Mortal Gods

by Kendare Blake

  “What side is that? The side that hasn’t gone insane?” Hermes asked. “The side that doesn’t want to blow up buildings with innocent witches in them?”

  “Innocent witches. And innocent mortals,” Athena said. What Ares said couldn’t be. Hera couldn’t be healing. Yet Ares wasn’t lying.

  “You’ve always been so fond of saving mortals,” Ares said. He looked at Cassandra and Odysseus, standing near a thick trunk. “You curried their favor and accepted their accolades. Had cities named for you. You had their love, and I had their fear.

  “Hera says it’s you or us. I don’t know if that’s true. I don’t get bogged down in the politics. All I know is that you’ll try to save these people, and I will try to kill them.”

  The words came so easy. Life to him was a shrug of the shoulders, even when his was ending.

  “Why, Ares? Do you even know?”

  “I know better than you do. What we are. Why we’re here. We are two sides of a coin. You save and I kill, but blood runs because of us both. We are the dogs of war, Athena, and we always have been.”

  “No,” Odysseus said, his voice ragged. “Don’t put yourself in the same sentence with her. War isn’t battle. It’s not the same.”

  Ares smiled smugly. War, battle. Semantics.

  “Hermes,” Athena said. “Are you well? Can you take them to a safe distance?”

  “What are you doing?” Hermes asked. His eyes shifted from Cassandra and Odysseus to Ares and back again.

  “Take them and stay with them. Don’t leave them alone.” She clenched her fists. “The gods of war are about to bleed.”

  * * *

  Wild dogs, was the first thought in Henry’s head. Then wolves. Then something exponentially worse. One was white, but not like snow. It was white like bone, with a long, thin snout and lips a size too small, stretched back and dried out past its purple gums. Another was red, and it moved faster than the others. The sound of its fangs snapping was like something trapped in a box. Then a slow gray one came, hunched and panting. Blood dripped from its mouth and ran down its chest, into the sores matting its fur. But the worst one was the last, so black it didn’t appear to have eyes.

  “Henry,” Andie whispered. They huddled back to back, with Lux between them. “What are they?”

  Dogs, he almost said, but couldn’t quite manage it. They weren’t dogs any more than they were ponies. What they were was something that Henry couldn’t quite see, as if what he was looking at were just skins taken from some other animal. A sheepskin tossed over a wolf’s back. But what could be so horrible that it would use a wolf’s skin to hide under?

  Between them, Lux whined and leaned into Henry’s leg. Whatever they were, they were closing in fast. Henry looked each one in the eye, except for the black one whose eyes he couldn’t find. He couldn’t remember if that was the right thing, making eye contact, or if he should’ve been appearing submissive. Somehow he didn’t think it was going to matter.

  The creatures around them stopped. They rose up on two legs, and their forelegs stretched until they hung like arms. Their torsos shifted until they were upright, and Henry could barely imagine them on all fours.

  “What are you?” Andie asked angrily.

  Pain.

  Said the gray with the matted fur. It hadn’t spoken with its mouth. Its tongue hung out, mute, bleeding drops onto its chest.

  Panic.

  Said the one with red fur and fierce yellow eyes.

  Famine.

  That was the white. Flecks of something dropped from its dingy fur: dry skin or parasites.

  Oblivion.

  The black wolf. Its voice was deeper than the others, and more terrible. Hearing it, and looking into the utter blackness where its eyes should have been, made Henry sick to his stomach.

  Pain, Panic, Famine, and Oblivion. The names felt familiar. But Henry couldn’t think. He couldn’t do anything besides stare, and breathe, and move closer to Andie.

  “What do you want?”

  Is this the boy? asked the wolf called Pain. The boy he said to kill? Who they said must be killed?

  This can’t be the boy. Famine sniffed and snapped its jaws. He smells like ordinary meat to me.

  Oblivion snarled, and the other three whined and stepped sideways.

  He smells like blood. And a job to be done. As does the girl. As does the pup.

  Andie, Henry thought feebly.

