Mortal Gods

by Kendare Blake

  The space where Artemis had lost the chase was a glory of blood. Bits of her littered the clearing like the discarded pieces of a doll. Streaks of red shone on leaves and across the trunks of trees. There was so much of it, like she’d been filled to the brim, like buckets had been dashed across the ground. And it was still wet. Still fresh, as if they’d been only seconds too late to stop whatever had chased her from tearing her apart. But that was a lie. They could come back a week from now and find it the same. The blood would stay. Rain wouldn’t cleanse it. Animals wouldn’t consume it. Perhaps time would, if enough time still existed.

  Odysseus surveyed the scene, mostly frozen. It wasn’t until his eyes set on a bloody pile of brown cloth that he gagged. It was part of Artemis’ shoulder and neck. Strands of silver-brown hair lay nearby, as if someone had torn them out of a brush.

  “Hermes,” he said. “Don’t look.”

  Hermes’ shoulders shook, and Odysseus put a hand down to steady him.

  “I have to look!” he screeched, and jerked away. “Don’t you understand? Someone has to see.” His weeping was loud and unashamed, breath ripping through him like a storm through sailcloth. Raw enough to make Odysseus wince.

  “They’re dead!”

  “I know.”

  “Do you?” Hermes spat. “Do you know? Because no one else does. No one knew who they were, or what they’d done. The sun and the moon went out and no one fucking noticed!”

  Odysseus put an arm around his friend. Hermes wept for Artemis and Apollo. But he also wept for himself. These were Hermes’ fears. The fear of dying alone. The fear of ceasing to exist.

  “We noticed,” Odysseus said quietly. “We’ll notice.”

  “It’s not enough. How do you stand it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Hermes gestured numbly to the blood surrounding them. “I haven’t seen her in a thousand years.”

  “A thousand? That’s a long time. Even by an immortal’s standards.”

  Hermes scoffed sadly. “You talk like you haven’t been stumbling around in a jungle for days on end. She wasn’t exactly easy to find. She never was.” He sobbed. “But I loved her.”

  As the silence stretched out, Odysseus began to feel like an interloper, an unwelcome witness to this strange thing that no other human in the world might see. The blood splashed across the fallen leaves and rotting vegetation was a god’s blood. Artemis had been reduced to waste, when she’d been so strong, and young, and free.

  “We should get back to Athena,” he said, so suddenly that Hermes flinched. “She’ll want to know.”

  “What am I supposed to tell her?”

  A voice came from behind them. “Tell her anything you want.”

  Odysseus looked up. For an instant it was like hallucinating; seeing another person in the middle of the jungle made so little sense that it jarred his brain. Then a hand clamped around his throat and jerked him up to stare into a face he barely remembered. He’d only glimpsed it for brief moments, on a battlefield thousands of years ago.

  Hermes shuffled backward. His feet slid in Artemis’ blood, the knees of his jeans soaked red from kneeling in it.

  “Ares. Let him go.”

  But Ares had no intention of doing that. The grip on Odysseus’ throat tightened and the world began to fade.

  * * *

  Lux ate snowballs, snapping each one out of the air and chomping down on it as it was lobbed at him.

  “He’s so funny,” Andie said.

  Henry threw another snowball. It fell just short of Lux’s reach, so he chased it into the rest of the snow, digging with his snout like he could pick it out of the rest. Some secret smell distracted him, and he snuffled around in a broad circle. Then he lifted his head and sneezed.

  With Athena out of town, the winter trees stood quiet, their bare branches mercifully free of owls. Henry had come to hate the owls over the past months. Their yellow dish-plate eyes. Their swiveling necks. It felt as if Athena could see out of every skull, and he didn’t believe Odysseus when he said she couldn’t.

  He took a deep breath and let it out in a wandering cloud, listening to the whisper of snow over their boots and Lux’s familiar whine. It was too good a day. Something was bound to screw it up. What would it be? News of his sister dying halfway across the globe? Or something more mundane, like frostbite. Maybe just a disturbing urge to kiss his sister’s best friend.

  Andie chased Lux through the snow, hair flying around her face like a flash of black feathers. She was all grown up. And she was beautiful, in a rough, extremely annoying way.

  “How do you think Cassandra’s been doing?” she asked. “About Aidan, I mean.”

