by Raye Wagner
Hope rolled over on Athan’s bed and looked up at the ceiling. A sliver of a crack was spreading its web from the edge of the room toward the light fixture. Soft morning light spilled over the windowsill, encouraging Hope to seize the opportunities still afforded to her.
“Are you coming to the gym, lass?” Xan poked his head into the room, his face a poorly masked expression of worry. The dark circles under his eyes spoke volumes of his devotion to Hope’s sleeplessness over the last couple weeks.
She shook her head, dropping her gaze to the soft green bedding and mumbled, “I don’t want to.”
“Aye. I know you don’t. That’s not what I’m asking. I know you’re still determined to go to Olympus. You say it every night. But I’m not ready to go on a suicide mission, so we need to train. You need to train.”
Hope swallowed as if she could push the pain in her chest down like saliva. “I still can’t read that book.”
It was the lamest excuse, and they both knew it. The yellow Book of the Fates she’d brought back from the Underworld had remained blank since their return, and there had never been talk of it holding them back from Olympus.
Xan ran his hand through his dark hair, intently holding her gaze. “He’ll be back. He loves you too much to let you go.”
Tears filled her eyes, and her vision blurred. Small drops of moisture dripped onto the duvet cover, leaving dark spots on the pale-green fabric. “I’m scared.”
The bed dipped with Xan’s weight, and then his arms circled her, pulling her close. He held her, cocooned in his warmth and strength, and rested his chin on her head. “There’d be something wrong with you if you weren’t.”
Hope let herself enjoy the comfort for only a moment before pulling away. She patted his chest, grateful for his constancy over the last two weeks after Athan’s disappearance. She would not let fear rule her actions. Hermes taking them to Olympus was out. “Should we ask your father if he’s willing to help?”
The color drained from Xan’s face. “Let’s have me da’ be the last resort. What about your friend Priska? Do you think her mum might help?”
Artemis. She’d been really upset when Hope was in the Underworld, but that was when they’d both thought Priska was dead. Surely the goddess would see Hope’s bargain for Priska’s freedom as a good thing. Surely, she’d be pleased. Even in her mind the words fell flat, no more than wishful thinking. “We should try, but she’s pretty particular about her offerings.”
“All the gods are.”
Sitting in the passenger seat, Hope ran her fingers across the smooth surface of the bow. “Are you sure you want to give this up?”
The longbow was an immortal weapon, one of many that had been in Xan’s possession for decades. The wood was polished and smooth, the design simple, but as Xan had demonstrated earlier, the weapon was deceptively light for being able to shoot long distances with deadly accuracy. Hephaestus had made it, and Ares had given it to his son.
Hope thought of Athan’s blades at her side and wondered if the gods cared about such things. “Won’t your father be upset?”
Xan shrugged, but his lips flattened into a thin line. “We have more weapons than we can ever use. And I know Artemis wants this bow.”
Sensing a story, Hope asked, “How do you know?”
Xan’s gaze slid sideways at her before returning to the road. “Ares is not a kind man, or a kind father, but then Zeus is his father. Do you remember the story of Troy?”
Hope knew the story, the tragedy and slaughter of tens of thousands of humans and dozens of demigods. Many of the Olympians were involved, and there was significant debate as to what extent their roles had impacted the outcome of the decade-long war. “What about it?”
“When Athena stepped in to aid the Achaeans, Zeus goaded Ares into taking the other side, telling his son that it would be a way to prove Ares’s battle strategy was just as good as his sister’s. Ares returned to Olympus after the last battle and complained to his father, Zeus, that the involvement of the other gods had made it unfair. But Zeus just laughed. He’d wanted the battle to depopulate the mortal and demigod populations, which he considered a growing threat to the Olympians. He said my father had served his purpose. As the god of war and bloodshed, he’d done what he was made to do.
“My father protested, and Zeus told him not to be a babby.”
“Babby?”
