by Diana Tyler
“Charis was my age when I saw her in the fire tunnel, and inside your house,” said Chloe. “Why did I come back to this point in time?”
Charis rubbed the sleep from her eyes as she climbed onto Tycho’s lap. Tycho directed her small hand to a cup of milk, and she gulped it down.
“You said you traveled back here on your birthday,” Iris said. “You saw Scylla?”
Chloe nodded, the hair on the back of her neck standing on end as she envisioned the monster with its six hideous heads and the barking dogs bulging from its waist.
“Did you see the boy?”
Confused, Chloe shook her head, and then stopped herself as a short snippet of memory darted back into her mind’s eye. “I saw you,” she said. “But there was a smaller man next to you. I watched him crawl to the edge of the boat while no one was looking.”
Iris covered her mouth with her hand and turned her face to the sunshine cracking through the shutters on the window.
“I saw the fire come out of your hands and float toward the monster,” continued Chloe, “but then I woke up, or came back, I mean.” Tears burned in her throat as she recalled the reason why. “My brother had been looking for me.”
“Does he know about your gift?” asked Iris.
Charis wedged herself between her parents and stuffed her hands into a bowl of purple grapes, giggling as she felt them squish.
“I don’t know.” Chloe’s fingernails dug into the sides of her chair. “I never told him. He would’ve thought I’d lost my mind.”
Tycho leaned forward onto his elbows. “But you think perhaps someone told him?”
Chloe shrugged. “I’m not sure. One of my charming captors down in hell implied Damian knew I was there and that he just decided to leave me.” She sniffed back her tears. It would do no good to dwell on it, just like her father had said. “So what happened to the boy I saw?”
Iris whispered something into Charis’s ear that sent her scurrying off to a pile of toys near the stove.
Tycho sighed. “He saved our daughter by taking her place. Scylla had made a bargain with Apollo, which is what I imagine Orpheus did as well. If they brought Apollo what he wanted, he’d give them their greatest desire.”
“What did Scylla desire?” asked Chloe.
“To be beautiful again. One must always be wary of beautiful women,” answered Iris with a wry smile.
“And even though Orpheus succeeded in delivering you to that portal,” said Tycho, “the victory is ultimately yours, because you, just like the boy, placed your faith in something far greater than yourself. Not even death can defeat such faith.”
A tear slipped from Chloe’s cheek, and she wrapped her hands around her cup of chamomile tea.
“Chloe, sometimes Duna shows us things through symbols,” said Iris. “With me, every color of the Moonbow held meaning for my life. I don’t know why Duna ordained for you to travel back to this part of the past, nor can I tell you why Carya’s walnut showed you some future peril. But what I can tell you is that Duna never reveals the whole path to us. Only one sure step, or abstract symbol, at a time.”
Chloe took a sip of her tea, which by now was cold and over-steeped. “I think Duna might have overestimated my deciphering skills. I can’t make sense of any of this.”
“Give it time,” said Tycho. “After all, time is your doma, isn’t it?” Though he was joking, the inherent wisdom in his words gave Chloe comfort, and a palpable peace she relished.
Iris reached out and took Chloe’s hand in hers. “What you’ve seen and heard will make sense when the time is right, whether that’s our time or yours.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
ESCAPE
Where…are…the sacrifices?”
Apollo’s yell whipped through Hermes’ skin and rattled against his ribs. They stood in the throne room, just inches apart, the black Wall of Sacrifice presiding over them. It was supposed to be flowing red with the blood of the Petrodian traitors, but it produced not a single trickle.
Hades sat on the edge of the cliff, his broad shoulders rolled forward and his horned helmet by his hip. His glaucous bald head, which seemed two sizes too small for his body, rolled from side to side, and he uttered long and ghastly groans.
