by Molly Ringle
Such as guilt. That was another nasty emotion that had mushroomed up in his brain. Having rearranged his thoughts about the world—about Thanatos, the immortals, what human decency looked like and what evil looked like—Landon now viewed his own life quite differently.
Finally one day when Terry was guarding him, Landon walked up to the bars and said to him, “I’m so sorry. For what we did to you. I should have said it a long time ago. I—I wish I had stopped it. I’ve wished it every day since it happened.”
Terry inclined his head gravely toward Landon. “Thank you for saying so. I wouldn’t have been keen on forgiving you when I was a living man, but it’s easier now. I forgive you, and Isabel will too, if you say the same to her.”
“I will,” Landon promised.
“Sophie and Liam, now…” Terry winced. “They’re going to find it harder.”
“Can I see them? I want to apologize even if they hate me anyway. I want them to know.”
“I’ll get them here,” Terry said. “It’ll do them good to hear it.”
So a short while later, Terry and Isabel brought Liam and Sophie. Zoe accompanied them, hanging back in silence but glowering at Landon as if ready to eviscerate him if he did anything offensive.
Sophie stopped outside the cell and regarded Landon with cold poise. Liam kept his unruly head bowed next to her and his gaze averted, aside from occasionally flashing Landon a glance of homicidal loathing.
“I just wanted to tell you that I’m sorry.” Even though it sounded lame and insufficient, Landon kept on. “I was deluded. I believed I was acting for a good cause, but I can see now I wasn’t.” He stood still too, hands at his sides, in front of the locked door. “I know there’s nothing I can say that will help now. But I wanted you both to know that I never liked it, the violence, the…the killing. I’m never going back to Thanatos. Even if I was free, I wouldn’t. You never have to worry about me hurting you again. Or hurting anyone—I never want to again.” He dropped his gaze. “Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that. In case it helps at all.”
They stayed silent and still. “It does help,” Sophie said at last. “A little. I’d be lying if I said I forgive you. But Mom and Dad told me they do, so maybe someday I will. I guess saying you’re sorry is all you can do at this point, though, so I appreciate it.” She glanced over at Liam, who returned her glance but remained mute. “Come on,” she told him softly.
They walked away without a goodbye.
Landon mulled over the notion of forgiveness for the rest of the day. And when Niko showed up to take over as guard, Landon looked up from his seat upon the ground and said quietly, “I forgive you for killing my grandmother.”
Niko turned his pocket knife over and over in his hand, gazing at it. “As she said, there’s been too much killing on both sides. But thank you, I suppose.”
“Why didn’t you kill me too? I was head of Thanatos. Same as her.”
Niko kept tilting the knife. Its blade flashed in the light of the two bare bulbs strung up outside the cell. “I killed her because of what she’d done to my friends. And because it seemed she would never change, no matter what we said. Only Tartaros would shake her conviction. You’re different, though.”
“You knew you could charm me, convince me.”
Niko shrugged.
“I’m glad you didn’t kill me,” Landon added. “I’m glad you did charm me.”
Niko sent a wry glance around the confines of the cage. “This inspires gladness in you?”
“In some ways it’s better than how I was living. I’m not lying to myself anymore. That counts for something.”
“True. I recommend only lying to others.”
Landon smiled, remembering the tricks and lies of the ancient Hermes. “I could fall in love with you again if I let myself.”
Niko met his gaze, wearily sympathetic. “Fall in love with the bloke who killed your grandmother? That’s twisted, mate.”
“Yeah, well. Twisted is nothing new for me.”
Niko smirked.
“I don’t suppose,” Landon added, “you could ever love me?”
Niko traced his finger along the edge of the knife, his eyes following its path. “My heart, such as it is, belongs to another. Still, Petal, you’ve given me something valuable.”
“What’s that?”