  Henry shrugged. “I don’t know. Same as before. She doesn’t talk about it much.”

  “Have you tried?”

  “Have you?”

  Andie frowned. “Not really. I’m not that kind of friend, you know? I don’t know what to say. She seems like she’s working it out. But I half think she’s faking.”

  “Yeah, well. Haven’t you ever heard of ‘fake it ’til you make it’?”

  “As your former wife, I bet I’m very familiar with that.”

  “What are you? Twelve?” Henry packed a snowball and chucked it at her. She threw one back, twice as hard.

  “Have you been to the cemetery lately?” she asked.

  “Not since the funeral. Have you?”

  “I was thinking of going. I mean, I really miss him. Everybody’s supposed to be so careful about Cassandra and her feelings, but he was our friend, too.” She looked at him. “You probably think we didn’t know him at all.”

  “I don’t think that.”

  Andie wiped at her eyes.

  “Are you crying?”

  “No,” she said, but she clearly was. “It’s just that I do miss him. And I don’t know about you, but I really wish he was here.” She sniffed. “I really wish he was here.” Lux slipped up and licked her face.

  “Maybe we could go together,” Henry heard himself say. “To the cemetery.”

  “Yeah?”

  He nodded, and she set Lux back on four paws.

  “Tell anybody I cried, and you’re dead.”

  “Please. Who would believe me?”

  Andie laughed. “Henry. Sometimes I can really see why I married you.”

  “Not to ruin your romantic notions,” he said, “but our marriage was probably arranged.”

  She wiped her face again. “I bet you’re right. Huh. Guess that takes a lot of pressure off of us, then, doesn’t it?”

  “Guess so.” But people fell in love in arranged marriages all the time. And Henry was more and more certain that it had happened to Hector. “Come on. Let’s go back. My fingers are cold, and I’ve got a paper to finish.”

  When she tackled him from behind, he went down easily. Her training with Athena was paying off. He spit snow and rolled backward, and she laughed as Lux tried to help and grabbed her by the coat.

  In the midst of shuffling bodies and barking, they didn’t notice four sets of paws make their way closer. They didn’t hear the strange growls until Lux broke away with a yip, his tail tucked low between his legs. But by then the wolves had made their way around to all sides.

  They were already surrounded.

  9

  THE DOGS OF WAR

  Ares held Odysseus a foot off the ground. He slapped his cheek, one and then the other, trying to get him to come around.

  “Did you squeeze too hard, you big oaf?” Hermes hissed. “Did you kill him?”

  “He’s breathing. Don’t you hear that desperate whistle of air pulled over his lips?”

  So smug. But Ares hadn’t meant to choke Odysseus unconscious. Why bother? If Ares wanted him dead, one twist of his wrist would take his head clean off. Blood would splash across Ares’ fist. And Ares loved blood above all things.

  “What are you doing?” Hermes asked.

  “I’m looking for something.”

  “That’
s how you look for something?” Hermes watched the muscle in his dark brother’s arm. He had to be careful. If Ares lost his temper, Odysseus’ poor, mortal neck would pay the price. “What do you want?” Hermes asked. “Why don’t you ask me?”

  “Because you don’t know,” Ares said lazily. He kept on slapping until Odysseus jerked awake. “There he is. Good morning, sunshine. Do you know who I am?”

  “Ares,” Odysseus croaked.

  “Good. Feel this?” Ares dug his fingers into the back of Odysseus’ skull, and he kicked like a snared rabbit.

  “You don’t want to do that,” Hermes said. “Big sister won’t like it.”

  “She’s not my big sister, little brother. I don’t care what she likes and doesn’t like.” He slapped Odysseus again. Despite everything, Odysseus’ jaw clenched with anger. No fear.

  “Listen close, boy of many ways. I’m only going to ask once. You know what I’m after, don’t you?” Ares shook him lightly, and Odysseus grabbed onto the hand around his throat.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Then where is he?”

  He. Achilles. Ares had taken up his fallen mother’s cause.

  “Just tell him,” Hermes said quickly. “Tell him and be done with it. Let Athena deal with the fallout.”

  Odysseus sucked air down deep. “No. I won’t tell him, or her either.”

  “Isn’t that too bad. Hera says you’re the only one who knows where to find him.”

  “Hera?” Hermes asked. “What are you talking about? Hera’s dead.”