  The wolves attacked together. Pain collided with him with the force of a small truck, Henry’s nose stuck deep into sick-smelling fur. Claws tore into his coat, down to the skin and straight through. Henry shouted and twisted his head away, and saw the red wolf sprawled in the snow like it had tripped. It snarled and kicked, and he refused to blink, terrified that the snow would turn red, that he’d see black hair and hear Andie screaming. Blood dripped onto his face from Pain’s tongue, and he pushed back hard, on instinct, so the teeth missed his throat and sliced through his cheek instead.

  The gray wolf was heavy and incredibly strong. Cold snow worked into Henry’s coat, and claws dug deep into his shoulders.

  Lux growled loud, and in the corner of his eye Henry saw the brave dog up on two legs, biting the neck of the thin, white wolf. He bit and held, until Oblivion came at him in a flash of black. Then he yipped, and flew, and lay still.

  “No! Get away from my dog! Andie! Run!”

  Henry wrenched himself hard, as hard as he could, and Pain wheezed as his knee crunched the wolf’s ribs. Fear and surprise washed away. He looked at his dog, and the wolves, and the fear washed away red.

  “Get away from him!” Andie shouted. She swung a thick branch across Oblivion’s back, coming out of nowhere, running into the clearing from the trees. Henry wanted to scream for her to run, run, you idiot, but he couldn’t. She looked so damn brave. She’d gotten out, somehow gotten away, but she’d come back. For him and his dead dog, when she might have lived.

  “Lux, get up! Henry!” She swung the branch between herself and Panic. Famine edged around behind her. And Oblivion wouldn’t stay down in the snow for long.

  Andie adjusted her grip, and her balance. She ducked fluidly when the white wolf jumped, and then looped the branch at Famine’s feet to send it rolling. The other end she thrust into Oblivion’s chest, popping it back. Watching her, Henry could almost believe she could win. He watched so close he didn’t notice Pain regaining its feet in the snow beside him.

  “Andie, run!”

  “Not without you,” she shouted, and Henry barely dodged left as Pain sprang again. He caught the wolf’s jaw in his hands and its fangs slid into his palm. Don’t let go. Tear its head clean off. But it was the wolf who pulled, jerking on his arm like Lux at the end of his tug rope.

  He didn’t know how, but he caught the creature’s shoulders and lifted it, his hand coated in hot blood and spit, and threw the wolf away. He ran to Andie, his eyes on the wolves and not on the motionless bit of black and silver fur at her feet.

  Henry leaked blood from his hand and cheek. The wounds on his shoulders were hot and wet. The wolves hadn’t taken much worse than a couple of tosses into soft snow.

  “We have to move together,” Andie said.

  “Right.” But it wouldn’t matter. They were going to die. Torn apart, red and steaming in the snow. Pain would slice them open. Panic would spread them out. Oblivion would swallow their hearts and eyes, and Famine would eat the rest. All their families would find was red snow. Red snow, and the body of a discarded German shepherd.

  Andie swung the branch out and it raked across Panic’s skull. Henry felt the warm press of her against his back. He tried to fight alongside her, but his vision began to blur. He was losing too much blood. The whole world went white, like the clearing was filling with fog.

  “Andie, you have to go. I’m not going to make it.”

  “What is that?” she asked. “What’s happening?”

  Henry blinked as Andie staggered and rubbed her eyes. The clearing really was fil
ling with fog. The wolves whined and snapped their jaws on empty air.

  “A song?” Andie asked, and Henry heard it, too. Low and sweet, a song he knew in a language he didn’t. The wind smelled like salt and burnt sugar. He felt arms around him, and lips soft beside his ear.

  “Keep quiet, hero, and let me sing.” Her voice was beautiful. So he closed his mouth and let himself be taken away.

  * * *

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” Ares asked.

  Athena watched Ares across the clearing. It was obvious that he wasn’t sure he wanted to do it, and that more than anything convinced her that yes, she did. For just a second, she tried to see beyond the blood, to the boy-god Ares hid down deep. The one who’d had his pride hurt the most of all the gods. The subject of Olympus’ ridicule. Their father, Zeus, had hated him. Ares’ own father. And sometimes Athena had hated him, too.