“Oh…” Niko folded the knife shut and caused it to vanish somewhere inside his jacket in one of those nimble-fingered tricks of his. “’Redemption’ and ‘salvation’ are words too grand for the likes of me. But something along those lines.”
Landon pondered that. “Because I forgave you for killing my grandma? And because you’ve saved me from the dark side instead of becoming darker yourself by killing me too?”
Niko neither nodded nor shook his head. But the sage little smile he gave Landon suggested he was proud of Landon for getting the right answer.
Chapter Forty-Seven
The tree of immortality was not itself immortal. When Hekate began to understand that, the disquieting discovery rumbled deep beneath her world like the earthquakes that sometimes shook Greece.
The orange tree had been growing steadily, and Hekate had been plucking its fruits over the years to give to the select folk who were voted in for immortality. The tree had always produced a modest but constant supply, enough for their needs.
But lately, in Hekate’s fortieth year, she found prematurely dropped oranges beneath the tree more often than she used to—tiny, hard, and green. She could tell by a mere touch that they had no power in them. Fewer flowers bloomed now too, which meant the crop of fruits was dwindling.
Hades and Persephone had talked about planting other immortality trees from the seeds of this one, but ultimately had decided against it. The fruit’s power was too momentous. It felt unwise to proliferate it without a good deal more thought, they had said. And in any case, they always had more than enough oranges for the small number of immortality candidates each year.
Now Hekate counted five oranges growing, none mature yet, and twelve blossoms forming. Any of the fruit or flowers could wither and drop before maturity.
In alarm, she infused the tree with as strong a health spell as she knew. And she cut out the seeds from one of the fallen oranges and planted them, all in the vicinity of the first tree. Within a month, three of them sent up shoots: they were growing. She relaxed a little.
But it would be at least a couple of years before the tiny new trees could produce fruit, and in the meantime the original tree still wasn’t truly healthy. Her daily spells seemed to give it especially glossy foliage, but the fruits hadn’t ripened yet, and four of the flowers had already fallen off without setting fruit.
In a panic, she brought Hermes to the garden. Most of the immortals still didn’t know which tree was the chrysomelia, but over the years he had it figured out, somehow or other. As far as she knew he had kept its identity a secret, and had never taken one of the fruits. She kept a close count on those and would have known.
“I need you to go to Asia and find me another tree like this one,” she told him.
“It’s still not doing well?” He leaned close to frown at one of the small green fruits.
“No, it isn’t. Don’t touch it! I touched one this morning and it—it fell off.” She wrung her hands. That moment of the lifeless fruit plummeting into her palm had felt unnervingly awful, almost like delivering a stillborn child.
“And you can’t fix it?” He sounded baffled.
“I’m trying! I’m not my mother. I don’t have the same touch with plants. Or maybe orange trees just don’t live very long, and if so, I can’t do much about the natural cycle of life. So I need a new one, and fast.”
“Then to the East I go.” Carefully he cut a twig with several leaves on it, and picked up one of the shriveled fallen fruits. “To get as close a match as possible,” he said. He tucked them under his cloak, kissed her, and dashed out.
He was away almost a month. When he returned h
e brought four little trees in pots. “Each a different variety,” he told her. “Unfortunately there are lots of varieties over there—dozens that I saw, and probably more in the areas I didn’t get to. Goddess, you can’t even begin to imagine how big Asia is. But these are my best guesses.”
So it came down to more anxious waiting as the seven small trees grew in the Underworld’s soil. Hekate placed more daily spells on them, and considered trying again to make Galateia eat the pomegranate, just so she could gain access to Persephone’s plant-rich knowledge. But Galateia was pregnant now, and Hekate had no wish to add to her stress, so she left the young couple alone and fretted over the tree by herself, consulting only Hermes, Rhea, and Athena.
Two of the new trees from Asia died within the first month. By winter solstice, two of the seedlings from the original tree had died too. And on the original tree, every piece of fruit had dropped.
It was time to tell the others.
