by Cassie Day
A dusty smell seeps from every crevice of the enormous library. Beams of light shine from the single window against the far wall, illuminating the edge of the shelves created from the same mahogany wood as the door.
None of it resembles the Kasos library. Not one dust mote dances in the dappled beam of sun. A hunched man doesn’t shuffle through tightly packed rows.
Charon gasps. I turn, expecting him to have been hurt or trod upon, but his face holds only awe. “Books,” he murmurs. “So many books.”
“You like to read?” Hestia asks.
He nods, too awestruck to speak.
They’re just bits of paper. Yet there’s something in how the letters and shapes come together, in how the spines promise everything and nothing all at once, that inspires wonder. Even now, my fingers itch to slide an anemone-pink book off a nearby shelf and crack it open.
Zeus rambles, something about the rarity of a certain stack on a circular table to his side. Hestia nods along. Artemis taps her foot, rolling her eyes each time he turns his back to her. One dog huffs with laughter each time no matter how Hera glares.
Desma observes but says nothing at the fringes of the group. A little distance away, Charon traces the edge of a shelf without touching a finger to any of the spines.
I pull the coral one from its spot. Short but tightly bound, it’s heavy in my hands. I stop beside him, nudging with an elbow until he looks. I raise the book between us, gesturing for him to take it, but he shakes his head. His average fingers curl into his palm, afraid to touch.
I sigh, then grab the top cover and flip until paragraphs peek from the pages. Charon’s stare follows and sticks. His mouth falls open.
“The history of Pomria,” he says, grabbing the book. Claws grow from his dark skin with a seamless ripple.
Zeus’ voice is too loud for me to focus. The sun and lamps are too bright. The dusty smell sits heavy in my nose. I drop onto a cushioned chair nearby, the fabric cool against my overheated skin. Within moments, the cloth is too cold and I shiver.
The others continue to talk. Charon reads, eyes minnow-quick on the pages. Already he’s turned through a thin stack of pages.
My head is a leaden weight; an anchor. Sweat pours across my temples and spine. Soon, my dress is drenched at my collar and the small of my back.
The sickness. Thanatos removed his protection.
“Charon,” I mumble.
He doesn’t look up.
“Charon!” I hiss.
He looks. So does everyone else.
I watch their faces; Zeus’ frown, Hera’s pinched mouth, Hestia’s warm expression, and Artemis’ curiosity.
Desma lurches forward, arm coming around my shoulder. She pulls me to standing. I stumble into her side. She bears my weight with a muffled grunt.
“She’s ill,” she says.
“Must be the dried meat I gave her earlier,” Charon says. He ducks his head, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I questioned if it was cured properly.”
Desma tilts her head at him but says nothing to his lie.
Hestia wrings her hands and gestures to the still-open library doors. “This way, this way. Come along.”
Besides Charon trailing us, no one follows. Part of me is grateful Desma and Charon are here to drag me along. Another rebels at anyone being so close during the sickness.
They war within my stomach until it churns so violently I vomit into a vase filled with vibrant flowers. They wilt beneath the chunks of half-digested cheese and bread. Hestia sighs but insists someone will handle the mess when Charon asks.
Color and light swirls. I close my eyes. Even in the darkness, a mass of shadow writhes. My stomach heaves. There’s nothing more to vomit; I ate light on our journey here.
And Charon gave me not one bite of dried meat. He lied—to the king and queen of Prasinos, no less.
Maybe they’re not his king and queen. Nekros is a kingdom, and realm, unto itself. Regardless, why lie? Why risk himself? But I already know. He’s kind beneath the claws, fangs, and sometimes fur.
The Olympian court doesn’t know I’m a siren; my one true defense if everything here goes awry. If Zeus’ advances become harder to ignore or Hera’s glares become a prelude to violence, I’ll have my song to stop them for a crucial moment I can use to escape.
He’s helping me. I’d hug him if I could manage to lift my arms beyond a feeble twitch.
“In here,” Hestia says.