  If they had ever been on the same side, Athena couldn’t remember it. But Ares was right when he said they were alike. When she looked at him, she saw one side of herself. A side she neglected, preferring to box rather than brawl.

  But a brawl is what lay before her. Diplomacy didn’t work with gods. They were ancient, with ancient sensibilities. War, they understood. War, she could do.

  “Are you really going to make me kill you, brother?” she asked.

  “Is there a choice, sister? If I opened my hands now and said I would come to your side, would you let me?”

  She looked at those hands, and into his dark, clean-shaven face, so civilized with his cut hair and expensive clothes. He could’ve walked out of a Calvin Klein ad. But the centuries hadn’t changed him that much. His eyes were still a wolf’s eyes.

  “No,” she said.

  Something like disappointment flashed across his face and disappeared just as quickly.

  “It’s fitting, isn’t it,” he said, “that this should happen here. On Artemis’ grave. In her blood. Do you think she sees? Do you think she’ll feel it, when one of us joins her?”

  “I think you’re disgusting,” Athena replied. “Father always said you were the most hateful, the most wretched of all his children.”

  That got through, as she’d known it would. Ares’ face crumpled, and he charged, not as fast as Hermes but with ten times the force. The impact sent them both into a slim tree, overwhelming the strength of the shallow roots. It fell, and Athena’s foot skidded backward to keep from going over with it. The sound of the tree cracking and crashing would have reached Hermes and the others, and she imagined them stopping short and looking back.

  Balance recovered, she twisted Ares around and slammed him into the diagonal fallen trunk, then rolled him onto the ground, back through the blood. He’d sop up all that was left of their fallen sister, before she was done. Penance for his disrespect.

  “You fight like I remember,” she said. “Poorly, and without brains.” But with bluster and bronze, too. With rage and heart, like a bellowing bull. When his fist connected with her jaw, and then her stomach, it doubled her over, and he tossed her easily into another tree. Artemis’ blood splashed when she dropped into it.

  “You’re still strong,” he said.

  “Bother you, does it?” She got up and shook blood drops from her arm.

  He bared his teeth and clenched his fists. But he didn’t charge. And there was something in his eyes like pity. It couldn’t be pity, but whatever it was, it made her angry. Ares, pity her? Never.

  She jumped for him, and they fought like forces of nature, like blunt instruments, with no regard for pain or damage. His fist split her lip and hers broke his nose. Athena didn’t bother dodging; she didn’t feign and slip like she had with Hera to avoid her stone fist. With Ares it wasn’t about skill or tricks. It was all about strength.

  And speed. The feathers in her lungs sapped her wind. Strong or not, she couldn’t keep it up forever. Already her breath came too fast. She didn’t have long.

  Her elbow rose up and caught him under the chin. It pushed him back a few steps.

  “How do you want to die, Ares?” she asked. “Want me to take your head off, like Aidan and Hermes did to Poseidon? Or should I just poke twenty holes through your chest with a sharp stick?”

  “Familiar threats,” said Ares.

  “Yes. Only in the old days you’d have gone home and bitched to all of Olympus. Now Olympus is gone.”

  “For the goddess of wisdom, the things you don’t know could fill a book.” Ares reached behind himself and pulled a short-bladed knife from his pocket. In the filtered light it looked dull, even less impressive than it already was. Ares shrugged. “It’s not much,” he said. “But anything bigger seems less than sporting.”

  Athena almost laughed. She wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d pulled a gun. Ares had never cared about rules or fair play, or being sporting.

  She let Ares advance, dodging the small knife a few times before dodging not quite enough. It sank into her shoulder, and she grabbed his hands and twisted his fingers loose. Then she yanked it out of her own shoulder.

  “Got your knife.”

  Ares grinned. “Got another one.” And true to his nature, the one he drew from his other pocket was bigger. They both struck, but she was faster. The tiny blade thrust up under his ribs and kept on going until her hand was buried to the first knuckle. He roared and stepped back to lean against a tree with his hands pressed to his stomach.

  “A knife wound for a knife wound,” he said. “Enough for today.”

  “What’s your hurry?”

  “They didn’t send me to take care of you,” he said.

