Ungodly

by Kendare Blake

  Last fall, Athena and Odysseus had passed through on their way to Kincade. Strange how close they’d come to another one of their brothers. He wondered what it meant, that Athena hadn’t detected him so nearby. He wondered if Hephaestus had known they were there.

  Hermes had traveled north from Kincade in style, hiring a private car and driver, but he’d left them at the edge of the city (the backseat littered with an odd juxtaposition of caviar jars and fast-food bags, champagne bottles and Mello Yello) and walked into town on foot. He’d wasted no time and gone directly to Alexander Derby’s last known address. And he’d waited there on and off for the last two days. Watching and listening to the people who came and went.

  Almost no one came and went. Only one man and one woman in two days, both of whom returned with groceries and packages wrapped in brown paper. He’d stood in the shadows for two days watching housekeepers.

  And not one time has my god-dar gone off. Not even a blip. And no movement from any of the million windows, either.

  He looked up to the top floors, which rose well above the trees. The place looked less like a home than a museum. Several stories of gray-brown brick and white window moldings. It took up an entire corner of a city block.

  And all that’s rattling around in there is one god and two housekeepers?

  Or maybe no god at all. Maybe he’d come too late, and Hephaestus was already dead. He’d hoped to watch the house and see a well-dressed gentleman walk down the front steps with a silver-handled cane and a bad limp. He’d hoped they would catch each other’s eye and smile. They’d have a drink, and share some food. Talk about old times. And then he’d forge Henry a new shield, a better shield than that flimsy Frisbee Achilles toted around. And Hermes would go home.

  Just once, couldn’t it be that easy?

  There was only one way to find out. The soles of Hermes’ shoes seemed loud as he crossed the street. He had his hand raised in a fist to knock before he remembered that he was the god of thieves, and broke in.

  He stepped into the foyer, feet soft on the marble floor. The interior looked like any other massively expensive house might. High ceilings, walls painted robin’s egg blue, and a striped silk chaise. He moved farther in and sniffed the air. A light scent of iron lingered in the rooms, and his pulse quickened with hope.

  As he passed by open doorways he noted the rich furnishings: Chinese vases, long oak dining tables, a study full of books and bronze busts. But his mind galloped ahead to Hephaestus. His old friend. The god that Zeus had deemed the most sturdy. The most reasonable.

  He can’t possibly be that pissed about Hera. She kicked him off Olympus because she was ashamed of his shriveled foot.

  Hermes swallowed. She had done that. But she was still his mother.

  The sound of footsteps made him freeze, then zip down another hallway. But it was only the woman. He heard her humming in what he assumed was the kitchen. He listened to cabinets and drawers open and close, and sniffed the air again. No iron this time, but chicken with sage and butter. Enough for an extra guest? He glanced at his emaciated stomach. Maybe enough for one extra guest, but never enough for him.

  Have to hurry. It would be rude to interrupt his lunch.

  He darted into the hall and up a set of stairs, following the faint hint of metal in his nose. The farther he got into the house, the less it looked like a house. Rooms grew larger and hallways shorter. They doubled back on themselves. Twice he found himself in the same hallway and three times in the same room. And everything seemed to skirt the outside edges. There didn’t seem to be anything in the center. The architecture was clever; you wouldn’t even notice if you weren’t already suspicious and paying too much attention. But all the rooms and stairways he’d been through left a rather large square empty in the middle of the building. Sweat broke out on his forehead. He was close to lost.

  There has to be a way to the center. And what will I find when I get there?

  Images of all kinds flashed through his head. He imagined ten bellows, an entire smelting operation. A wide, gray, empty room, and at the center a contorted, withered corpse that was unrecognizable as anything resembling a god or human. And then he opened a door on his right, and stumbled through.

  The space was massive, walls covered with books and paintings. Great chandeliers lit it, casting a yellowed parchment color across the marble floor. Hermes leaned against a railing three floors up and looked down on it. Above him were another four floors.

  “Hermes.”

  Hephaestus sat in a leather wingback chair, his lap covered with a blanket. Behind him, a fireplace roughly the size of a Chevy sedan blasted heat through the space.