“I do not know, sire,” Hermes said. “I haven’t been to the Upperworld today.” Hermes’ eyes jumped around the room. “Where is Orpheus? Perhaps—”
The bloodless vein in Apollo’s neck distended like a bloated worm. He backhanded Hermes’ cheek. “Don’t change the subject. Orpheus did his duty. He delivered one of the Vessels to Hades, and there she resides as we speak.”
Hermes lowered his hand from his cheek. “What do you mean one of them? There can only be one, and I deposited her in the Fields myself.”
Hades’ groans grew louder, their echoes blending into a cacophonous symphony that clawed against Hermes’ ears.
Apollo took Hermes by the throat and squeezed as he lifted him off the floor. “You are supposed to be our eyes and ears among the mortals. You were chosen because you are supposed to be clever.” He slammed Hermes to the ground, knocking out his breath and breaking bones that would soon regenerate, only to be broken again.
Hermes’ neck cracked as he twisted it into place. He sat still, staring into the orange whorls of mist rising out of the river below, trying to suppress his own ire. Yes, he was clever, but he wasn’t omniscient. How could he have known there could be more than one Asher in a family? If he’d taken his focus off of the girl for one millisecond, Apollo would have flayed him himself. But it would prove futile to try and convince him of that or make him see reason. Better to confess his oversight and feign repentance than argue and be sent to Tartarus for his penalty.
“I will find them,” Hermes said. “I will go—”
“You have done enough!” bellowed Apollo. He pointed at his brother, who was now rocking back and forth like a maniac, one of his hands curled inside his mouth.
“Then who will you send?” Hermes couldn’t help himself. His pride wouldn’t let him be usurped so easily. “I am the only one permitted to fly between all the realms, even to go to the Vale, the Fields, or Tartarus itself to fetch whichever soul you wish to recruit.” He lifted his chin and got to his feet. He had more power than his brothers ever gave him credit for. Perhaps they simply needed to be reminded.
Apollo lowered his voice, as if to keep Hades from hearing. “I am sending no one.”
“And what, you’ll continue to speak through your channels and hope they will stop the prophecy?”
Hermes was incredulous. Could Apollo really trust the fate of the Underworld to a bunch of powerless, half-witted mortals?
Apollo rushed forward and lifted his hand halfway, his muscles shaking as he decided whether to strike him again. “The Fantásmata have proved themselves immensely less fallible than you. They were the ones who revealed to me the second Asher.” He pointed down the endless, smoke-filled aisle to the gate. “Leave us.”
Hermes’ jaw fell open. His heart thudded like a bird beating against the walls of its cage. Not once in the eons since the War had ended had his power and role as messenger been undermined. For millennia, he had served his brothers faithfully, doing his part for the dark trinity they had established, lying, scheming, tempting, seducing, all so the three of them might increase their authority and win worship for themselves.
Hades thrived off the blood of the Coronations. Apollo acquired strength through the prayers of the mystics who claimed him as their god. And Hermes’ delight had been in bending mortals to his will. What would become of him now that he had been supplanted by Apollo’s disciples? He would be no better than one of the lovesick wraiths moaning in the shadows of the Vale.
Apollo drew his sword and pressed its tip into the hollow of Hermes’ throat. “Leave us, I said, before my mercy fails me, brother.”
Hermes lifted himself with his winged sandals and floated past the flickering tripods, sure there was no greater torture than
to have a hubris matched only by two other spirits in the universe, and no purpose or outlet with which to gratify it.
The warm blood began to harden into sticky specks and blackened clumps on Ethan’s hand. He couldn’t keep his other hand from trembling as he tried to pick it off. Not once in his life had he made another man bleed. And never had he imagined he’d be capable of killing someone. But there had been no other choice.
Ethan sat slumped in the corner of the room, staring at the wall Damian and his parents had escaped through. Five bullet holes surrounded the space where he’d been standing, and yet, by some miracle, he hadn’t been shot. He’d evaded them all, then somehow managed to wrestle the gun away from the guard, shoot the security camera without aiming, then twist the arm that held the knife and drive it into the guard’s neck.
