by Cassie Day
A double-edged sword. On one hand, I’ll make an entrance. On the other, I’ll be the last to my own audience. That could be taken as a show of fickle arrogance.
My foot taps against the floor in an erratic beat. I bite my lip until it aches.
I’ll wait. Better to be considered arrogant than impatient.
Tap, tap, tap, my foot continues. Desma jams her heel into it. Bones grind together but don’t break. I hiss and back away. Right into Charon’s arms.
He twists me around with a chuckle. I sink into the delicious heat of us chest-to-chest. His mouth is on mine before I can say anything. The warm slide of our lips, his hands bracketing my hips, him soothing the ache in my bottom lip with a flick of his tongue—everything else falls away.
He backs away. I chase after his lips. Laughing, he lets go of my hips to swipe hands across my braided hair, tucking strands back into place.
I glare. “You’re terrible.”
“Yet you’re no longer tapping your foot,” he says, smiling. “You needed a distraction.”
He jerks his head toward the doors. While we were kissing, everyone went inside.
Charon grabs my chin. He uses his thumb to ease my bottom lip from between my teeth. “Perhaps I should distract you some more.”
“While the tapping was driving me insane, please don’t,” Desma says.
I pout. His pupils dilate to pinpricks. He leans forward, eyes intent on my mouth.
Desma pulls me away with a grip on my elbow. “Not the time for this!”
He lets me go. Worse, he pouts. If Desma didn’t hold me so tight, I’d be back to kissing him right now.
She smacks the back of my head. “Focus!”
I inhale, squaring my shoulders. Lift my chin. I step to the side until I’m in view through the doors. “I can do this.”
“You can,” Desma and Charon say at the same time. They share an amused look.
Courage begins with one step.
One step at a time, I’m between the doors, a thick wall to each side. Two more steps and I’m inside.
Desma squeezes one hand. Charon the other. Then they walk past, skirting around the edge of the room. They settle on a couch close to Zeus’ throne.
Before I’m ready, I’m standing at the base of the thrones. Zeus sits on the left one. The other is empty. Hera’s still locked away. Though I’m grateful she’s not here to interfere, a pang of sympathy stabs at my heart.
Hermes, standing to the side of Zeus’ throne, waves with a goofy grin. My shoulders unfurl from near my ears.
Zeus raises an eyebrow. He sprawls across the pristine throne, one elbow propped on the armrest. His golden crown glints in the sunlight from the false sky above.
A last breath. A last blink. “I’m Agathe, daughter of sirens, here to bargain with Zeus.”
“Here to bargain with Zeus,” he drawls in a pantomime of my voice. Then he scoffs. “Go on, then.”
I clench my teeth, locking curses away. They fill my mouth like a thick layer of ash.
One by one, I set two slim books still tucked beneath my arm on the floor. The third one I flip open, finding the page with my Titan law by memory alone. I don’t bother repeating it, knowing he’d only mock me again, but do hold the book open should I need proof.
“I request a fair bargain per this Titan law.” I gesture to the book with my other hand, proud when it moves in a graceful arc. “If I fulfill our bargain, the immortality and wings of all the sirens, myself included, will be returned.”
His eyes widen a fraction. Otherwise, he shows no surprise at the change in my terms. The last time I was in this spot, I thought only of myself. How quick the change must seem to someone who lives for centuries! Yet change has already sunk into my heart, my bones, as if it has always been this way.
“And your judge?” he asks, yawning.
His gaze finds Hades on one of the couches and his face fills with smug mirth.
Hades sits rigid and alone. Demeter glares from across the room, Persephone at her side.
I lift my head a fraction more. “As my judge, I call upon Thanatos, god of death.”
Thick shadows flicker at my side, undulating in smoking tentacles. The court gasps, shifting back in their seats.
Thanatos steps forward until we’re shoulder-to-shoulder. He sketches into a bow. “King Zeus.”
“A judge? You?” Zeus says, sneering.
Thanatos shrugs. “Who else but death could be truly unbiased?”
Murmurs of agreement flit through the room. Desma grins, quick and bright, before falling back behind a placid mask. Charon does nothing, yet I read pride in his eyes.