I’m dragged over a threshold. Then set on a pile of cushions and fabric. A bed? I try to open my eyes. They flutter but don’t budge.
The room spins. A warm cloth touches my forehead. It chills my skin. The shapes beneath my lids dance. Water drips into my mouth, a steady hand under my chin keeping my mouth agape for the flow.
The room lurches. I groan, burrowing further into the blankets piled atop me. Someone shushes me, a hand warm on my forehead. A warm cloth replaces the cold one.
By the third cloth, I can open my eyes. My vision warps. I slam them closed, whimpering. I grit my teeth and try again.
Desma leans over me, a steaming cloth gripped in her hands. For a moment there’s two of her.
“You’re back,” she says with a sigh. “You slept for a day.”
I try to reply. My voice sticks in my throat. She takes pity on me, helping me sit upright. I sip tepid water with her arm around my back until my stomach is close to bursting.
“How do you feel?” She settles me back on the bed.
Curtains flutter to each side of the bed, the gossamer cobalt fabric doing little to dim the midday sun or a breeze from the window against one wall.
“Like fish guts,” I say.
My body is heavy. Each joint aches with pain while my head pounds. I force my heavy eyelids to stay open. If I fall back asleep, I might never wake up.
Her serious face cracks into a smile. She presses the cloth to my forehead. I hiss at the sting of heat but lean into it all the same.
Somehow she gets me walking within an hour. Enough so I can use the bathroom and lower myself into a steaming bath.
Sweat layers my hair into a greasy lump. Desma scrubs my scalp until it tingles. After, she slides a clean dress over my head, tugging it into place with sure movements and pinning the shoulders. Her hand brushes against my necklace but she says nothing.
Already her skin pales. Her movements slow. I’m in the midst of the sickness; Desma’s a handful of hours from joining.
I grit my teeth, clutching the necklace in my shaking hands. Why remove my protection from the symptoms? I tap the stone with a fingernail. Maybe Thanatos is busy with other tasks. Maybe Nyx has her reasons for this, as she seems to with everything. Maybe my own stubbornness to weather the storm wins out.
I’ll summon Nyx.
Tomorrow.
Chapter 19
ANOTHER DAY OF SWEATING and vomiting passes. Part of me clings to hope that if I ignore the sickness, it’ll go away. That if I struggle through, I’ll be the one to conquer our curse.
But my head clogs like sand is trapped between my ears. I press my forehead to my trembling knees. Try to stave off the worst of the churning in my stomach. The servants delivered food to our room not one hour ago. To vomit all of it would be a waste.
My family remains in the sea, famine whittling away at them until they’re all jutting ribs and gaunt faces—it’s enough to swallow the building vomit and lift my head.
Desma stares from where she’s sitting on her own bed. Her face is clear of anything but a pink flush high on her cheeks. I watch the bob of her throat as she swallows. She’s not as unaffected by the sickness as she appears.
“We can’t return to the sea,” she says. “Not while we’re here.”
We left the sea behind an hour after Desma stepped into Arion’s chariot. We were carried over endless stretches of hilly land before arriving in Athansi. To return would take hours and immeasurable pleading with the very gods we stay with.
I imagine sitting at Zeus’
sandaled feet and pleading. No, begging. All to return to our prison. Vomit rises in my throat again. I stand, ignoring the spots overtaking my vision, and rely on memory to carry me to the bathroom.
The vomit is chunked and a crude yellow-brown. The acidic tang is enough to burn my nose.
Desma sighs from the other room, loud in the silence following my retching. “You’ve been two-legged longer than me,” she says. “How have you managed so far?”
I wipe my mouth, cringing at the bitter taste left against my tongue. By the time I’m done rinsing with a nearby pitcher of water, she’s pacing our room. With each sharp turn, her dress flutters like the fanning fin of a reef fish.
“I didn’t. A god bestowed resistance upon me during my time in Nekros,” I say.
I inhale, falling back onto my bed. My stomach jumps from the short fall. The mattress threatens to swallow me whole.
