“You are flawless, mademoiselle. But then, so many women are, in these times.”

It was true. Thanks to creams and collagens and nips and tucks, goddesses walked the earth in abundance. Celine herself was, to many eyes, much more appealing than Athena. Celine, who wore beautiful clothes and cared for her body well.

Athena glanced at Hermes. He was dying for an introduction. Revealing who he was to mortals was probably one of his favorite pastimes. And there was no more point to putting it off.

Athena held out her hand, and Celine grasped it.

“I am Athena,” she said, and felt the pulse jump beneath the other woman’s skin. “And this is Hermes.”

“Athena,” Celine said carefully. Her eyes darted down the hallway; the flicker of movement was almost too fast to notice. It had probably been unconscious. “And Hermes. We are honored to have you.” She turned and resumed walking.

“She took that well,” Hermes muttered, probably disappointed there hadn’t been more of a starry-eyed reaction. But Celine was so collected and precise. Her response was exactly what Athena had expected.

They were being led to a room at the back, toward a dark mahogany door at the end of a long hallway lined with doors of a lighter chestnut color. The sound of Celine’s high heels clicking on the floor was distracting and loud, but Athena could still hear soft strains of music coming from behind the wood. There were also other, more animal noises: laughter and soft moans.

My eyes must be bulging from their sockets, my ears grown elf tips. Her heart too was in overdrive, and she shoved the tip of her tongue up hard against the sore feather in the roof of her mouth to bring herself back down into her shoes. They were there. Celine’s hand rested on the silver doorknob. Then she withdrew it.

“Perhaps you would wish to wait at the bar,” she offered. “I could bring him to you very quickly.”

Athena said nothing. All of her attention was focused on the door and what lay behind it. Her heart hammered for an ally, for hope, for any help at all. Let it be Hephaestus, she thought wildly, reasonable, sturdy Hephaestus. Let it be Apollo, strong and brave. But maybe she shouldn’t hope for either. Both of them had fought with her, but they’d also fought against her on various occasions. And Hephaestus was Hera’s son, and Aphrodite’s husband.

It doesn’t matter. He’s always had a mind for reason. He’s always been my friend despite them.

The door opened in her imagination on a dozen different scenarios. In her mind’s eye it opened to reveal Hephaestus, twisted and mangled almost beyond recognition, suffering and useless. It opened on Poseidon, flashing jagged coral teeth behind his mossy beard. Water ran in rivulets down his bare legs; in his hand he held a black trident with razor-sharp points. She saw Ares of the smoldering eyes, saw him leap like a wolf for her throat. All of these possibilities flashed through her in an instant, but she said nothing.

“As you wish,” said Celine, and turned the knob.

There were four of them on the bed. Three beautiful girls, one blond-headed, one black, and one red. The fourth was a young man with wild brown hair. They were half-dressed at best. The boy in the center leaned into the arms of the softly laughing blonde, while the others knelt by his knees, kissing his chest and fingertips. His eyes were closed. There was a glimpse of gauze on his neck, and more could be seen peeking around the sides of his ribcage. Athena knew him immediately. His angular face, the infuriating, exhilarating confidence that came off of him in waves. Flashes of memory rose across centuries and pasted seamlessly onto the moment, flickering in her eyes like tiny electric sparks. She smiled wryly.

“Odysseus.”

7

DYING GODS

Cassandra’s mother hummed as she moved between the stove and the table to place a platter of bacon down next to a steaming stack of pancakes. The smell made Cassandra’s stomach turn, but she tried to smile. There are times when your parents’ best intentions feel almost ironic in their complete and utter wrongness, but it doesn’t do to hurt their feelings. Really it was Henry’s fault; he’d mentioned that Cassandra looked sort of pale. Their mother had grabbed the skillet without another word.

Two days had passed since the dream. She kept expecting it to fade, to be chased away by waking life. But her head was still full of blood, of monsters that smelled like clay and moved like bugs. If she didn’t eat for a week, that’d be just fine.

Henry and her mother buzzed about the kitchen, talking about the day, trying not to trip over each other as they coordinated eggs and toast. A crack preceded a sizzle as an egg hit the pan. Henry inhaled hungrily.