At least Zeus had gotten the hair part right.

Lovely red hair hung down Clotho’s back, and a mop of silver stuck to Lachesis. But they were wigs glued onto mummies. Clotho and Lachesis themselves were pale, withered husks, so thin and limp he would’ve thought them dead had the shears in their hands not opened and closed.

(WHAT DO YOU SAY)

Ares swallowed. He fixed his eyes on Atropos, the Moirae of death, the only sister who was still beautiful.

“Thank you.”

(YOU ARE WELCOME, GOD OF WAR)

“You’re ill,” he said. Hera grasped his ankle, but he ignored her. The Moirae’s illness was obvious. Clotho and Lachesis barely functioned. Their eyelids and lips drooped. Their shoulders slumped into Atropos. They breathed, and that was about it.

“Forgive him,” Hera said, dragging herself half-upright. “He is in awe of you.”

But to Ares’ surprise, Atropos smiled. It was lovely and horrid, and he hid his shudder.

Atropos brushed her sisters’ hands aside and tugged at the cloth that covered them until it fell away.

In the hall, Aphrodite began to cry. Ares could only stare.

Three voices melded into one. As three bodies melded into one. Five of six arms remained mobile. The fifth, one of Lachesis’, had grown into Atropos’ stomach. Clotho and Lachesis’ hips and legs had merged with Atropos’ and seemed to have broken, as if sucked inward, or as if pulled and knotted with string. Clotho and Lachesis were on the outside, with Atropos in the middle, and the sickness worked its way inward.

Ares looked into Atropos’ eyes, black as ink and hungry, and wondered if it didn’t work outward.

Clotho’s head jerked. Her milky eye swiveled and fixed on his face, and all at once, he knew. The Moirae were the source.

The source of their deaths. Gods died as their gods fell ill.

“What do you want?” he asked.

(THE WEAPONS OF FATE. BRING THEM. NOW)

“The weapons of fate. Achilles and that girl. Athena has them both.”

(BRING THEM)

“Easier said than done,” he said, and the Moirae pierced his mind hard in punishment. Fresh blood gushed down his chin, and a vessel in his right eye popped. Aphrodite and Hera whimpered. Oblivion whimpered, too.

“Oblivion!” Ares squinted at the wolf through the blood. It cowered on all fours. Behind it, Pain and Famine cowered as well. At the wolves’ entrance, the Moirae backed off again and tugged their silk back into place. What a relief.

“Where’s Panic?” Ares asked.

Took Panic, the black wolf answered. Your warlike sister. And the boy killer of men.

So Athena was already putting Achilles to good use. The bitch. He clenched his fists.

“They took Panic. But is Panic—?”

Alive. Yes. They torture Panic. They mean to be led here.

“Fools,” he muttered. The red wolf would never talk. Never betray him. It would hold its tongue until they lost their temper and cut it out. Until they killed it. And if she killed it, Athena would pay. She would pay already.

Reluctantly, he turned back to the Moirae. They’d listened to Oblivion and become incensed or excited, writhing like snakes beneath the silk. Clotho’s and Lachesis’ pale heads jerked back and forth.

“I’ll go,” he said. “I’ll get my wolf, and your weapons.”

(YOU CANNOT. YOU HAVE FAILED)

“I haven’t,” he said. Though he had. Twice. “I won’t. But I’m going to get my wolf.” He thought of Panic, constantly agitated. Constantly afraid. “My sister,” he said through gritted teeth, “needs a lesson on what she can and can’t touch.”

(NO. SHE HAS THEM BOTH. LET THEM COME)

“Not at the cost of my—” he said, and Hera rose and grabbed his shoulder.

“We will be ready,” she said, and hauled him out like any mother might. She stopped just short of taking him by the ear. Aphrodite and the wolves trailed them, through doors and down hallways, until the Moirae were left far behind.

“Get off me!” He shrugged loose and called the wolves to him. Athena wouldn’t get away with this. Even if the Moirae wanted her and their precious weapons for themselves. There was a price for offending the god of war. There was a price for everything. They’d just said so.

“Ares! Where are you going?” Hera hobbled after him. “Have you gone mad? You heard what they said!”

“I heard, Mother. And I saw. And I’m thinking that even they have limits now. So I’m going. Athena’s earned herself some bloodshed.”