Hekate did so at the solstice meeting of the immortals, in Athena’s palace in the spirit realm, near Athens.
They listened in stricken silence.
“We don’t have any immortality fruits?” Artemis said.
“None.” Hekate sat with shoulders drooped.
“Does the tree have flowers?” Aphrodite asked.
“A few, so there’s hope. But I’ve never seen it this sick. Or at least this unproductive.”
“But you’re still growing three new trees,” Apollo said. “Right?”
“Yes. Two that Hermes found in Asia, and one from the original tree. But it could be years before they can bear fruit, and I don’t even know yet if the Asian ones are the right type. No one knew where exactly the first one came from. It was something my mother got from a trader long ago.”
Most of the others looked only unhappy. But Ares glared at Hekate. “How do we know you’re telling the truth? What if you’ve decided to take control of all the fruits, and are hiding them?”
She glared back. “You’re welcome to come down anytime and check.”
“How could I? You’ve always kept it a secret, which tree it is. I’m tempted to come down there, indeed, and find out the truth.”
She curled her hands into fists in her lap. “I repeat, you are welcome to. And I will show you the tree now—any of you—since we’re having such difficulties with it, and its fate concerns us all. But anyone who tries to steal or damage what rightfully belongs to the Underworld may find themselves staying down there a very long time indeed.”
Ares’ dark eyebrows lifted in disdain. “You’re threatening me?”
“You did threaten her first,” Hermes put in.
“Leave the Underworld alone, Ares,” Aphrodite said. “She knows what she’s doing.”
“It doesn’t sound like it,” Ares retorted.
Rage thundered inside Hekate’s chest—because he was right; she didn’t know what she was doing, too much of the time. “I suppose you always know what you’re doing.” She let the sarcasm drip off her words. “You know every future repercussion of every one of your actions. You act with complete knowledge and self-control, every time. Yes, that’s exactly what I’ve heard about you.”
“Go back to hell where you belong, little girl,” Ares said.
Hekate rose, and with a burst of focused magic, sent Ares’ weapons and battle gear flying backward into the roaring fire in the hearth: the daggers, helmet, breastplate, and spear he had lain on the ground at his feet. Then she turned and strode out of the meeting, while his snarls—and Hermes’ laughter—echoed in the hall behind her.
***
Sophie washed the lunch dishes in the Airstream while Tab lounged on the front steps, texting and scrolling through social networks. Sophie had made a spring-greens salad with a fresh vinaigrette and they’d eaten it with slices of crusty rustic Greek bread slathered with butter, washed down with chocolate milk. It felt seriously good to be cooking and eating for real again.
But, she thought as she heard Tab chuckle about something from outside the door, it felt silly to be babysat by an immortal friend everywhere you went. That right there was another argument for becoming immortal herself. Sure, the need for babysitting would diminish after they dealt with this imminent Thanatos attack, and she would eventually settle into a more independent life, even if she stayed mortal. Galateia and Akis, not to mention every other lifetime except Persephone’s, had shown her how plenty of glory and love could be had in a mortal life too.
But…
Adrian. Immortal Adrian. The last item on her trigger list.
After hearing Landon’s apology a few days ago, seeing the humility in his eyes, and glancing around at his miserable jail cell, she had lost her fear of him, and had finally crossed “the people who took me” off her list. Yes, Krystal was still out there, and facing her would still freak Sophie out. And Thanatos was nosing around the actual entrance to the Underworld, so trouble surely loomed on their doorstep. But lately, having been digging and moving the plants of the Underworld, turning the Airstream into a temporary home, and discussing surveillance developments every day with her godly friends, she had reached a certain strange peace. She did belong with them, in this realm, equally as much as she belonged to regular old Earth.
Adrian was immortal, which couldn’t be changed, as far as she knew. He had thrown in his lot with this realm. Liam was raring to do so as well, despite all the dangers. Who was she to turn it down, and require the rest of them to protect her when she wanted to hang out in the spirit world?
