The room was the same. A chair sat against the wall. An arch opened onto a porch. Beyond that was the garden, where a bird called from one of the trees. The fountains were silent.
Picking up the sword, Sinon stood. The screen was still pulled back from the doorway he’d been guarding. But the doorway—through it was a small room, only a few feet square, meant for storage.
The closet was just a closet. The doorway to Olympus was gone.
Sword in hand, he stalked through rooms and hallways, expecting an ambush. The place was so still, his own footsteps made him wince. He went to the garden.
The path led out past the hedge. Beyond this was an open field. Sinon could see the horizon. The path trailed away from the palace.
The sun rose and set twice more. Apart from a few bowls of fruit, jars of wine, and the odd pastry left here and there on discarded platters, there was no food. The wine pitchers were empty. The god had always summoned their meals, from where Sinon didn’t know. Some of the trees in the garden bore fruit. But Sinon would have to leave if he didn’t want to starve.
He wondered if he could starve. He still wore Apollo’s chain around his neck.
On the third day, Sinon lay on his pallet. The sun had risen to noon, and he was still trying to find the will to climb out of bed. Once he did that, he would have to find the will to leave the palace and take that path to the horizon. Facing that would mean facing that he was afraid of it. Afraid of the world that had grown older without him.
A man walked through the room, from one door to the next, without noticing Sinon lying there. Startled, Sinon took up the sword—he slept with it—and rose to follow the intruder.
The stranger was plain, with brown hair tied into a tail, of average build, but vibrant. He moved with purpose. A leather satchel hung over one shoulder, but he didn’t seem to mind the weight. He went to Apollo’s bedchamber. There, he found the god’s lyre resting in its corner, and started to put it in the bag.
“You, stop there,” Sinon said, pointing with the sword.
The man looked over his shoulder, but didn’t seem disturbed. The lyre disappeared into his bag. He then went to a table by the wall and looked in a box sitting there, where Apollo kept his golden circlet. Seeing the circlet in place, he closed the box and put it in the bag.
“I said stop!”
The man let his arms hang at his sides. “If you’re going to try to run me through, get on with it.”
The intruder was unarmed, or seemed to be. Sinon didn’t feel quite right just charging him and slashing his head off. But he’d lived among the gods long enough to know there was probably a trick to this. Apollo was testing him.
Sinon approached him slowly. “First put down the bag. Then tell me who you are.”
He didn’t put down the bag. He said, “I am Prometheus.”
Sinon stared. Whoever he was, he could have attacked Sinon then and he wouldn’t have thought to defend himself. He repeated flatly, “Prometheus.”
Prometheus, who brought fire and knowledge to humanity, who was at the heart of all the stories of creation, one of the Titans, who were older than the gods even. Wiser than the gods. His brother was earth-bearing Atlas, and yet he looked so normal.
Sinon laughed nervously. “The Prometheus of the stories isn’t a thief.”
The man grinned. “You’re wrong. The Prometheus of the stories stole fire and gave it to humankind.” Next, he went to the chest where Apollo kept his armor and weapons. From it he drew a quiver of arrows and slipped them into the bag as well.
The bag was no more full or bulging than it had been before.
Sinon couldn’t stand being treated as inconsequential, like he was harmless. Especially by someone claiming to be Prometheus, of all the outrageous lies.
Taking his sword firmly in an attacking grip, he charged the stranger. In three strides he crossed the room, moving swiftly, for all that he hadn’t done this in so long. He arced the sword low and drove up, to catch the intruder in the gut.
Then the intruder was gone. He stepped to the side faster than a blink and put his hand around Sinon’s throat. He shoved against Sinon with the force of a thunderstorm. His throat collapsed, he couldn’t breathe. Sinon’s body swung on the fulcrum of that grip, and he crashed headfirst on the floor. Bone cracked; skull crushed.
Sinon lay for a moment, blinded by stars that flashed in his vision, nauseated because he could feel the bone knitting back together, could feel his throat re-forming. He lay still, swathed in pain. Then he gasped, able to breathe through a newly healed windpipe.
