Hermes looked away, but she hadn’t meant to shame him. They were all afraid in varying degrees.

“I wasn’t sure I’d find you here. I thought you might hide the witches and go. Or maybe…” She shook her head.

“Maybe join up with Stepmommy and Uncle?” Hermes’ smile faded fast. “Don’t think it didn’t cross my mind. But after what she did to Circe’s coven…” His hands tightened around the pillow on his lap. “I don’t have a lot of loyalty to mortals anymore. But they were our people. Or as close to it as we’ve got. And she killed them. I want to live forever, but not as a monster.”

Athena smiled. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Right, right, right. But enough about my temporary cowardice. If you’re sure it was Aphrodite, then I believe you.”

“I’m sure. The boy she sent was mad for her. She wanted me out of the way and Odysseus brought to them.”

Hermes nodded toward the bathroom and the running shower. “What do they want with him, anyway?”

“It’s just like before. He knows where their weapon is. They’re looking for Achilles.”

“Achilles, huh?” Hermes said with a lift of his eyebrows. He took in the information somberly, which was difficult. His entire existence had been apathetic and light. Now everything was a long struggle. Sometimes Athena could see him fight to keep his shoulders still, to keep from trying to shrug the gravity off.

“Well?” Athena asked. “You’re thinking something.”

Beside her, the bathroom door opened and Odysseus walked out without a shirt on. He tossed his towel underneath the sink and carried his bag to the bed, rifling through it for something to wear.

“Thinking something about what?” he asked. The gauze on his back and neck had been removed; large, puckered scabs disturbed the skin near his shoulder and down his spine. Circe’s witches had healed him well, after the Cyclops attack. The scabs were a lot smaller than they could have been and there was no infection. But he would still carry the scars for the rest of his life.

Athena’s eyes moved over the cuts with strange regret. They were no worse than the spear wounds he had taken in Troy. But in her mind they were a portent; she saw them widening, cracking open and bearing him down to the ground. They were a taste of what was to come, and she would survive just long enough to see him torn apart and dragged to Hades. When Odysseus looked back, she turned away.

That’s my imagination. It’s my fear playing tricks. Odysseus always finds ways to survive.

She put her hand to her head. It was cloudy with stupid shit and she needed to focus. The prophetess, the girl they sought, was only miles away now, and Athena couldn’t even begin to remember where she’d tossed her game face.

Hermes sucked on his cheeks.

“I’m thinking the Fates have a hand in this,” he said softly.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, they’re looking for Achilles,” Hermes reasoned. “And we just found Hector. At least I think so. Why don’t you hit the showers and then I’ll tell you everything.”

* * *

Hector. He was Cassandra’s brother, the crown prince of Troy, who would have become king had Athena and Hera not helped the Greeks to raze his city to the ground. He was Troy’s greatest hero, the only one who could stand against Achilles for more than two minutes. Of course, in the end, Achilles had been greater. Hector was outlasted and ended up with a spear through his chest and his body desecrated, dragged behind the wheels of Achilles’ chariot.

Athena reached up and cut through the vapor on the bathroom mirror. Her eyes stared back at her in the streak of silver.

I’m the one who lured him onto the battlefield that day. It was me who lied to him, who convinced him to face that madman. He never had a chance. I destroyed their world and now I’m going to ask them to save mine.

But that wasn’t quite right either. She wasn’t going to ask them. She was going to make them, whether they liked it or not.

She rolled her tongue against the roof of her mouth, which was already mostly healed. It hadn’t turned into a sore after all. She felt only slight relief. More feathers would come. They would keep coming, until they filled up her lungs or twisted into her heart. They wouldn’t stop until they killed her. It would be the end of a goddess. The end of a monster.

The mirror fogged up again, slowly blotting out her face. She pulled a dark gray t-shirt over her head, some designer thing with black swirling from the shoulder to the hip. Toweling her hair dry, she still saw traces of the purple she had dyed into it a year earlier. She was the commander of the apocalypse, and she had purple streaks growing out in her hair.