She twisted to look into the mirror. There was a red handprint painted across her cheek.

“Why are you smiling?” Odysseus asked.

Athena studied the impossible wound. As she watched, it tingled and burned deeper.

“Because even though Cassandra doesn’t feel any different”—she pressed a cool palm to her face—“she is different. More than a prophet. A weapon.”

18

FATE’S A BITCH

The scent of granite hung on the air. Whether it was real or just in her imagination, Athena didn’t know. The sleet had stopped, leaving the world wet and black in the absence of the sun. She inhaled; the scent faded. It probably hadn’t been there in the first place. The air was completely still, no breeze to carry news, or to dry the slushy puddles in the street.

It didn’t matter. She stood at the tree line along the highway where she and Odysseus had walked into Kincade. This was the way that Hera would come. She would follow them in, rising up behind them like some gruesome specter. The move had bravado. It had menace. Doing it any other way wouldn’t even cross her mind.

The city of Kincade was cut through by one large river and five tributaries. There was also a lake, Lake Reilly, medium-sized but quite deep, and fed into by the river.

Athena’s eyes scanned the horizon. The tributaries were no problem; they were too small for any water-dwelling bastard to move through that quickly. But the river and the lake were perfect hiding places for Poseidon. As for Aphrodite, well, they’d probably leave the sniveling brat back home. Or they would, if they were smart.

She heard footsteps coming cautiously up from behind. Odysseus. She’d only been gone from the motel for twenty minutes.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting my bearings,” she replied without turning. “Preparing for battle. Doing what I do.”

He came up to her shoulder and tried to rubberneck around the front of her to see her cheek.

“Quit it.” She jerked away. “It’s gone.”

“But what was it?”

“An injury put on me by a mortal. And if she can do it to me, she can do it to the others.”

“But it was just a handprint. I don’t even think she knew what she was doing. It could be nothing.”

But it wasn’t nothing. It was something. Only she had no idea what, and it seemed Cassandra wouldn’t have much time to figure it out.

Oh, Aunt Demeter. I wish I hadn’t respected your wishes. I wish I’d pulled you out of the sand and rolled you up. I could use you. I could really use you.

Odysseus’ hands thrust into his jeans pockets against the chill and his neck turtled slightly. She didn’t want to look at him, so she kept on studying the terrain.

“Kincade’s not exactly the high ground, I suppose,” Odysseus mumbled.

“Nowhere is the high ground where Hera is concerned.”

He leaned against her and heat moved into her from his shoulder. Why did he have to be so damned comforting? What was it about him that could make her so soft? Maybe it had always been this way. Thinking back, she remembered the fondness she felt every time she looked at him. When she watched him charge the battlefield at Troy, his eyes terrified but determined, he’d been so alive; it had made her want to laugh and scream. But it hadn’t been like this. Back then she was a goddess and he a mortal. Back then the lines between them were clearly drawn.

Ahead, the world seemed to stretch on to forever, but she knew it didn’t. Not really. Somewhere, Hera was coming for them. And no matter how she planned, or what strategy she used, it wouldn’t be enough.

“Not getting down on us already?” Odysseus nudged. “Are you still angry that Aidan didn’t let you kill Hector?”

“His name’s not Aidan. And we could have used Hector. We could have used them both.” She shrugged him off. Odysseus made a disgusted sound. He would chastise her now, call her inhuman, which was a stupid argument anyway. He would call her selfish. And if he went much further, she’d knock his ass in the wet dirt.

“You’re not alone in this. No matter what you might think.” He crossed his arms over his chest, staring out in the same direction she had. “I know you think you’ve got to make all the hard choices. Someone has to lead us, right, and you’re the one. So you come out with mud on your face. You get to be the villain, the one that everybody blames.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “Someone’s got to do it.”

“Someone does,” he agreed. “But don’t think it means you’re the only one with blood on their hands. That bitch is out to kill us all. It’s our fight as much as yours.”