He sat up slowly, dizzily. He touched the back of his head, which was slick with blood. He cursed softly. He should be dead. If only.
“What are you?” The man who claimed to be Prometheus walked a slow circle around him, a pace away. “You’re not a god or a demigod. In fact, you smell mortal. So what are you?”
Sinon was feeling better by the moment. Less broken. Grunting, he picked himself off the floor, regarding with some disgust the blood on his hand. He should have just let the man loot the Sun Palace.
“Apollo’s idea of a joke,” he said.
“You don’t look amused.”
“Do you have any idea what his sense of humor is like?”
The man chuckled. “I do. I’ve known him since he was a child.”
“You’re really Prometheus.” Of course he was, if he could stand there so calmly after tossing a man onto the floor like a sack of grain.
He bowed his head. “And you are—?”
“I—I’m Sinon of Ithaca.” How long had it been since he named himself so? The name didn’t seem to fit anymore.
“Good to meet you, Sinon of Ithaca.”
“Might I ask—what are you doing? Why are you taking his things?”
Prometheus smiled. “If you’d asked so politely in the first place, I would have told you.”
Suppressing a smile of his own, Sinon looked away. He supposed there was a lesson in that.
Prometheus said, “Let’s talk. Is there food here?”
Sinon picked a bowl of apples and figs from the garden, and the two sat on the bench by the pond where Apollo had tricked him with the nereid. As they shared the fruit, Prometheus asked him for his story, and Sinon told him, starting with the night that Troy fell and ending with Zeus asking to pass through the doorway to Olympus.
The last few days made more sense when he spoke of it aloud. He hadn’t wanted to understand before. Now, he was able to ask,
“What’s happened? What did Zeus do?”
Prometheus’s smile thinned sadly. “He destroyed Olympus.”
Sinon winced, unbelieving. Of all the wonders he had seen and heard, this was the least believable. “He what? What about Apollo?”
“Gone. They’re all gone. Zeus brought them all to Olympus—then he destroyed it. And himself.”
“I don’t believe you.” Gone. Might as well say the sun was gone. Or that twilight had come to the Sun Palace.
“You will.”
He felt tears start. He pressed his hand to his eyes to stop them. Why should he cry? Why should he mourn them, for all the grief they’d brought him? He certainly wasn’t mourning Apollo.
Prometheus was wrong. Sinon couldn’t believe him, couldn’t imagine a world without the gods. The gods were the world: the sun, the moon, the oceans, thunder and storms, life and death.
“Why would he do such a thing?” he said, trying to keep his voice from choking.
“After Troy, Zeus felt that the gods had grown too powerful. And too petty. He wanted to return fate to humanity. Let mortals decide their own destinies again.”
“But the gods have always held our destinies in their hands. The gods created men!”
“No. The gods created the stories to secure their own power over men. Now, without their awe to back them, the stories will fade. He came to me with the plan. I’ve always been the one protecting mortals from the likes of them. I thought the solution severe. But I d
idn’t argue. Troy—Troy was a debacle.”
“I know.”
Prometheus nodded. “Of course. The consequences of Troy will continue for ages, I fear. So, Zeus had his plan, and he asked me to clean up when he was finished. I’m collecting their things—the ones that are magic. Hermes’ sandals, Artemis’ arrows, Poseidon’s trident. We wouldn’t want someone to get hold of them and cause trouble.”
He nodded at Sinon’s hand. “I’ll need that sword.”
“Why?”
“It belonged to Apollo. It’s magic.”
He looked at it. It looked like a sword. It felt normal. “Magic, how?”
Prometheus shrugged. “Perhaps it’s capable of slaying an immortal.”
Sinon quashed a moment of dizziness. I could have stopped Zeus. . . . As he’d stopped Prometheus. Zeus had known his very thoughts. He couldn’t have stopped him.
He offered the weapon to Prometheus, grip first. Prometheus put the sword in the bag, with all the other treasures of the gods.
A world without the gods. He swallowed back a lump in his throat.
“Can you take this as well?” He hooked a finger on the chain around his neck.