  “Hephaestus?”

  His friend smiled. “What took you so long? Is the messenger of the gods slowing down? I felt you come in twenty minutes ago. And I felt you lurking outside my walls for two days before that.”

  Hermes leapt over the rail and dropped to the floor, in too big a hurry to bother with stairs or a ladder.

  “All that time you knew I was here, and you didn’t come out to welcome me?” Hermes tried to smile. But the longer Hephaestus stayed in that chair, the more his apprehension grew. The other god looked all of about twenty-five except for his strange widow’s peak hairline, but he sat at an odd angle, one shoulder jutted up much higher than the other. Hermes’ eyes flickered to his legs, hidden under the blanket. “You look like a cartoon villain in that chair.”

  Hephaestus reached to the side and gripped a long silver crutch that attached to his elbow and shoulder, then pushed to the other side and attached its mate. When he stood, Hermes saw the extent of the damage. His spine had twisted cruelly. The joints in his hands bulged, warping the finger bones. He could barely hold his arm braces, but he kicked aside the blanket. His legs were encased in bands of metal.

  “Get that look off your face,” Hephaestus said gruffly. “Watch.” He stepped forward, and the mechanisms on his leg whirred. Despite his contorted form, the motion seemed effortless.

  “You’re … Iron Man.”

  “Ha!” Hephaestus grinned. “Tony Stark gets no credit. These are my own design.”

  “You look good, old friend,” Hermes said. “All things considered.”

  “All things considered, we both do. Both of us still handsome, from the neck up.”

  A faint knock sounded and the young woman Hermes had seen leaving and returning entered, pushing a cart of silver platters. She parked it beside a dark dining table in the north end of the room.

  Hephaestus walked to the table, leg braces whirring. The combination of movements with the metal arm crutches gave the impression of an ungainly silver spider. A very strong ungainly silver spider.

  “Stay for lunch?” Hephaestus asked. The woman, who really wasn’t much more than a girl on closer inspection, lifted silver covers to reveal a platter of six roasted chickens and two more of white asparagus bathed in hollandaise. “I sent them out for it specially. For old times’ sake.”

  “Next you’ll tell me you’ve got some of that odd German wine.”

  Hephaestus’ eyes widened in horror. “Let’s try a nice New York white this time. Marie, two bottles of the Chateau Frank Riesling.”

  Over the course of the meal, Hermes tried not to stuff himself, but it was difficult. He also tried not to drink too much, which was even more difficult. The Riesling paired well with the food, and being inside the grand house brought back memories of their time spent in Hephaestus’ fine German hotel.

  “So, the Derbys. Are they really your family? Or just mortals you befriended and bewitched with roasted chicken?”

  “They really are,” Hephaestus said. “Or at least, they’re my descendants. The first Alexander Derby II was my biological son. I’ve lived a whole saga here. Heartbreak and triumph. Wars fought and won. Generations of family.” He frowned. “And then this.” He held up his twisted and curled hand. “Now my real family comes knocking.”

  “Athena was here,” Hermes said. “At
the end of this past summer. Briefly.”

  “I know. I felt her, luckily, before she felt me.”

  “So far before?” Hermes asked. “No offense, but, steel robot legs or not, you don’t look like you can make a speedy getaway.”

  “My body is twistier, that’s for certain,” Hephaestus replied. “But the limp is nothing new, and I’ve learned the need for escape plans. There are ways out of here, my friend, that you can’t even imagine. Be careful what doors you go through.”

  “Sounds ominous,” Hermes said, and stuffed another bite of chicken into his mouth.

  “So it does. But it’s a necessity.”

  “I didn’t want to find you this way,” Hermes said. “I imagined you in a suit not so different from the one you’re wearing now. But there were no crutches, or braces. I thought … I hoped, that maybe you had a bigger cane. Maybe one of those canes with four feet at the bottom.”

  “And I hoped you’d somehow been able to outrun the whole mess.” Hephaestus chuckled. “But here we are. And here it is.”

