If this is how Aphrodite feels every day, I envy her.

“Lose the shirts!” Hermes catcalled, and Odysseus glanced over. Achilles didn’t, and Odysseus jerked quickly to maintain his block.

Too quickly. The block was twenty times as fast as Henry or Andie could have done it. It was closer to Hermes’ speed.

Athena’s eyes narrowed.

“All right,” she said. “That’s enough. Exhibition over.” The swords lowered, and they clapped each other on the shoulders. Odysseus returned to Cassandra.

“That was impressive,” Cassandra said. “But next time why not save the sweat and just pee around her in a circle?”

Athena’s skin crackled. Pee around her in a circle? Like she was a tree a dog could claim? Exhibition, indeed. A show for Achilles, so he knew how things stood.

“What time do we start tomorrow?” Hermes asked.

“We don’t.”

Everyone paused.

“That’s it,” she said. “You know what you know. You’re as ready as you need to be.”

“But couldn’t we be, I don’t know, readier?” Andie asked.

Athena looked at Achilles. Then Cassandra. Two weapons, fully loaded. Surely she wasn’t the only one who saw that.

Hermes crossed his arms, and the bones moved beneath his clothes. His lovely bones. Ready to tear through the skin.

“Time grows short,” Athena said. “I’ll crack that wolf soon, and then we go. There’s nothing more you can learn here.”

She bent to pick up their equipment as the first fat drops of rain fell. Polite weather, to wait until they’d finished.

“Well, I’m not sleeping tonight,” Andie said. “Anybody want to rewatch all of the Harry Potter movies?”

“I’m down,” said Henry.

“I’ll get Cally,” said Odysseus.

“Let me.” Hermes walked into the house. “I’ll relieve her wolf-watching duty.”

Andie, Henry, and Cassandra started to follow, and Henry stopped short at the sliding door.

“Achilles,” he said, and paused. “Did you…”

“No, he didn’t,” Cassandra said. She grabbed Henry by the arm and dragged him inside.

Achilles chuckled and leaned down to help Athena with the weapons.

“She’s a tough one,” he said.

“No, she’s not,” said Athena. “But she’s getting there. Pretty damn big of Henry to invite you over for popcorn. Don’t you think?”

He flashed a killer smile. “A bit bigger than I am, yet.”

“Why’s that? I killed you not a month ago, and you don’t hate me.”

“I would, if you’d killed someone I loved.”

Fair enough. But given enough time, blood enemies may yet become friends. It was on her, she supposed, to give them the time.

She looked through the glass as Calypso came upstairs and grabbed Odysseus by the hand, smiling and tugging him toward the door. So damn pretty. So maddeningly sweet. Odysseus dragged his feet half a second and looked back at Athena, who bent quickly to pick up an imaginary practice sword.

She let the cold rain run down her back in icy rivers as their cars drove away. Let it make her feel wild, instead of chained. Defiant, instead of foolish and love-struck. Instead of so heavy with sadness and plain old dumb loneliness that she couldn’t breathe.

“Don’t let them bother you,” Achilles said. He shouldered the weapons. “They can watch their movies and have their laughs. They’re not like us. They never will be.”

“Not like us.” Athena took a breath. The world smelled like it wanted to freeze again.

“I like Odysseus,” he said. “Always have. But he never understood the point of it all. The glory.”

“He understood it,” she said. “His glory just wasn’t the same as yours.” And Odysseus understood something else, too. Strategy. Secrets. That speed he hid in his arms. And strength, too, probably. Achilles hadn’t noticed, but she had. That one little move. That one mistake.

“Nah,” Achilles said. “Ody’s only a man. Not like me. Not a demigod, half-divine and growing by the minute.”

“True,” Athena whispered.

So how does he have that speed?

19

MOIRAE IN THE MOUNTAIN

Ares hesitated with his hand on the doorknob. But he’d made it this far, so deep into Olympus that he could no longer tell whether they were nearer the summit or the belly. Right up to the Fates’ door. The Moirae. Clotho, the spinner of life. Lachesis, the weaver of destiny. Atropos, the shears of death.