Xan flexed his hands, one after the other, as though he’d been gripping the steering wheel too tightly and needed to release the tension. “Babby . . . The Irish way of saying baby. I’m sure me da’ was cheesed off and said something cheeky. Zeus commanded him to stop whining.” He ran his hand through his hair and let out a slow exhale. “No, to be exact, Zeus said that no son of his would ever whine so. He heaped it on, saying Ares was a liar for calling Zeus his father, that Ares was the most hated of all the gods on Olympus. Talking out of both sides of his mouth, Zeus said that the only reason anyone put up with Ares was because he was Zeus’s child; otherwise, they would’ve dropped him off the earth.”
Hope couldn’t imagine a father being so spiteful. Even though her father had abandoned her and her mother, he hadn’t been abusive or cruel, and for the first time, she felt a spark of gratitude toward the man she’d met but couldn’t remember. She’d told Xan that her mother and father were happy together in the Underworld, and even though she couldn’t really remember the events, she did remember the feeling of love. Pity for the god of war welled inside her. “That’s awful.”
“Aye. The battle of Troy is said to have been initiated by Ares’s sister, Eris, because she’d been excluded from a wedding feast. Eris was spiteful and wanted to expose the vanity and pettiness of the other goddesses. When Paris chose Aphrodite as the most beautiful, Athena wanted to prove that intelligence was more powerful than beauty or love. Hera has perpetual issues with jealousy and mistrust and is exceedingly vindictive. Aphrodite is ruled by emotion, and her impulsivity makes hames for the others. And then she doesn’t clean up after herself, either. Ares is a hardchaw, a survivor of his parents, but I reckon he still wants to please them.”
Hope thought of Apollo burning his sons, Thanatos dumping her in the river Lethe, and Hades’s manipulation in the Underworld. “They all need serious counseling.”
Xan chuckled. “Or a long timeout, right?”
Hope laughed at the break in the weighty discussion. The gods all had issues, and after so many millennia, she wasn’t sure they would ever change. “So what about the bow?”
“Right. Ares was upset and was probably skulking about, or maybe he was causing more problems. All I know is Hephaestus made him the bow shortly after the Trojan War ended. Artemis asked my father to give it to her, said he owed her after she helped rescue him from the Aloadae and tricked the giants into killing each other. I don’t know if he was embarrassed with the reminder, but he refused to give it to her. She’s hated him ever since.”
Hope listened in wonder to Xan’s story, rich with details lost in modern text. The thought of Hephaestus making a gift for his brother was a rare glimpse of compassion in the gods. “That must’ve been before Ares and Aphrodite got together, right?”
Xan shook his head. “You’d think that, but Ares and Aphrodite have an on-and-off affair. If you ever meet my father, don’t bring her up. Remember Apollo burning his sons? My dad can make that look like cuddle time. He gets bloody diabolical about Aphrodite.”
“Okay.”
They pulled into the parking lot of the nondenominational temple Priska and Hope had visited before she got into the conservatory. The years hadn’t changed the temple, but the landscape showed the passage of time with taller trees and thicker, fuller shrubs.
The smell of freshly cut grass mixed with the piney air. Purple and white asters covered the ground, and a tall bush with deep-red leaves had a few remaining blooms as well. The late fall day was a beautiful show of colors in its rare warmth.
Hope spotted the effigy of Eros surrounded b
y vibrant red blooms and thought of the puppy scrambling for a taste of the cinnamon roll all those years ago. It seemed like yesterday and a lifetime ago at the same time. She strode toward the temple, filled with trepidation. As they walked through the gardens, Hope asked, “Do you think she’ll help us?”
When Xan didn’t answer, Hope turned to the demigod. He stood several paces behind her, glaring at the statue of the son of Aphrodite, loathing emanating from his very presence.
“Xan?” Hope returned to his side and pulled on his sleeve.
The air smelled of roses, chocolate, and mint. Xan stood on the fragrant ground cover, crushing the heady scent from the herbs beneath his feet. All around the base of the sculpture were offerings to the god of love. “Do you think Eros was the son of my father and Aphrodite?”