  “They?” She thought a moment. “Of course. Aphrodite. Where is she? I have a girl who wants to boil her brains inside her head.”

  Ares’ eyes went black as pitch. He lurched forward and knocked Athena sideways. She brought her knife down into his back, but not before his sank into the side of her knee. It cut through something taut, and all at once her leg went loose at the joint. She crumpled with a growl.

  “That girl won’t get within a mile of Aphrodite,” he shouted, and looked wildly into the trees. “I wonder how far little brother managed to take them.”

  “No, Ares—”

  He bolted too fast. The tip of her knife sank into the ground inches behind him and left her sprawled on her stomach, chin coated with their sister’s blood.

  “Ares!” Athena drew her good leg under her and rose with a grimace, dragging her useless one and forcing it to work. She braced it with her hand, wrapped around the knee.

  “Don’t touch them!”

  10

  OUT OF THE PAST

  The girl who saved them was not from Kincade. She was far too beautiful, for one, and for another, she wasn’t human. She had flawless beige skin and enough grace to make a jungle cat jealous. Braids of differing width and length fought their way through brown hair, and her eyes were flecked green and brown, sea glass and sand.

  “They won’t find us here,” she said, the last of the song she’d sung to disorient the wolves still leaking out of her voice. “The beasts won’t follow. They’ll return to their master.”

  Henry looked over his shoulder anyway. Whatever the girl had done, whatever spell she’d cast to conceal them, was gone. The air was clear. Only the scent of burnt sugar and salt remained. Her scent.

  “What were they?” he asked. He sat in the snow with his dog on his lap. Even though Lux was a bag of broken bones, the girl hadn’t left him behind.

  “Ares’ pests,” the girl answered.

  “Pests?” Andie asked. “Those were more than pests.” She pressed a mitten into Henry’s good hand. “For your face,” she said, and he wiped his eyes. He hadn’t realized he was crying.

  “No,” she said. “Not for that.” She pressed the mitten to his torn cheek. Then she shoved her fingers into Lux’s fur, and started to cry, too.

  “Don’t weep yet,” the girl said. “Your dog will live. If we can get him to a good veterinarian fast enough.
”

  Henry clamped his hand over the largest of Lux’s cuts. He was warm, and a weak pulse fluttered under his fingers.

  “Come on,” Andie shouted, and pulled the dog’s hindquarters into her arms.

  “Let me,” said the girl. “I’m stronger.” She lifted him smoothly, without heaving or effort.

  They ran for the cars, and the jostling shook Lux out of his stupor; by the time they got him into the backseat of the Mustang he was conscious again, and whining.

  When they burst through the doors of the emergency vet on 142nd, it was easy enough to cobble together a story about wild dogs, and in the confusion no one noticed the gash on Henry’s cheek until they were in the exam room.

  “Is that a bite?” The vet tech asked. The veterinarian looked up from Lux.

  “My god, your face. And your hand. You should be at a hospital.”

  “Later,” Henry said. “Is he going to be okay?”

  “Listen, kid, you’ve got to get to a doctor yourself.”

  “I’ll drag him there right after you answer his question,” Andie snapped. “Promise.”

  The vet put his stethoscope buds back in his ears and pressed it to Lux’s abdomen and chest.

  “The cuts I can stitch. The bleeding’s not bad.” He paused. “This was a dogfight?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  The vet looked at the tech doubtfully. “Because there’s fluid in the chest. Maybe blood. You’re sure he wasn’t hit by a car?”

  “It was a big dog,” Andie said. “A bunch of big dogs.”

  Lux whined and shoved his muzzle into Henry’s hand.

  “Just fix him, please? I don’t want to leave him.”

  The doctor sighed and scratched Lux between the ears.

  “All right. But go to the hospital. Leave your cell number at the front desk, and I’ll call as soon as I know what he needs. It’s probably going to be surgery—”

  “Just do it,” Henry said. “Please. Don’t worry about what it costs. I’ve got savings.” He gave Lux one last scratch and let Andie pull him out the exam room door.

  The girl who had saved them waited patiently in the lobby. She stood by the windows, humming another song and twisting a brown braid around and around her finger.