There’s no use lying. We’re in the same predicament, her and I. She’ll ferret the truth out of me regardless. Watching her flashing eyes, respect takes root. She’s willing to do whatever she must for a better life. We’re not so different.
Only...how does she intend to have a better life? By seducing a god or goddess?
Hermes’ gaze lingered on her during the chariot ride. It wouldn’t be a challenge. But she returned not one of his looks.
She stops and pivots. “Which god? Surely they don’t all have the power of staving off our curse.”
I bite my bottom lip, wincing at the sting. “Thanatos, the god of death.”
“Can he help again?”
I sit on my hands to stop them from touching the silver necklace around my neck. To call her and ask for Thanatos’ assistance—would there be a price? A bargain? Yet of all the gods, she gives the most readily. No tricks.
I give up. My hand flies to the necklace, touching the jewel at its center.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
Meeting Nyx is a secret between Charon and myself. Would telling others be a risk? But what is there to risk? Nyx is a powerful goddess. If Zeus finds out and becomes offended for whatever gods awful reason, he can do little harm to the night sky itself.
“The goddess Nyx, mother of Thanatos, gifted me a necklace.”
She sits on her bed, rubbing at her temples. “There’s nothing there!” Then, “Nyx favors you?”
“Yes. She said.” I pause, swallowing. Tap a finger against the jewel until Desma’s head lifts. “She said to call her if I need assistance. Through this.”
“Why give you an invisible piece of jewelry?” Desma mumbles.
Considering I didn’t know the necklace was invisible until now, there’s no answer. I shrug instead.
She rolls her eyes. “Unless you’d like to vomit and burn with fever side by side, I suggest you call upon her immediately.”
The thought of both of us leaning over the toilet in the bathroom, vomiting all the decadent palace foods lingering in our stomachs, is enough for me to grip the necklace. Hard in my palm, the jewel warms the longer my skin touches it.
I sigh once, then twice, but Desma’s glare stops me from delaying any longer.
“Nyx,” I breathe out.
Nothing. No stretching shadows. No breathy voice. The dusk sky outside doesn’t shift to black.
I tap the jewel with a fingernail. Over and over until the rapid staccato matches my thudding heart. “Nyx?”
Desma curls forward, both hands pressed to her stomach. Another wave of sickness.
Within moments, I’m the same. My hand leaves the necklace to wrap around the heaving in my chest and stomach. It takes all of my willpower to push back a wave of bile.
I close my eyes. Pure darkness. I slump, relieved, and ignore Desma’s gasp.
“Agathe,” she says.
I hold back a snarl. She’s done nothing to deserve my ire. “What?”
A breeze gusts from the open window. The cold is welcome against my overheated skin.
“Cousin, open your eyes,” she says, something like awe in her voice.
I open them. Inky shadow, a star-dotted dress fluttering in the cool dusk breeze, and Nyx’s silver irises watching me with a spark of warmth.
I straighten. “Nyx.”
Desma echoes me, head bowed.
“Oh, none of that, my dear,” she says in her throaty timbre. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”
I nod. Force myself to speak. “Of course.”
She returns my nod. “And friends help one another.” She claps, the noise loud in the otherwise quiet room. “What’s wrong? You and your cousin are quite pale.”
Looking at Desma, I open my mouth. Close it when no explanation comes. She’s treated my sickness once. Should I ask her to call on Thanatos again?
But Desma, with all her healer training, leaps to answer before I squeak out a word.
“We’re sick,” she says. She stands, careful to hunch her shoulders so she’s small compared to Nyx. “The sickness, us sirens call it. Too long from the sea and we begin to wither until death claims us.”
Nyx waves a careless hand. “Yes, yes, I know, little siren. Thanatos numbed Agathe from the worst of it days ago.”
I wince. “Not anymore. I’m sick again.”
“Thanatos removed his help?” She hisses, shadows coiling in languid circles around one arm like a snake.
With a gulp, I nod. Try to stand but my knees wobble. I fall back to sitting. “Yes.”