Hope shrugged, unsure of the question behind the question. There were those who believed the union of Ares and Aphrodite had produced Eros, and others professed he was a primordial deity. She’d never felt strongly one way or the other.
Xan turned to Hope. His face was ravaged with emotion, his eyes haunted with pain. Holding out the bow, he said, “I won’t be able to come into the sanctuary with you. If Artemis will grant our petition, have a priestess come and get me. I’m going to stay here and have a word with the god of love.”
Hope swallowed, and her heart pounded. She accepted the bow but stayed rooted in place. She didn’t want to ask, but if she didn’t . . . “Not about me, right?”
Xan’s face lit up, and he smirked. “No, lass. I love you, but that’s all me own feelings. I wanted to clear the air of something in the past. And now seems like a good time.”
Hope blushed, warmth spreading up her neck and covering her face. “Uh, right. Sorry. That was stupid; I shouldn’t have asked.”
Xan laughed, and the tension disappeared on the breeze. “I’m glad you did. It’s good for perspective, especially since I probably won’t get an answer. Now, go see if Artemis is willing to help us get to Olympus.”
Hope closed the distance between them and wrapped Xan in a brief hug.
He responded immediately, pulling her closer, but relinquished her just as fast when she drew back. With a wave goodbye, he said, “May the gods watch over you.”
She nodded at the blessing and turned toward the temple. The words were vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t remember anyone ever saying them. She puzzled the benediction over in her mind, where she could’ve heard them . . . or read them. She was at the top of the stairs when she remembered. They had been in her Book of the Fates, from the time of her great-grandmother.
The Olympian temple seemed smaller, almost like the hall had shrunk. The marble statues of the gods weren’t quite as grand or flawless, and the entirety of the scene—the priests and priestesses in their flowing chitons, the parishioners seeking aid, and the number of offerings—had waned from her memory. The powerful smell of incense perfumed the air, its cloying richness an acerbic reminder of the difference between the mortal realm and that of the gods.
Hope gazed at the women wearing rich navy with silver accents, searching for one who might be old enough to remember her. But no one looked familiar. She couldn’t remember whom she and Priska had spoken to, and it was very unlikely anyone would remember her.
“May I help you?” a priestess wearing a light gray chiton asked, standing before Hope but not looking at her. The woman was eyeing the longbow with unabashed desire.
“No,” Hope replied. As she strode away from the holy woman, Hope tossed over her shoulder an insincere, “Thank you.”
There were three women in navy standing together at the base of Artemis’s statue. As Hope approached, she saw there were three more at the base of the effigy, scrubbing the stone. The air was heavy with the pungent odor of turpentine overriding the otherworldly sweetness.
“This is inexcusable. Who was on duty last night? I will have her discharged immediately,” a young woman with long blond hair snapped at the other two.
A girl, no more than twelve, trembled under the unrelenting glare. Her wet black hair was pulled back into a braid, and the moisture darkened the material of her dress the same color as her hair. “I was, Miss Trish. But I couldn’t stop them. I tried, but they just threw paint on me.” She swallowed, and tears streamed down her splotchy face. “I tried to clean it up as best I could.”
Red paint was splattered all over the feet of the goddess of the hunt, at least several gallons, and where the priestesses had removed the paint, the marble remained stained by the highly pigmented color.
“Did you see who did it?” Hope asked.
The young woman with blond hair turned to Hope, and the priestess’s pinched features narrowed further. “Who are you?”
“No one important.” Hope dismissed the leader, instead focusing on the trembling girl, who oddly reminded her of Dahlia, only much younger. Hope couldn’t imagine Dahlia being scared, but this girl definitely needed help, and it wasn’t coming from anywhere around her. “Would you recognize the guys who did it?”
The girl’s dark eyes shifted, her gaze drifting to the left, and Hope spun to see what, or more accurately whom, the girl was looking at.