Hermes hums. “He has a point.”
“Quiet,” Zeus snaps.
The room stills. All their chatter dwindles into silence.
Zeus sits straight, eyes sweeping across the room. One by one, each god bows their head. All but Charon, Desma, and Persephone. They dare to stare back.
His jaw works. He looks at me, eyes the sky during a raging summer storm. “I accept your bargain. For all the sirens’ wings and immortality, the cost is three trials.”
He’s done exactly what I hoped, exactly what he does with each recorded bargain—trials.
I stifle a laugh. Cover my elation by pulling another book off the floor. This one contains a number of stories but one in particular is the one I choose. I flip to the page and hold the book upright. Everyone can see the illustration on the left page—a man surrounded by three others.
The right page I read aloud. “The hero Heracles, faced with more of Zeus’ trials, chose three friends to aid him. One for each trial, only to help during said trial.”
I glance up. “I request the aid of three friends the same as Heracles.”
Zeus leans back. “And why should I allow that? You’re no blood relation of mine.”
“Fairness,” I say. “You agreed to a fair trial. If this hero had three helpers, then in all fairness so should I.”
“Fair is three trials only.” He lifts an eyebrow. “Otherwise, you would face an innumerable amount.”
Thanatos clears his throat. The noise echoes. “With all due respect, King Zeus, shouldn’t the judge decide what is fair?”
Zeus scoffs. “Unbiased, my ass.”
Thanatos grits his teeth, the muffled shriek of tooth against tooth audible only to those closest to him. “You are using your brothers, Hades and Poseidon, for your trials. Correct?”
“How did you—”
“Call it a lucky guess.” Thanatos grins. “If you’re allowed help, then the siren is allowed help.”
Zeus strokes his chin with a thumb.
I hold my breath until black dots speckle the corners of my sight.
“Fine. The siren will have her helpers, one for each trial. But since my help is only for one trial each, then hers should be as well. No one helper will be dragged to the next or reused.”
“Agreed.”
Zeus nods once, then claps his hands. “Then we’re settled. Agathe will endure three trials. Should she win all three, wings and immortality for herself and her kin.”
The court startles. Their silence turns to whispers behind raised hands.
“And if she fails?” Thanatos asks.
“If she fails just one, she’ll be executed before the Olympian court.”
My breath rushes out at once, chest near caving in on itself.
Every bargain has a price.
Cosmas’ bloodied head rolling on this very floor becomes mine.
Chapter 35
HERMES GRUNTS, FALLING to the ground in a heap.
Charon stands over him, hands on his hips. “Are you okay?”
Hermes rolls onto his back. He takes Charon’s offered hand and stumbles to his feet. Then groans, the bones in his crushed foot settling back into place with a crack.
“All healed!” He grins. Much too cheerful for someone who had their foot shattered beneath Charon’s heel moments ago.
Charon bec
kons me over with a fluid twist of his hand. “Now you.”
I gulp, glancing to the side of our sunny courtyard. Desma watches with undisguised impatience for her turn. Persephone thumbs through a hefty tome. Despite the interest she pretends to have in the book, I haven’t seen her flip a page once this past hour.
“Do I have to?” I ask, grimacing.
But I sidle close to Charon anyway. Turn so my back faces his front. Try to breathe. He’ll heal. Deities heal almost as well as gods.
Charon chuckles, low enough only I hear. “Yes. Basic self-defense is—”
“Key to my survival.” I twist my head, catching his furrowed expression, and smile. “You’ve said it three times before.”
“It’s still true.”
“How is stomping on someone’s foot going to help me? The trials are likely to be as outlandish as those in the stories.”
He sighs, breath ruffling the fine hairs on the nape of my neck. “I’m doing what I can, Agathe. I can’t give you healing or a fraction of my abilities. Self-defense will have to do.”
He’s worried.
Wouldn’t I be in his situation? If he was painfully mortal, readying to go through trials from the god-king, each more perilous than the last—would I do anything more than hide beneath my bed? Would I picture his decapitated head rolling against stark marble? Yes, and yes.
