“We have many, all over the world,” Celine replied. “And they are very discreet.”

“Good,” said Athena. “Then get going. I’ll watch over Mareden and Estelle. Hermes—” She grasped his arm suddenly and stood for a second, looking down at it. She hadn’t meant to do it.

He might never come back. The next time I see him he might try to kill me. Or he might run and keep on running.

But there was nothing she could say. No guarantee she could ask for.

“Don’t give up,” she said finally. “We haven’t even started yet.”

He patted her hand and she let go. “I’ll be back.” He offered an arm to Celine and she took it. “The god of thieves might be easily rattled. But that doesn’t make him a coward.” He turned to go, but before she walked with him, Celine looked at Athena.

“I’m glad that you came to us in time to learn the whereabouts of the girl.”

Athena said nothing. It was the last thing she’d expected.

Celine shrugged. “Blaming you would be easy. But it is not so simple as that. We would have been forced to choose a side. It would have come to this, eventually. So I am glad that when you found us we were strong enough to help you. And I am glad that you were there to save us.” She paused, and fresh tears rolled down her cheeks. The voice that issued from her throat was the same as ever, though her lips trembled. “The last of Circe’s coven.” She nodded to Hermes, who led her a few paces before picking her up and starting to run. It was only seconds before they were no longer visible.

Will they be all right? Athena stared into the trees where Hermes had gone. Would any of them? They’d stepped into it right and proper. The odds of survival slipped by the minute, and the odds of a victory were somewhere between winning the lottery and dying of spontaneous human combustion. She flexed her torn hand and rubbed her tongue against the roof of her mouth. The pain felt like weakness. Where would the next goddamn feather turn up? In her heart? Or maybe it would corkscrew right through her eye.

She thought of Hera, so strong, and as maliciously clever as ever. Her death was a slow turning to stone. It was a walking metaphor. And instead of making her weak it only made her more of a monster. They were up against too much. Poseidon would crash the sea into every continent and Hera would apparently bomb the shit out of the rest, all while brandishing her damn stone fist like a battle-axe.

What did it feel like, to have your flesh slowly harden into rock? Did it feel similar to the way the feathers felt? Stinging pains and dull, aching throbs?

“I hope it hurts like f**king nails in your eyes,” Athena muttered. “And I wish that it had started with your face.”

Behind her, Odysseus cleared his throat. She turned to see him standing beside the tree she had struck with her fist. There was a patch of bark missing eight inches across and three inches deep. Sap oozed from the wound like sticky, amber blood. Embarrassment clenched down in her chest; she didn’t like him knowing she’d lost her temper. It wasn’t in tune with the goddess she’d always been, the one he must remember.

Odysseus examined the splintered wood and flashed a cockeyed grin.

“Whatever the tree did, I’m sure that it’s sorry.”

Athena sucked on her tongue. “I miss the days when one glare from me was enough to turn you into a trembling puddle.”

Odysseus laughed. “In all our long history, I don’t remember any days like that.” He gestured over his shoulder, back toward where Mareden and Estelle still sat. “They’re all right,” he said. “I just couldn’t … stand there anymore. They don’t want comfort, you know?”

“I know.” What could have comforted them? They wanted their sisters back, their lives back. They wanted for none of what was happening to be happening. It was impossible. Not even Zeus at the height of his powers could perform those kinds of miracles. And even if he could, he wouldn’t. She could practically hear his voice in her head, as clear as it had been when she’d sat near his knee on Olympus.

What has happened was ordained by Fate. It governs all things, and we cannot see into its mind, child, no matter how mighty we are.

Over and over she’d heard those words, or a similar variation. The Fates. The Moirae. Three beings of destiny, above the gods. Zeus always called them “It,” but they were really three: three sisters. He was mostly right, though. They acted as one, spoke as one, sometimes moved as one as they worked their golden loom, weaving and unweaving peoples’ lives. And shearing them off just as quickly. Fate was the only lesson a god needed to learn. It was their only hard limit.