Odysseus looked grimly ahead when he answered. “They want me because I know what they’re after. They want me because without me, they won’t be able to get it. And I came to you because you’re the only god strong enough to stop them.”

11

MESSAGES FROM THE MESSENGER

The explosion in Chicago was on every channel. It didn’t matter whether she flipped from CNN to ABC, there was the same live image: smoke rising into the sky, and an enormous pile of wreckage on the corner of a block. It was a mess of crumbled rock and steel girders, dust and flashing red and yellow lights from fire trucks and rescue crews. Some of the neighboring buildings had been hit too, and wore dangerous-looking cracks snaking up their sides. Before the bomb it had been a small, restored warehouse, converted to house a consultancy of some kind. No one was sure yet how many had died. Estimates varied wildly from twenty to several dozen, depending on the network. There were other casualties too: people who had been walking on the sidewalk or driving past. There were surprisingly few injuries. It killed you, or it left you alone.

“It’s terrible,” Cassandra’s father said. He and her mother had been watching the coverage since he’d come home from work. The smoke reflected in his eyeglasses and was made tiny. “It’s going to cost the city a hell of a lot to rebuild.” He shook his head and sighed. That’s what the world is coming to, the sigh said.

“Who would do that?” her mother asked. Reporters cried terrorism but were having a hard time pulling together a motive, and the only groups who had come forward to claim responsibility were the ones who came forward to claim responsibility for everything. One program suggested the consultancy was actually a high-end escort service. That at least would make it a more likely target.

Cassandra sat on the couch beside Henry and stared at the screen. She hated it. Hated everything about it, and whoever had done it. The feeling coursed through her like liquid metal; she felt it in her wrists. Hate. Frustration. Every time a reporter named groups who might be responsible, she wanted to scream. They’d done that. Dying gods. Aidan’s malignant family. They’d done it on their way to her.

“If it turns out it was a brothel, this news coverage is going to get a whole lot uglier.”

“Why?” Cassandra snapped. “Are the reporters going to start saying that they deserved it? That they deserved to get blown into a million pieces, because they were whores?”

“Cassandra!” Her parents looked at her, mouths open as she stalked out of the den and headed for the backyard. The smell of meatloaf in the oven made her want to break a window. It was so domestic and unaffected. Business as usual. When she burst into the backyard, she almost hit Henry in the face with the door as he followed with her jacket.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey, what?” He didn’t try to touch her as she paced, just tossed her the jacket and let her walk it off, watching as the rage leaked out through her feet and through the steam of her breath in the cold air.

“There were no words. No names. No sense of place. Not even the weather. I didn’t know where it was.”

“There wasn’t anything you could do.”

She slowed. “Then why did I see it? What’s the point?”

“Maybe there is no point. You just know things, and they just happen. That’s how it’s always been.”

“Henry, that is so not good enough.” And it wasn’t right, either. Something was coming, just around the bend. She felt it, an odd sense of increasing, like the world starting to spin faster.

“You’d better get back in there and tell Mom you’re okay,” said Henry. “She’s been asking if something’s up with you.”

“I know, I know. I should eat meatloaf and smile. Talk about school.” Cassandra took a breath. The itchy feeling in her wrists was gone. Only vague tiredness remained.

“Well, yeah. That’s what Aidan said, right? Act normal.”

Act normal. Don’t make waves or trip anyone’s radar. He seemed so silly, suddenly, thinking that they could hide. Thinking there was any way around what was going to happen.

“Would you tell Mom and Dad I’m going over to eat at Aidan’s?” she asked. “Tell them we had a fight or something, and that’s why I flipped. Do you think they’ll mind?”

“I think Dad’ll be thrilled. He’s been waiting for you two to fight for a year.”

* * *

Aidan lived in a two-story house on Red Oak Lane. It was less than a half mile from Cassandra’s. The wind cut through her jacket as she stood out front, urging her to walk up the driveway with cold fingers against her back. Inside, Aidan stood in the dining room, clearing the table and talking to his mom.