andie swung the branch out and it raked across Panic’s skull. Henry felt the warm press of her against his back. He tried to fight alongside her, but his vision began to blur. He was losing too much blood. The whole world went white, like the clearing was filling with fog.

“Andie, you have to go. I’m not going to make it.”

“What is that?” she asked. “What’s happening?”

Henry blinked as Andie staggered and rubbed her eyes. The clearing really was filling with fog. The wolves whined and snapped their jaws on empty air.

“A song?” Andie asked, and Henry heard it, too. Low and sweet, a song he knew in a language he didn’t. The wind smelled like salt and burnt sugar. He felt arms around him, and lips soft beside his ear.

“Keep quiet, hero, and let me sing.” Her voice was beautiful. So he closed his mouth and let himself be taken away.

*   *   *

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Ares asked.

Athena watched Ares across the clearing. It was obvious that
he
wasn’t sure he wanted to do it, and that more than anything convinced her that yes, she did. For just a second, she tried to see beyond the blood, to the boy-god Ares hid down deep. The one who’d had his pride hurt the most of all the gods. The subject of Olympus’ ridicule. Their father, Zeus, had hated him. Ares’ own father. And sometimes Athena had hated him, too.

If they had ever been on the same side, Athena couldn’t remember it. But Ares was right when he said they were alike. When she looked at him, she saw one side of herself. A side she neglected, preferring to box rather than brawl.

But a brawl is what lay before her. Diplomacy didn’t work with gods. They were ancient, with ancient sensibilities. War, they understood. War, she could do.

“Are you really going to make me kill you, brother?” she asked.

“Is there a choice, sister? If I opened my hands now and said I would come to your side, would you let me?”

She looked at those hands, and into his dark, clean-shaven face, so civilized with his cut hair and expensive clothes. He could’ve walked out of a Calvin Klein ad. But the centuries hadn’t changed him that much. His eyes were still a wolf’s eyes.

“No,” she said.

Something like disappointment flashed across his face and disappeared just as quickly.

“It’s fitting, isn’t it,” he said, “that this should happen here. On Artemis’ grave. In her blood. Do you think she sees? Do you think she’ll feel it, when one of us joins her?”

“I think you’re disgusting,” Athena replied. “Father always said you were the most hateful, the most wretched of all his children.”