It had all happened so fast. He hadn’t even expected himself to put up a fight, but rather had hoped the guard would spare him the noose or the needle, and dispatch him with a single bullet. But his survival instincts had been stronger than he’d anticipated, overpowering almost, and he wrestled better and more aggressively than he ever had in school. Even the last expression on the guard’s face was one of utter surprise.
Now, the guard’s lifeless corpse was hidden under the cabinets across the room, covered up by Ethan’s clothes. Ethan had put on the guard’s uniform and was dressed head to toe in tactical gear, the chest and shoulder panels of which fit a bit too loosely. He’d had to pull up the shin and elbow guards well past his joints to keep them from sliding.
With no faucet in the room to wash off the blood, he slipped on the gloves and took a deep breath, the sour air in the room burning his lungs. The adrenaline had dissipated, leaving him exhausted, guilt-ridden, and above all, mystified that he was still alive. But he was alive, and he had to believe it was for a reason.
Taking what confidence he could from that thought, he got up, holstered the gun, and stepped through the shattered door.
The hallway was empty and eerily silent. He jogged to the window at the far end and looked out, only to see a few guards standing around on the lawn. One of them was pointing off into the distance while another searched the horizon through a pair of binoculars.
They got away. Relief washed through Ethan’s body, tingling his hot skin beneath the suit. He thanked Duna in his thoughts, and then asked for his help once more.
“I’m following your lead here,” he said aloud.
Then he turned back and stared in the direction of the Coronation cell. What if the chief councilman was still in there? If he were, wouldn’t he have gone into the room after he’d noticed the commotion in the surveillance camera and then seen the camera go black with the gunshot? Ethan could wait for him to come back, perhaps, and then kill him easily, with his bare hands if he had to. The man had tried to murder him, after all, and he would try again if he got the chance.
Ethan took a step forward, then paused as reason overrode his impulse. He glanced up at the corner of the ceiling. A gray dome camera, barely noticeable and likely impervious to bullets, was waiting to catch him screwing up. Maybe he’d been lucky, and the councilman hadn’t seen the confrontation with the guard. Maybe the councilman had been outside giving orders, or back at the museum consulting the drugged-out weirdos.
Ethan made the decision not to defy the odds again. He’d save his vengeance for another day.
Anxious to slip passed the heavily armed personnel below, he pivoted on his heel and was almost to the stairwell when he heard a soft panting noise, paired with a low, monotone hum, drifting up to him from the doorway. His adrenaline surged once again, and he ripped the gun from its holster. He leaned into the door, and with the pistol raised pushed it open.
His heart raced as he stepped onto the landing. The lights were off, and a row of small octagonal windows dotting the center of the wall did little to illuminate the shadows. He clumsily probed the wall for a light switch, but found nothing. He leaned against the door, held the raised gun in his right hand, and fiddled with the side of his helmet.
After a few slow seconds, the thermal-imaging camera flickered to life, and even though it only affected his sight, all of his senses seemed to heighten. He could almost feel the finger grooves in the grip of the gun bristling through his glove. He could smell the sweat, blood, and body odor encrusted within his suit. And he could hear the humming sound fade to shallow breaths.
With the camera’s grayscale palette, the stairwell was as dark as before. He didn’t have time to try and change the settings. He didn’t even know what the different settings did. But no matter the colors, if a person was down there, they would stick out and he could protect himself. He just needed to get closer. He rocked up from the door, steadied his breathing as best he could, and with his back to the wall and his face toward the railing, descended the stairs, crossing one boot over the other.
Ethan was standing at the top of the second landing when he saw the ghostly image of a woman at the end of the stairs, the infrared radiation from her body making her glow like a star in the night sky. Her hands were pressed against the wall, her white chest rising and falling to the rhythm of his own breaths. She was scared, as was he.
“Who are you? What are you doing up here?” he demanded.
