Goddess

by Josephine Angelini

  Helen sighed and dropped her head in defeat and then reached down to scoop up her daughter. “I’ll be back with more food in a few days.”

  The two women embraced, cautiously at first as if they were still at odds, and then with true tenderness before Helen and Atlanta assumed their disguises and left the enemy camp.

  Helen woke up with a thick tress of Ariadne’s hair in her mouth. She spat it out and mentally apologized for drooling all over it before rolling over. She rolled over onto something that squeaked. It turned out to be Andy, who batted at her and made protesting sounds in her sleep. Wishing Noel would get even just one more mattress for the girls to sleep on, Helen scooted down to the end of the bed and crawled out as quietly as she could without crushing anyone.

  Helen hugged herself as she left the room, trying to shake off the memory. That one had seemed closer to her than the others had, like she was more than just a spectator this time. In fact, halfway through it had started to feel like it was Helen of Nantucket, and not Helen of Troy, who was in that tent. She could still feel the warm, squirmy weight of her little girl (correction—Helen of Troy’s little girl) in her arms, so of course she ran into Lucas in the hallway. She ached to hold one of them, either the little girl or the little girl’s father, so desperately she actually groaned.

  “I thought you’d gone home,” Lucas said after a pause.

  “Haven’t been there in days,” Helen said, staring at him greedily. “I figure, why bother when everyone is here?”

  “And more on the way,” he said, suddenly frowning.

  Helen nodded. “The meeting of the Houses. Did you call—”

  “Orion? Yeah,” Lucas said, finishing her sentence. “He’s waiting for us in the library.”

  “What time is it?” Helen asked, and peered blinkingly at the slanted light coming in a nearby window.

  “Past two.” He chuckled at the shocked look on Helen’s face. “Meet us downstairs?” he said as he passed by her and made his way to the staircase. “We need to make plans.”

  “I just need a minute,” Helen said, gesturing to her rumpled clothes and ratty hair.

  “Take your time,” Lucas said. As he walked by on his way down the hall, he bent close to her, running his hand up her arm. His large hand swallowed every curve of her slender muscles, cupping them one by one in the palm of his hand and leaving a trail of goose bumps behind. His skin was so hot on hers, she shivered when his warmth was removed, which it was, far too quickly.

  Helen peeked in on her father first. Jerry still slept deeply, but even standing over him she could hear his heart beating strong and steady. He looked like he was in another world, a peaceful one that he was reluctant to leave. Helen didn’t know if it worked like this or not, but she hoped that if Jerry were merely sleeping, that Morpheus was watching over him.

  Helen ran to the bathroom, conniving to beat Ariadne and Andy to the shower before they got out of bed. She darted in before they’d even started scratching and shut the door behind her with a satisfied smile.

  Helen turned on the tap and started pulling off her clothes, the memory of Lucas’s hand on her arm still burning bright. She showered quickly. While she toweled off, another chance encounter in another dark hallway, centuries ago, billowed up in Helen’s mind like the steam rising off the white tile.

  Lancelot had been away from Camelot for many months.

  The Barbarians—big, blond invaders from a land of ice—had kept the Knights of the Round Table busy. Guinevere’s father had fought the Barbarians his entire life, as her father’s father had fought before him. Now, with the marriage between Guinevere and Arthur finalized, the dragon and wolf worshippers from the world of snow were Arthur’s problem and, therefore, the problem of every knight sworn to him in Briton. If Guinevere’s island home was to survive, the Barbarian invasion must be stopped, or every Briton-born would be slaughtered before the year was done.

  Arthur was not prepared for the Berserkers. His men were orderly soldiers, trained in the Roman fashion of warfare. They were not used to the drug-induced trances that the Barbarians employed to send their rabid hordes screaming down on men, woman, and children. The horrors they saw during these barbaric hit-and-run raids were taking a toll on all of Arthur’s men. The knights were outnumbered, and an all-out war was brewing.

  Arthur was still on campaign in the north, trying to find a solution. Lancelot had returned to Camelot two days ago, but Guinevere had not seen him yet. He was avoiding being alone with her, and she suspected it was not just because Arthur was her husband, as they both knew far too well. There was something deeper there, hindering him. Something terrible had happened to him. Guinevere could see it in Lancelot’s eyes—they burned like two freshly blown-out candles. The color was still fierce, but all the heat was gone.

  Guinevere knew she had to talk to Lancelot, set his feet right again, or he would spin away from both his duty and family. It was up to her to fix him, even if it broke her heart to be near him, to see the wounded look on his face as he imagined Arthur in her bed.

  “Lancelot,” Guinevere called, touching his elbow in the dark hallway. She coaxed him gently to turn around and face her. “Please. Talk to me.”

  “Gwen,” he breathed softly, pulling her closer to him. There was a lost look in his eyes, like a little boy. He tugged on her hand, and she followed without a word or thought of protest.

  Lancelot led her away from the main walkway and down a turret alcove that overlooked the dark moors surrounding Camelot. Moonlight streamed into the cross-like shape of the arrow slit, giving enough light so she could see the heavy look of lust weighing down his eyelids. Guinevere’s lips parted with a dozen unsaid words as she stared into his eyes. Lancelot’s hips shifted closer to hers for one tense moment, and then he pulled himself away, releasing her entirely.

  “You shouldn’t have come to me tonight.”

  “But you brought me no word from my homeland in the Summer Country,” she replied, smiling up into his bright eyes as she closed the distance between them. “You told me you’d sit with my father and bring back a token of his remembrance of me.”

  Lancelot’s face went pale, his eyes widening with pity, and Guinevere knew.

  “It can’t be,” she said, her voice suddenly high and girlish.