Prometheus touched it, drew it through his hands, all the way around as he studied it. Sinon had studied it—it had no clasp, no seam.
When Prometheus shook his head, Sinon’s heart sank.
“The magic in this isn’t tied to Apollo. It’s fed by the power of your own body, your own life. It in turn preserves you. It’s a sustaining circle. As long as you live, the links cannot be broken. As long as the links remain unbroken, you will live.”
There would be no consolation at all for him.
“Before he left here, Zeus said I would be free. He was wrong.”
“I think the cruelest thing a mortal can learn is that the Father of the Gods isn’t perfect.”
He rose to take his leave, distracting Sinon from his contemplation of the pool of water. Mosquitoes darted along the surface. They never had before.
He said, “What will happen to me?”
Prometheus stopped, turned. “I don’t know. Your fate is in your own hands now. You won’t die. You can’t be killed. You’re like a god now.”
“Except that I have no power.”
“That’s why Zeus didn’t kill you, too.”
“And what about you? You have the power of a god. Will you set yourself up as the divine king now?”
“I’ve always worked against the gods. That was why Zeus trusted me.” He slung the sack over his shoulder, preparing to depart. “Thank you for the fruit.”
Sinon didn’t want to be left alone. He stood with Prometheus, put his hand out, but didn’t go so far as to touch him in his effort to stop him. “Where—where are you going? What will you do next?” As if he could innocently follow along.
“I need to find someone who can be trusted as a caretaker for a collection of magically potent artifacts. Someone immune to the forces of magic, at least a little. It would help if this person had a good head on his shoulders.”
“Odysseus,” Sinon said without thinking.
Prometheus’s eyes lit. “Ah, of course. He has a son, doesn’t he? A family to carry on as custodians when he’s gone—”
Damn, Sinon thought. Never bring your friends to the attention of the gods. “Why can’t you be the caretaker?”
“Because it needs to be someone here, and I’m not staying.”
“Why not just destroy them all?”
“And release all that power back into the world? No. It needs to be tucked away, safe and inert, to leave men in peace.”
“Don’t you think that family has had enough trouble from the gods?”
Prometheus grinned. “Families like that can’t avoid trouble from the gods. So—would you like to come with me when I travel to Ithaca?”
That was an idea. Perhaps he should try going home.
15
Robin made every indication of being able to take Evie. Somehow, he clamped her arms to her side, immobilizing her, yet could still pat her down, searching her pockets for the apple. He did more than search: he groped, stroked, tucked his hand down the waistband of her jeans, and his fingers suddenly seemed longer, reaching for her, brushing the skin of her hips.
She could barely suck breath through her nose. His grip suffocated her, but she drew as much air as she could, arced her head back, and screamed. Her throat tore with the noise that came out muffed, like distant thunder.
He moved his hand, pressed his mouth over hers, and laughed as he kissed her, swallowing her scream. “Hush, my dear, and you’ll learn what the love of an immortal is.”
She bit him.
She didn’t think she succeeded in catching anything between her teeth; she could only snap, like a dog behind a fence. Nevertheless, he hissed and drew back, only for a second, and she had just enough air left to cry out. When he leaned his forearm against her throat, pressing down, she choked against the pressure as loudly as she could, hoping that someone in the house heard.
Even though Robin was killing her, she felt a great sense of relief when a pounding started on the bedroom door, punctuated by barking from the living room. Robin looked back at the door, pointed, and something happened—the pounding faded, becoming muffled as if the door were barred now.
She turned her head to slither out from under him, writhing, trying to escape.
When the thumping against the door stopped, so did she. Too tired, too out of breath, her muscles failed. She lay half on her side, her back twisted painfully.
And Robin was still there, his mouth against her neck. “Now, where was I? Ah, I was searching for rare fruit. Let’s find out what that Greek bloke sees in you.”
When one of her characters found themselves in an impossible situation, Evie had time to think of clever ways for them to escape. Her characters were always so clever, instantly clever, without even thinking about it, because their author had the luxury of revision. Now, in an impossible situation, Evie couldn’t make her brain work to be clever. No time for revisions if she failed here.