  Here it is. And damn it, how I hate to ruin such a nice lunch.

  “You’ve heard about the war, haven’t you,” Hermes said quietly. “And you’ve heard about your mother.”

  Hephaestus looked down, and picked up his wine.

  “Yes,” he said. “Hera has fallen. Shall we pour a libation for her out on the floor?” He shook his head. “I heard.”

  “She didn’t try to contact you? Didn’t try to get you to come over to her side?”

  “She didn’t. And I would have said no, anyway. Dying gods tearing each other’s throats out just to be the last gods standing. Even if you win, what kind of survival is that? What kind of victory? It’s vulgar. No, when Mother needed help, she didn’t turn to me. She went to her favorite son, like she always does. Like my own damned wife does, for that matter.”

  Ares and Aphrodite. They always enjoyed humiliating you.

  “I thought you gave Aphrodite back,” Hermes said.

  “Zeus wouldn’t take back the bride-price. He said I was stuck with her.”

  Hermes laughed. Nothing remained on any of the platters except chicken bones and a few sprigs of asparagus. Both bottles of wine were dry. And he needed to get back to Andie and Henry. He’d been gone too long already.

  “I’m in the war, Hephaestus. I need your help. That’s why I came.”

  “I just told you. I don’t want to be involved.”

  “I know. And I wish I didn’t have to beg.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table, and stared into his empty plate. “I don’t want to die.”

  Hephaestus sat quietly for a long time. Then he set his wineglass down with a clink.

  “What do you think I can do for you?”

  “I need you to forge us a shield for Hector of Troy.”

  12

  THE KIDNAPPING OF PERSEPHONE, REDUX

  The knife in Ares’ hand shone dull silver. Athena tensed. He’d gotten the drop on her, but if he thought he and Aphrodite would get out of it clean, he was kidding himself. When he took one step forward, she would spring. And that knife might just end up buried in his gut. She might just saw the blade clear up to his throat.

  Aphrodite stepped between them and slapped Ares’ hand.

  “Don’t,” she said. “Don’t joke. Do you think because she’s unarmed she can do no damage?” She turned to Athena and apologized.

  “A joke?” Athena asked. “That’s supposed to be funny? I could’ve torn your hand off.”

  “Torn my hand off?” Ares laughed. “Weeks of fighting monsters have made you overconfident.”

  Weeks of fighting monsters. Had it been that long that she’d spent tearing scales and claws off of beasts at the banks of the Styx? Had that much time passed in the dark? She didn’t know. It could have been days and it could have been forever.

  “It wasn’t all a joke, either, Aphrodite,” Ares said. “This is going to take a lot of blood.”

  He drew the blade across his hand and flicked a few red drops into the lake. He shook blood in all directions, flinging it onto petals of asphodel and into the mud of the bank. Athena recoiled as some of it landed on her face, but it was smart. The dead would smell it, and come for a taste. It wouldn’t take long.

  “Why are we doing this?” Athena asked, wiping her cheek.

  “Have you noticed how Persephone is nowhere near?” Ares asked. “How she seems to hang out by the river border, and near her palace? I think it’s because she’s mostly dead now. Mostly a shade herself. I don’t think the dead are quite as obedient as they used to be.”

  As Athena looked out across the still lake, a pale head poked out of one of the tunnels. A pale arm followed it, and then another, until a parade of waxy corpses lurched toward them, so many that Athena wished Ares had put out less bait. They came from everywhere, even from the corridor they’d come down, their legs stiff and jerking, vacant eyes bright at the prospect of food. Of life.

  Aphrodite moved close to Ares and took his arm. So many dead were disconcerting. Men, women, youths, all shuffled closer with their mouths slightly open.

  “They won’t hurt you,” Ares whispered into Aphrodite’s hair.

  “You sure?” Athena asked irritably. “What’s the second part of the plan?” The first of the dead touched her: a whisper against her shoulder. Then a weak, groping hand.

  Athena pushed her panic down. They were only shades. Only the dead, and she could force her way through thousands if she had to.