Nyx turns away with another hiss. I share a look with Desma, dizziness swarming in my head.
“Thanatos,” Nyx growls, strutting to stand in front of the open window. When only silence answers her from beyond, she shouts. “Thanatos!”
The sky outside shifts into deeper dusk, night readying for takeover. Already the sun dips behind the city buildings with a last blinding beam. Our room is entrenched in shadows barely separate from Nyx’s coils.
Or are they darkness? Her husband Erebus is the god of darkness, after all. A shiver ripples across my skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. I cross my arms, huddling for warmth.
Light flares in the corner of the room. Desma, hands poised above a lit lamp. She snuffs the match used to light it, hands trembling.
Between one blink and the next, Thanatos stands in front of the window, his white hair gleaming in the growing moonlight.
His stare darts between me, Desma, and Nyx before settling on his mother with a furrowed brow.
“Mother,” he says, bowing his head slightly. Not as much as he should if he wishes for forgiveness.
And from the tight line of Nyx’s shoulders, she knows he’s bowed too little. She raises herself as high as her height allows, staring down her nose at him.
His shoulders hunch. Coils of shadow to match his mother’s twist, a hint of pitch nestled close to his skin.
“I hear you’ve disobeyed my orders,” Nyx says, voice clearer the more her rage swells. “Again. Do you have yet another excuse why?”
Again? Why would he disobey? This is his mother.
He refuses to meet her searing gaze, settling on watching the flickering lamp instead. “My abilities were needed elsewhere.”
Her laugh is the hiss of a snake. “There are more important places to use your abilities than where I command you to?”
“Mother, I didn’t mean—”
She paces between our beds. “You never mean to defy me, do you?”
He lifts his head. “What do you want me to do?”
She bares her teeth until her sharp canines are exposed. “I want you to return this girl’s freedom from sickness. Something you already should have been doing.”
Nyx’s chest heaves. Thanatos watches, head tilted in subservience. His sharp eyes are anything but.
“Me too, goddess,” Desma says.
Nyx whips around.
Desma flinches backward until she’s hidden by pillows.
“Please,” I say. “I’ll need help in the court.”
She might be useless now but I’
ll find a use for her soon, whether through Hermes’ infatuation or something else.
Nyx exhales slowly, then nods. Her dark hair bobs, strands floating free from the braid curving down her back to join the shadows.
“Now,” she commands.
Thanatos nods, his smile brittle. “Consider it done, mother.”
With a snap of his fingers, the sickness lifts from my shoulders. Color returns to Desma’s pursed lips.
His shadows fold in on themselves, shrouding his silhouette. Impossibly, they fold closer. His body shrinks until he’s no more than a sliver of skin. Then he’s gone, lost to a crisp breeze carried through the window.
All the burning aches leave my muscles. My head clears. I become unshakable yet again. Not immortal, not yet, but a step closer.
“Insolent child,” Nyx says, voice returning to its familiar rasp. She turns to face us.
I stand and bow low. “Thank you, goddess.”
She pets my bowed head. Her sharp nails catch in my hair with painful tugs. I wince, glad my face is turned where she can’t see.
“Such a lovely girl,” she croons. “So polite.”
My chest fills with warmth. A smile twists my lips. I look up through my lashes.
Affection fills her face where only a cold void once lingered. She’s motherly with me while her interaction with her son was not. Pride snakes through the warmth. I created that look. Me.
“My time has arrived.” She turns to stare through the window.
She withdraws her hand. All of my willpower centers on not following after it with my head like one of Artemis’ dogs.
“If you’ll excuse me, my dear, I have other matters to attend to.” She taps a pointed fingernail on the jewel in my necklace. It shivers against my skin with a surge of sudden heat. “But remember I watch over you always.”
I blink away tears. There’s gratitude for what she’s done. A fear of disappointing her. The mess of emotion becomes a knotted ball of thread in my stomach.
Through a clogged throat, I manage to murmur. “Thank you.”
She grins, bright as the north star. “Head to the throne room in the morning; you’ll be needed.”