I love him. I refuse to lose him.
He loves me. He refuses to lose me.
I close my eyes. “Tell me when you’re ready.”
“Eyes open.” He readjusts my body, hands on my hips, until we're pressed close as our clothes allow. “I won't say when I'm ready. Neither will a foe. Do what you must when you must.”
His touch doesn’t linger. Doesn’t caress. Heat surges between us regardless. Before it swells into anything more, he wraps his arms around me. One across my shoulders and neck, the other across my ribs. He pulls me back in a harsh jerk, forcing air out of my lungs.
Eyes wide open, I jab my heel down.
His foot cracks in a deafening crunch of bone and sinew. He grunts, arms loosening. I throw them off. Then pivot, gasping for breath. I stumble to a stop facing him.
Hermes claps on the sidelines, edging closer to Desma by the minute. Persephone lifts her sullen face from the book and offers a halfhearted smile.
His foot fuses back together in a slow grind of bone. Within the span of a minute, he’s able to move. The mottled bruising fades to pinprick spots of purple-green-yellow.
“Good,” he says with a nod. “Desma?”
She jumps to standing, face eager. She never joined in our hunting beneath the Akri Sea, always sticking with the other healers. Yet for someone schooled in healing, she’s oddly willing to inflict pain.
Crunch. Grunt. Grind.
Charon waves her away. She plops next to me on the four stairs leading into the courtyard.
We sit on one edge of the circular shape; the other remains bare. Low-hanging trees dot the outer rim of the grass-covered circle. The daytime sky beams heat from above.
Bunches of flowers dot the grass in bright shades of buttery yellow, lavender, and fuchsia. Though Charon crushes the fragile blooms beneath his feet, the moment his sandals lift away, they pop back to life. The petals mend and unfurl, reaching toward the sun.
“What’s next? Breaking noses?” Persephone asks, sardonic. Her book is upside down.
Half an hour later, Hermes’ nose has been broken once. Charon’s twice. My everything aches. Hands, heels, arms. The sound of a popping joint won’t leave my head; we dislocated shoulders, too.
Blood splatters across the grass, dulling the vibrant green to a murky brown.
I’m tired of blood and pain. Something must show in my expression. Charon stops, sitting beside me. He pulls me close until our shoulders and temples press together.
Desma moves to sit on the other side of the courtyard with a sigh. She shakes her hand out with a wince, Hermes seated beside her, and they mumble back and forth. Through the chatter of tiny finches eking a living on the roof surrounding the courtyard, I hear nothing.
I jostle my leg against Charon’s. “Do you think he’ll win her over?”
He snorts. “I don’t know her mind, but from my experience, I’d say he has a long way to go.”
I can’t help but grin. “Oh, your experience. I see.”
“What?”
“I just didn’t realize you had so much experience wooing women.” I school my face into a mask of heartbreak. “How many?”
He frowns. “I didn’t mean—”
A laugh bubbles out, loud and edged with hysteria. Tomorrow I face the first of Zeus’ trials. Tomorrow I may die. But right now? Right now I can sit beside the man I love and laugh at his dumbfounded face.
“You’re teasing.” He grins, all shy boyish charm.
I bury it deep in my memory. If I die before Zeus’ throne, spilling my lifeblood across the polished floor, I’ll have one last moment of Charon.
“Stop overthinking.” He grabs my chin, lifting my head until there’s him and nothing else. “You’ll survive.”
“I know.” Tears burn at the back of my throat. Behind my eyelids when they flutter closed. “Or maybe I don’t.”
“You’ll survive,” he repeats. He presses his forehead against mine. “Please.”
He doesn’t pray or plead. There’s no one to pray to—the Titans are gone and the gods against us.
So I cup his hands in mine, squeezing them tight. I muster every bit of belief within me, threading it through my voice. “I’ll survive.”
THE NEXT MORNING, SUNLIGHT beams into our room long after I wake.
I pace. I shake. No matter how I try to keep my food down, knowing I need the energy, I vomit all of it by noon.
Desma forces urn after urn of water into my hands, chiding me with a look. I drink every drop. I vomit that, too.
