“Why don’t you just tell her,” Cassandra said quietly. “How you feel.” Even though Athena would break him like a toy. That was what gods did to mortals who loved them.

“She’s not exactly the soul-baring type,” Odysseus replied. “And besides. She knows.”

“She does love you,” Cassandra said. “Only, the way she loves isn’t enough to sustain a rat. You deserve better.”

“You don’t know her like I do.”

“I know that with everything she’s taken from me, she still won’t do me one favor.”

“She’s trying,” Odysseus said.

He looked at Cassandra calmly. Fondly. But she knew she was pushing it. If anyone else had talked about Athena that way, they’d have found themselves flat on their backs.

“She’s trying to let you grieve,” he said. “Hate her for being a god, or hate her for trying to be human, but don’t do both.”

Cassandra’s eyes dropped. “You know Artemis is probably dead, right?”

“I know. But she’s their sister. If there was a chance for Henry, no matter how slim, you’d have to take it, wouldn’t you?”

She would. Of course she would.

“Don’t be gone long,” she said.

4

IN THE CAVERNS OF THE EARTH

Olympus didn’t exist anymore. As far as Ares knew, it had cracked and crumbled into the sea. It dissolved into particles and was carried off in the mouths of birds. It disappeared the moment the gods left it, the moment they leaped or were thrown from it. The moment the humans forgot them.

But Aphrodite was dragging him to Olympus nevertheless.

“Olympus. Come home to Olympus,” she said, and her teeth shone like pearls. “Mother waits.”

“Olympus is gone, sweet one,” Ares said, as she tugged and pulled, leading him through the trees, her pale, bruised fingers wrapped around his dark, bleeding wrist.

He had lingered with Aphrodite in the wood for days and nights, leaving blood streaks across her skin. Despite the bruises on her rib cage and hips, she was still beautiful. So he let himself be dragged toward whatever delusion she wanted. Her hair swayed down her back, bright as gold, as she picked her way through branches. Her tiny puppy wriggled happily in the crook of her arm.

“We shook Olympus down a millennium ago, pet. With our sadness and indifference.”

“We don’t have time for indifference anymore, Ares,” she said, and turned to him with sane blue eyes. Her fingers bit into the bandage on his bicep, already soaked through with blood from a new cut. “I know what’s happening to you.”

“Aphrodite.”

“And I know what’s happening to me,” she said. “I don’t want to be mad. I remember who…” She paused and closed her eyes. “I remember sometimes.”

Ares pressed his hand to her cheek. She remembered what she used to be, before her mind started to soften and burn. Her death was unfair and cruel, without dignity.

“I’m ashamed,” she said, “of what I’m becoming.”

He kissed her hair. “Let’s go.” His poor Aphrodite. It was difficult to keep his touch gentle when he wanted something to break. Something to cut. Something to crush.

The urge subsided when they reached the mouth of the cave, a modest opening dug into a rock wall and grown over with ferns and moss. They’d have to bend their heads to go inside.

“It isn’t much,” he said. The wind from inside was cold, and spoke of large, black caverns.

Aphrodite squeezed his hand, and they went in.

*   *   *

Ares knew exactly when it was that they left the cave on earth and entered the cave on Olympus. He felt the gravity change. The rock walls increased in luster and somehow in boldness, like a blurry curtain had suddenly been drawn back. It was hard and sharp and beautiful. It felt like home.

“How can this be?” he asked, and it was Hera who answered from somewhere in the shadows.

“It exists because we remade it,” she said. “It exists because we have need.”

“Mother.” Ares couldn’t see her. Even with immortal eyes, the dark was too complete. When he strained forward, he could barely make out her shape. She stood tall and proud, shoulders back, the curve of one hip thrust out, forming the perfect silhouette.

“My son.”

Aphrodite stepped away to let them have their reunion.

“It’s true then,” he said. “You live.”

“Is that disappointment I hear?”