Sophie shut off the tap, carried the damp dish towel to the table, and wiped the crumbs off its surface. Then she sat and gazed out the window, absently twisting the towel on the tabletop.
Once, not so long ago, she and Adrian had sat here at this table, and he had asked, “What would you have done? If we’d been the other way round?” If she had become immortal first, with her head full of Greek-god memories, and he’d been the mortal boy, her oblivious soul-mate.
“I’d totally have kidnapped you, too,” she had admitted.
She smiled, relaxing her grip on the towel.
The crocuses, snowdrops, and bluebells were all blooming now. She’d seen them this morning in her daily visit to the Underworld. And Valentine’s Day was coming up.
She took out her phone and sent a text to Adrian.
I know you’re busy lately, but would you like to have lunch on the 14th?
She waited, almost enjoying the frenetic drumming of her heart, that age-old rhythm produced by asking out someone you love.
Her phone buzzed.
Sure, he responded. Airstream, or where?
Airstream, yeah. Cool, see you at noon on the 14th. :)
***
Adrian paced along a Mediterranean beach in the spirit world, clutching his phone. Niko leaned against a boulder nearby with arms folded. “I mean, she used a smiley face,” Adrian said. “So that’s good. But on the other hand, she said ‘the fourteenth.’ She didn’t call it Valentine’s Day. So that means the intention is not romantic, right?”
“You are the god of overthinking,” Niko said. “Go to lunch on the fourteenth and find out.”
“But do I bring flowers? Chocolate? Argh, I hate Valentine’s Day. I’ve no idea how to interpret these things.”
“Yes, Day of the Dead is much more your thing, I know.”
Adrian narrowed his eyes at him. Niko smirked. Adrian wheeled back and kept pacing over the same stretch of wave-worn rocks. “Flowers. She likes flowers. I can’t go wrong with flowers, right? Even if she’s about to break up with me for good.”
“Did you call me here just to deliver this monologue? Did I need to be here?”
“Do you think the flowers are a good idea?” Adrian shouted at him.
Niko lifted his hands in the international “don’t shoot” gesture. “Yes, my Lord Hades, give her flowers. I’m going to go now, all right?”
Chapter Forty-Eight
Hekate began recognizing a strange empty por
tion in her life. It seemed connected with Galateia and Akis growing up, marrying, and starting a family. When they’d been children on Sicily, Hekate had watched their development with the fondness of a loving relative. Although she couldn’t get as close to them as she liked, it had almost been as though they were linked to her—which their souls were, of course, though they didn’t know it.
But these days Galateia and Akis still politely declined the pomegranate, so although they knew of their past lives from her telling them the story, they didn’t feel the connection as strongly as she did. Hekate had to let them make that choice. She wouldn’t trick anyone into eating the pomegranate, least of all those two people. So she began drawing back and letting them live their lives, and stepped in only from time to time to see if they needed anything.
A child who truly belonged to her, then: that seemed to be what she desired. She longed to extend her bloodline, even if the ailing of the chrysomelia tree meant the child couldn’t be made immortal.
Easy enough to get pregnant. And in terms of appealing traits to pass along, she could think of no better father than Hermes: cleverer than anyone, beautiful, and good-natured to boot. The trouble was, he was also one of the people least likely to want children. His freedom outranked everything in life for him; he gloried in how he enjoyed love without ever marrying. He’d fathered Pan, and two other children she barely knew anything about, for the other two hadn’t become immortal. But in all three cases, the pregnancies had been a surprise, and he’d put in minimal assistance in the raising of the children. The way she heard it, he dropped off astounding amounts of riches and foods every so often once he heard about the existence of the offspring, but didn’t get to know them until they were grown. An irritating pattern, but even so, Hekate found she chafed with envy for those mothers—all of whom were now long dead—because by bearing his children they had accomplished what she never had.