If there were cameras in this area, he wasn’t about to appear soft. He hurried down the stairs and, making sure he wasn’t touching the trigger, swung the gun into her periphery. “Speak!”
The woman turned toward him and wiped her cheek. “I’m Chloe Zacharias.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
SMOKE
Ethan’s hand flew to the side of his helmet and clicked off the camera. He blinked hard and flipped up his visor, then crept closer, logic arguing with his eyes.
This couldn’t be Chloe. Chloe was in Hades. He’d seen her walk into the mist at Lake Thyra, and he knew Damian hadn’t gone after her. This had to be a trick, a sadistic ploy by the councilman to punish Ethan’s emotions before he tortured his body.
The girl’s blue eyes stared at the barrel of the gun; her long blond hair, ashy in the darkness, was hanging close around her cheeks and mouth. “Duna, please…” Then she tipped her head forward and closed her eyes, as if waiting for him to squeeze the trigger.
Ethan holstered the pistol and took a step forward. He watched her body stiffen as he leaned toward her to whisper into her ear. “It’s me, Chloe. It’s Ethan.”
Chloe lifted her head and searched his eyes until she was sure. Finally, her tears evaporating as a smile warmed her face, she took his hand and squeezed it. “It’s good to see you.”
“You, too.”
That was the biggest understatement of his life. If circumstances were different, he would have thrown off his helmet right then and there and kissed her as he’d wanted to for so long. He swore to himself that the second circumstances were different he’d take his time telling her exactly how he felt.
“You need to get out of here,” he said.
“No, you need to get out of here. That’s why I came. I mean, I think that’s why I came.”
“How did you—”
“You won’t believe it.” She released his hand and shook her head, as if she didn’t believe it herself.
“Try me.”
The door above them crashed open and banged against the wall. “Yes, Miss Zacharias, try us.” The councilman’s oily voice dripped like tree sap down the stairwell. “Dazzle us with that spectacular talent of yours.”
“Run!” yelled Ethan. He pulled out his gun once again and sped down the stairs after Chloe.
She pushed through the door below the exit sign and raced out into the foyer, a place Ethan hadn’t seen since their field trip ten years prior. She held a hand on her hip and bent over halfway, catching her breath.
The elevator behind them dinged. Ethan turned to see the councilman, dressed as a holy man in his gaudy, purple garb, step out, his hands lifted in welcome.
“Quite a fighter you are, Mr
. Ross. Not the shuddering little nebbish your father is.”
Ethan’s finger twitched onto the pistol’s hammer. He didn’t know much about guns, but he knew enough to put a bullet between a man’s eyes. He widened his stance on the marble floor, lifted the gun with both hands, and held his breath as he aimed through the sights.
“Are you sure you want to do that, Mr. Ross?”
A sharp ticking noise, like the second hand of a watch, clicked beside Ethan’s left ear. He threw off the helmet and resumed his position.
“I designed those suits with a unique capability,” said the councilman, a pompous smile deepening the wrinkles of his pale, sunken cheeks, “to self-combust at the touch of a button, should desperate times call for desperate measures.” He held up a small black fob, his thumb poised on its center.
“It seems like any time is a good time for you to kill innocent people,” said Ethan, the faint ticking sound quickening its cadence from the floor.
“If you don’t tell me where Mr. Zacharias has run off to in the next ten seconds, you will burst into flames.” The councilman gathered his robes and walked forward.
Ethan looked over the man’s head at the wall of stained glass behind him, the colors of the crescent moon and serpent it depicted dulled by the evening sky beyond it.
The councilman jerked a hand toward Chloe and pointed at her. “And if you move, he dies.”
“I don’t know where he is,” said Ethan. “That’s the truth.”
The councilman’s black eyes squinted at him as he licked his cracked, purplish lips. “I’m to believe that you and your fellow conspirators never discussed a rendezvous point while you were haunting my halls?”
“What’s he talking about?” asked Chloe. “Where’s Damian?”