  Ares smiled, lazily, in a way that made the skin scrunch up between Hermes’ shoulder blades.

  Ares shrugged. “Whatever you say, brother. And anyway, I don’t believe her.” Ares’ fingers tightened. “There’s always more than one way to skin … well, anything.” A few notches tighter, and they’d hear the sound of bones breaking.

  Hermes’ pulse quickened. If he could get to Ares’ fingers fast enough, he could make him drop Odysseus.

  But how fast could he get there? He wasn’t as quick as he used to be. And he couldn’t afford any telltale gauging of muscles. No flexing or tensing. If he was too slow, or if he missed, Odysseus wouldn’t survive the impact. He had one chance.

  Hermes sprang like a twitch. Like a beam of light. His fingers twisted around Ares’ fist, and Odysseus fell to the ground. Hermes heaved hard and pushed the other god back so fast he would have laughed with joy had Ares’ elbow not connected with his face and sent the side of his skull cracking off the trunk of a tree.

  Hermes pushed his arms out blindly, trying to get a solid hold and keep Ares at bay. But the god of war was strong. Hermes tasted blood and wondered whose it was. Had he bitten his lip? His eyes cleared just in time to see Ares’ bared teeth inches from his face.

  “I used to clothe my throne in the skins of men,” said Ares. “But times have changed. Perhaps the skin of gods will prove more durable.”

  “Times have changed,” replied Hermes. “Nothing about gods is ‘durable’ anymore.” The blood on his lips did belong to Ares, forced into his mouth from a seeping cut on the god’s forearm. It was gross. He’d rather have bitten his lip. “Is that what’s happening to you?” Hermes asked. “The god of blood will die slathered in it. Seems fitting.” He braced himself and shoved. “Ha,” he said. “Still strong enough to send the god of war skidding backward.”

  Backward, through Artemis’ remains. Did Ares even know what it was, all that red beneath his feet?

  Hermes didn’t have much time to wonder. Ares crashed back into him, his weight like lead. All the air left Hermes’ lungs in a rush. Spots and stars flooded his eyes as his spine ground against a tree, and the roots began to give way.

  “Odysseus! Run!” he groaned, but he didn’t even know if Odysseus was conscious. But he’d have to get up. Hermes couldn’t keep this up for long. Grappling with Ares, he could almost feel the point when his arms would break.

  Then, as if he’d wished her into existence, Athena slammed into Ares with full force. The impact tore him off of Hermes and sent him sprawling, tumbling like a pile of expensive clothes. Athena’s hands were on Hermes’ shoulders, keeping him on his feet.

  “Stay up,” she said, and he did. Her voice brought his senses back from whatever scared corner they’d run to. It was even and strong, and more than a little angry.

  “As you wish, big sister.”

  * * *

  Odysseus lay in a heap beside the broad trunk of a tree. Cassandra ran through the clearing, splashing through what had to be the last of Artemis, and knelt beside him.

  “Is he all right?” Athena asked, her eyes on Ares, who had rolled to a sitting position and stayed there, looking amused and not at all in a hurry to flee.

  “He’s awake. His throat is black with bruises,” Cassandra said. She whispered to Odysseus, and he nodded. “He’s breathing. He’s okay.”

  Ares got to his feet and made a show of brushing himself off, but he’d rolled twenty feet in blood. It soaked into his clothing and streaked across his bare forearms and cheeks. It was terrible to see him so, covered in his sister’s death. Yet it was right. Ares wore blood like armor. In it, he looked like himself.

  “Is that her?” he asked.

  “Never mind her,” Athena replied.

  “But it is her, isn’t it? The prophetess. The girl who kills gods.”

  Cassandra pulled Odysseus into her lap. She glared but said nothing.

  “It is,” Athena said. “Is that why you’ve come? Want her to put you out of your misery?”

  Ares laughed. But he didn’t charge in like he had with Hermes. Athena was a different game altogether. No one really knew which of them was stronger.

  “Hera said you were infested with owl feathers,” Ares said. “Seems like she exaggerated. I can’t see a single one.”

  “When did she tell you that?”

  Athena flexed her fist, annoyed at the small bandage wrapped around her wrist. The only visible blemish. The rest of her was long mahogany hair and smooth skin. Healthy, and without weakness. She hoped it irritated the shit out of him.

  “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.”