Zeus doesn’t send for me.
My stomach roils, twisting into knots. With shaking hands, I lean against the windowsill, letting the late-day sun warm my shoulders. Birds chirp. A flock takes flight. No matter how this ends, the world will go on. Yet I hope against hope I’ll be remembered.
No, I know I will. Desma, Persephone, Hermes, Charon—all of them have me etched in their memories.
Sleek metal grazes my thumb. I glance down. Nyx’s gift, the necklace, glitters in the sun. I run a knuckle across it, unsurprised by the heat the jewel pulses in waves. I thread the clasp through my fingers. The more I pass it back and forth, the more my hands cease their shaking.
Finally, my hands are steady. I stare at the jewel. Something dark and nebulous shines at its core. The longer I watch, the more I swear it moves. Almost...blinking?
A knock pounds against our door. Desma startles, the urn in her hand clattering back onto the table. Water sloshes out of its sides.
I catch her by the shoulders and prod her back to the table. “Let me.”
She nods, throat clicking with a swallow.
Clenching and unclenching my hands, I stop in front of the door. Inhale once. Swallow another spew of vomit. Then I open it with a firm pull.
Hermes waits on the other side, bashful cheerfulness gone in the face of my trials. He offers me an arm, silent, and jerks his head back the way he came. I reach for it, fingers twitching.
“Wait!” A clatter. Desma rushes across the room, anything in her path thrown aside.
She hugs me from behind, tucking her face against my neck. The cold press of her nose sends shivers across my spine. Her hands clutch at my dress directly over my thudding heart. I place my hands over hers.
“Be careful,” she mumbles.
“I will.” I loosen her arms and step away.
She lets me go, hands clutching at empty air. “See you soon.”
“See you soon.”
I grasp Hermes’ arm. The click of stone when the door closes behind us is final. I inhale sharp through my nose, forcing back tears.
Charon isn�
�t in the hall. Each turn we take, I expect him to appear. He doesn’t. Perhaps this is better for him. For us.
If the worst happens, I want his last memory to be us sitting in the warm courtyard, our foreheads pressed together.
If I’m executed, my final request will be for him to turn away. I watched my mother’s death, Molpe’s suicide, and Cosmas’ execution. I won’t have the same stain of loss and blood forced on his mind.
One final turn and we’re at the throne room doors. Closed, they cast darkness across the floor in great sweeping arcs, drenching half of the main hall in shadow.
Zeus waits at the base of the doors, Poseidon at one shoulder and Hades the other. Hermes stops, bows once, then steps back. I face them one by one: Zeus’ arrogant smile, Poseidon’s smarm, and Hades’ careful blankness.
“Well!” Zeus says with a clap of his hands. “Let’s begin trial one. Give me your hands.”
I pry them from my sides. Zeus’ hands are clammy against mine.
“Brace yourself,” Hades mumbles.
Footsteps pound against stone. I glance over my shoulder. A dark shape whips around the corner at the far end, tunic flapping, and skids to a stop. He lifts his head, panting.
Charon.
He opens his mouth, my name on his lips.
Zeus’ hands tighten on mine. The world warps. The hall becomes swirling colors and spiraling marble. I slam my eyes closed. Vomit fills my mouth. I swallow it with a painful gulp.
When the world stops spinning, when the ground is again beneath my feet, I open my eyes. Instead of endless marble, a wide expanse of sea awaits.
Slowly, I turn my head to face Zeus. Behind him, a rolling hill thrusts from the sea, two smaller hills on the horizon. Steep stone stairs carve through the hill, ending at an archway.
The Kavalio Isles.
Zeus clears his throat. He bunches his shoulders to block out the flourishing grass and the calm sea beyond. He moves until we are barely a hair’s breadth apart.
“One last choice, siren.” He grabs me by the chin. His breath smells of wine, thick and cloying. “Become my mistress and everything is yours.”
I wrench my chin free, stumbling back. Bare my teeth in a snarl. “No.”
His smile still firmly in place, he shrugs. “Too bad. Had you agreed, I would’ve given you ambrosia.”