“If you don’t have it here, I’ll just have to look for it when I’m finished,” he said. “If you had listened to me the first time we met, we could have had such a lovely time together. We could have been friends.”
She’d left her jacket hanging on the doorknob of the bedroom. If she told him it was there, maybe he’d leave her alone.
Evie and Robin flinched together as the bedroom door splintered inward. Like a cat, Robin sprang away, his back to the wall, facing the door. A second blow tore through the plywood, then a third, then Alex, gripping an axe, pushed through, murder in his eyes. He cut himself, climbing through the broken plywood of the door, and held the axe ready.
His gaze scanned the room and focused on Robin. Alex swung the axe over his head and charged. Wide-eyed, Robin backed away on tense limbs. He appeared to be terrified, but at the moment Alex brought the weapon down to strike, Robin disappeared. Alex slammed the axe into the top of an antique dresser, wedging it half into the wood.
A wisp of smoke and rush of wind whipped through the broken door, to the main part of the house.
Snarling, Alex needed several attempts, jerking back with his whole body, to rip the axe out of the dresser. He paused only a moment before storming after Robin.
“Are you all right?”
She nodded, quickly and birdlike. He leaped through the chopped-up door.
My hero, she thought vaguely before scrambling off he bed and following.
Alex stalked to the kitchen, hefting the axe and looking like something out of a horror film. Robin wasn’t there. Alex searched the room, every corner in which the imp could hide.
Near the sofa, Mab half sat, half sprawled, and barked to wake the dead. Frank was on the floor with her, arms around her body, holding her back. Some of her stitched cuts had started bleeding again. His arms were shaking. The only reason Mab didn’t break free was because the dog was weak
as well.
And there Robin appeared, behind Alex, holding a butcher knife from the Walkers’ own supply.
“Alex!” Evie screamed, too late.
Expertly, Robin drove the blade up, through the soft part of Alex’s lower back, under the ribs, through the vital organs. Alex arched his back and growled; Robin twisted the blade.
Alex wrenched away and stumbled back. Evie’s heart ached. She wanted to run to him, like the heroine in a bodice ripper. For a moment, she forgot what he was. It was easy to forget.
Never taking his eyes off Robin, Alex reached back and pulled out the knife. He swept the axe around one-handed, hacking at Robin. Robin jumped, writhed in midair—inhumanly, like he was made of smoke, defying gravity—and disappeared again, and Alex cut through nothing.
Blood covered the back of his shirt, bright red against the white fabric. His hand was red with it. Still, his face creased with intensity, he searched for Robin.
“Not entirely mortal, are you?” said Robin’s voice, disembodied. It had no focus, but diffused through the whole room, without source. “Let’s see how mortal you are.”
Alex stood his ground, waiting for Robin to show himself. He seemed calm, like a soldier waiting for battle, the faintest smile on his lips.
Abruptly, he fell back, flinging out his arms for balance. His knees buckled, as if something had struck them from behind. Robin appeared, light flashing into form, a reflection taking shape. He crouched on Alex’s chest and punched him, knocking his head back. Alex grappled for the axe, which had dropped a few feet away. Robin looked like a slender young man, almost a boy, but he had supernatural strength. Alex couldn’t upset him from his perch.
Taking careful steps, desperate not to attract attention, Evie stepped to the kitchen. She skirted along the wall until her feet left the hardwood and touched tile. She had to find a weapon, preferably one that required minimal skill.
Alex managed to unbalance Robin, twisting violently and slipping out from under him. There was a crack, like a bone breaking or a shoulder popping out of joint. It had to have come from Alex, but he didn’t look like he was in pain.
Robin was too fast. Before Alex could find the axe or establish his position, Robin was on him again, legs wrapped around his middle. He laughed, pulling Alex’s hair while Alex reached, futilely clutching at him. Next Robin grabbed the chain around Alex’s neck. He twisted it, tightening it until it pinched deep into Alex’s skin, cutting off blood and air. Alex’s face flushed, turning darker and darker red, and it seemed as if Robin could pull the chain clean through his neck, decapitating him.
Discord's Apple Page 23