  Which she would, if she wanted to get free. Hundreds of pale shades had already assembled in only a few seconds.

  “All right, before there are too many.” Ares’ voice was loud, and not quite as calm as before.

  “Ares, hurry,” Aphrodite pressed.

  He dragged the blade across his wrist and reached for the head of the nearest dead. He forced his wrist against its mouth and let it drink. “Here.” He tossed Athena the knife. “Feed as many as you can.”

  Athena watched the corpse lap and suck on Ares’ blood. Color quickly returned to its hair, its cheeks, and even the rags it wore. The eyes blinked to something like life.

  Turncoats. They were making turncoats. The blood of whoever fed the dead would bind the dead to them.

  Athena made a quick cut in her palm and shoved it in the face of the nearest shambling body.

  “Give me the knife,” Aphrodite said.

  Athena handed it over, and Aphrodite followed their lead. When they started, Athena feared an onslaught, a rush of bodies crushing them and pushing them back into the lake. But the corpses just shuffled without much aim. All except those being fed.

  Ares had finished with two, and held both of them by the shoulder.

  “Your mistress is dead now, like you,” he said. “She isn’t your queen any longer, but a shade who walks the halls. Find her. Bring her to us.”

  * * *

  Athena lay back on a bed of asphodel. The wounds on her wrists and hands had scabbed over, but she’d given up so much blood that her head swam. How much blood could a god bleed before they passed out? She still didn’t know. But she, Ares, and Aphrodite had pressed the issue. Aphrodite lay somewhere in the flowers beside her, and Ares sat wearily on a rock.

  “Does anyone have anything to eat?” Aphrodite asked. “Some fruit?”

  “No,” Athena replied. “And I wouldn’t eat anything you find down here, if I were you.” She turned her face away from the scentless blossoms. No food. No water. They’d just have to wait for their heads to stop pounding.

  “How long do you think they’ll take?” Aphrodite sighed. “To get back, I mean. Do you think it will take them long to find Persephone?”

  “Not as long as you’d think.”

  Athena sat up when she heard Odysseus’ voice. At first she thought it was a trick of her bleary eyes and swimmy head. But there he was. Standing. And more than that, walking, damp from the shoulders down from swimming across the Styx. The sword that Achilles had forced
through his chest was now strapped to his back.

  “Judging by the speed of that massive herd of dead people I just passed, she could be here within the hour.” Ares’ wolves stood on either side of him until their master beckoned and they trotted forward to have their heads scratched.

  “What are you doing here?” Athena asked. “How are you healed?”

  “Sorry for not waiting,” Odysseus said. “I didn’t trust these two.” He nodded toward Ares and Aphrodite. “And I really wanted to see Oblivion dog paddle.”

  Oblivion growled low in its throat. Athena pressed her hand to Odysseus’ chest through the tear in his shirt. Her fingers expected blood and a raw wound. Instead she found a warm, purple scar.

  “This shouldn’t be.”

  Odysseus smiled and kissed her fingertips. “You’d rather I stick the sword back in then?”

  Ares stood and walked around Odysseus in a wide circle.

  “That is some fast healing, even on the banks of the underworld,” Ares said warily.

  Odysseus watched him out of the corner of his eye.

  Athena took his hand.

  “Come on.”

  She led him down the corridor they’d come through, ears pointed backward to make sure Ares and Aphrodite weren’t following. But they were weak from feeding a horde of shades. Their heads probably hurt too much to make mischief.

  The dark veined walls didn’t move as much as when they’d first passed. Perhaps they were nearly empty of dead, since so many were scouring the tunnels with fresh gods’ blood in their cheeks. As they walked, Athena kept one hand on Odysseus. She was afraid to let go.

  I should tell him a hundred things. A thousand. I should tell him everything again that I whispered in the dark.

  “You do heal fast,” she said. “And you move fast. Faster than you used to. You fight better, too. Even better than when I used to help you.”

  “So you’ve figured it out, then,” Odysseus said, and grinned. “That I’m Mortal with a capital M, and clever enough to keep the secret from the goddess of wisdom.”