Three men in vibrant red, matching the color of the paint, lounged at the base of Ares. Scattered around the effigy were dozens of weapons, swords, crossbows, and even several handguns. The muscle definition of the men made it clear that even if they didn’t use the weapons, they’d be a force to reckon with.
Why was Hope not surprised? Her fear and anxiety about making an offering to Artemis turned to indignation. Why did a little power turn men into bullies? The very people who were supposed to be the servants of the people, or was it the servants of the gods? Either way, they were supposed to be servants. Long suppressed rage flared, and Hope pointed at the men. “Them?”
When no one responded, Hope faced the priestesses. “Was it the priests of Ares?”
The young girl swallowed, but she shook her head. “I didn’t say that.”
Hope could not only see the fear, she felt it radiating from the young priestess. Leaning toward the trembling girl, Hope whispered, “Why would you lie to protect them?”
Tears spilled down the girl’s face, and her olive-tinged skin blushed with shame. She stammered, but her incoherent response was cut off by the senior priestess.
“She doesn’t answer to you.” The blond young woman stepped between Hope and the girl. “This is none of your concern.”
Lies. Pride. False piety. Hope looked around the Olympian temple with disgust. She shouldn’t get involved. Getting mixed up in temple politics was probably even counterproductive to her visit, but doing nothing felt worse than wrong. If she did nothing, it was a silent condonation of the intimidation and abuse.
She drew an arrow from the full quiver Xan had given her, nocked it on the beautiful longbow, and took aim. The bow wasn’t her best weapon, but Xan had forced her to become proficient. In that moment, she was glad he had. She inhaled deeply, and as she released the breath, she let the arrow fly.
The angry bellow from the other side of the hall was confirmation she’d hit her target. Curses stung the air, and seconds later, the ring of metal echoed in the hall as the priests of Ares drew weapons.
The man she’d hit pulled the arrow out from the marble column she’d pinned him to, ripping through the fabric of his short chiton. She’d aimed for the skirt of his robes, but the trickle of red down his leg let her know she’d given him a flesh wound.
Maybe she should feel bad, but she didn’t. The blood was only a little darker than the paint splattered on his brown leather sandals.
The men ran at her, en masse, with blades in the air and screaming a war cry. She didn’t want to kill them. Her intent had been to teach them a lesson about bullying. But the intensity of their charge was much more intentional.
She would not retreat.
Hope’s adrenaline surged, and she dropped the bow. In one fluid movement, she pulled out Athan�
�s silver knives and shifted into a defensive stance.
The seconds stretched, and a woman screamed, followed by several more. There was a flurry of color and activity as several of the holy servants and parishioners fled the area.
Hope’s gaze tunneled, and she stepped toward the oncoming assault. She parried the first man, spun with an arc step behind him, grabbed his shirt, and pulled him into the next. A sickening wet sound made her flinch, but she couldn’t stop to see if the wound was fatal.
She jabbed, ducked, punched, and stabbed. A hot sting of fire burned her arm, and warm blood trickled from the wound. But the weapon hadn’t been immortal. Within only fractions of a second, a scab had formed, and Hope continued her dance with the priests of Ares.
One man scurried off, and Hope let him go, happy to spare the repentant or even the coward. She would tear down the arrogant, wipe away the conceit.
Three more men fell to the green-jeweled blades, and Hope moved away from the still writhing bodies on the gray marble floor. There were only two priests left, and she dodged the heavy broadsword one was swinging and darted in close to her attacker, burying her blade deep into the man’s shoulder. He dropped the massive weapon, and its heavy blade smacked her thigh as the sword fell to the floor. Hope spun, pulling at the knife lodged in his body as blood ran down her leg. But her dagger had wedged deep, possibly in the joint, and Hope was forced to relinquish control of it as she ducked from the second man’s sword, which whistled through the air and decapitated his companion.
The priest’s head landed with a sickening wet bounce, and his body flailed as it fell to the floor. Blood gushed from the severed arteries as the heart pumped its final beats.
Screaming obscenities, the final man advanced.