  Her father was dead. That cantankerous, crafty, and surprisingly hilarious giant of a man couldn’t be dead. He was too stubborn to die. But Guinevere saw the truth written all over Lancelot’s face. The leader of her clan, her father, was dead.

  Sorrow swept over her. She lost control for a moment, and the room crackled with the white-blue light of her witch-fire.

  “I married Arthur so my father and our clan would be safe from the Barbarians.” She sobbed disbelievingly. “All this,” she said, gesturing with disgust to the jewels and the rich gown she wore now instead of humble homespun, “was to protect my father and my clan.”

  “I know,” Lancelot said, striding forward to take Guinevere’s hands. He jumped back involuntarily as her witch-fire coursed through him, but he schooled his pain and didn’t let her go. “Gwen,” he pleaded, gasping for breath. “It’s not Arthur’s fault. We fought and lost. I lost. Arthur wasn’t even there.”

  The room went dark as Guinevere got control over herself, and the white-blue fire extinguished.

  “But I married Arthur instead of you to save my clan,” she said. Her voice was shaky and reduced to a whisper. “I gave you up for my clan’s protection.”

  “And your clan is gone now.” Lancelot’s eyes darkened. “But not because of Arthur. Because of me.”

  Lancelot sat down on the floor of the turret in a heap and raked his hand through his hair. He told his story quickly and quietly, trying to keep his voice steady.

  The Summer Country had flooded, as it always did in the ebb and flow of the yearly tides. The roads were impassable, and a battle unthinkable in the bog-like terrain. With the women and children safe in their flooded homeland, most of the m
en had all left to join Arthur’s campaign against the Barbarians up north, as they always did at this time of year.

  Lancelot had stayed behind to learn how the women grew all kinds of crops in the water instead of in soil, and Arthur agreed that knowledge of that technique could be useful at Camelot.

  Lancelot was in the water fields with the women when he saw the dragon-crested ships sail right into the flood plains.

  “I stayed with the women in the fields instead of going to your father,” Lancelot rasped. “When I couldn’t fight anymore, I stole a ship and sent as many women and children as I could gather away from the slaughter. Your father was . . . He was killed.”

  Guinevere knew he had been about to say tortured. It didn’t matter how Lancelot tried to soften the blow for her. The damage was done. She’d allowed herself to be offered up in marriage to a man she didn’t love because she’d believed that by doing so, she could save her clan. But it hadn’t worked. Her father was dead, and her people was scattered. She’d married a man she didn’t love for nothing.

  “Thank you for saving what part of my clan you could,” she whispered. “I owe you my life for that. Again.”

  Lancelot looked at her with such open need and desperation that she reached out, cupping his face in her hands. “It’s my fault,” he said, his face hot.

  “No. I don’t blame you for the lives lost. I bless you for the lives you saved,” she said tenderly, meaning every word and hoping he believed her enough to forgive himself.

  “Gwen,” he breathed, and wound his arms around her tightly, his whole body pushing against hers in a wave of need.

  He pressed his mouth against hers, startling her. For all the whispered words and longing looks, he had never dared touch her. This was their first kiss—the first time they had crossed this line. Guinevere knew that Lancelot would suffer more for betraying Arthur, his cousin, king, and closest friend, more than she would because Lancelot loved Arthur, and she didn’t. Guinevere pushed against his shoulders for a moment, trying to spare him the guilt she knew he’d feel, before giving in to the swell of desperation she felt rising up in Lancelot.

  His hands dug into her hair, sending her hairpins flying and her tresses tumbling down around his calloused fingers in messy locks. His lips nudged hers apart. Guinevere fell back against the flagstones and pulled Lancelot down on top of her. He slid his knee between her thighs, pushing her many-layered skirts up until his hand could reach the bare skin underneath. He ripped her under-shift off, and she cried out as the silken ties burned across her skin. Lancelot stilled and eased back.

  “Am I hurting you?” he asked, his voice breaking and his eyes vulnerable.

  “The only time you ever hurt me is when you leave me,” she replied, wrapping herself around him. “Don’t ever leave me again.”

  Her heart still pounding away, Helen quickly dried her hair and half ran to the library to escape the borrowed memory before it got any more graphic. She stopped at the door and fanned the hot flush on her cheeks, reminding herself that in her memory Guinevere was betraying her husband, so she shouldn’t have enjoyed it so much, and in this life, she and Lucas were cousins so she had no business dredging up those old memories to begin with.

  She could hear Lucas’s deep voice through the library door, and after such a vivid flashback, even that was enough to make her giddy. She recalled Lancelot taking her to his rooms, untying the laces on her dress, and . . . other things. She blushed furiously.

  Stop being such a giant, throbbing hormone and get in there, she chided herself, shaking out her hands. It’s not like everyone will know what you were just thinking about.

  She pushed open the door and saw Orion immediately glance down at her chest, look back up at her, and raise an eyebrow as a knowing smile spread across his face. Except maybe Orion, she thought, wishing she could drop dead on the spot.

  The men rose to greet Helen, but Cassandra stayed in the giant leather chair that dwarfed her fragile body. Helen bowed to the Oracle respectfully and noticed that Cassandra had her iPad on her lap.

  “What’s up?” Helen asked, ignoring the jolt of warmth she felt when she sat down in the only vacant spot—next to Lucas, of course.

  “Another attack,” Cassandra replied gravely, handing Helen the iPad.

  “A tsunami in Turkey,” Orion said. Helen scrolled through the pictures of flooded land.

  “But why here?” she said, looking at the area in Turkey that had been hit. “This isn’t a major city.”

  “Not anymore,” Lucas said. “But thirty-three hundred years ago, Troy was there.”

  “That’s some grudge,” Helen whispered, closing the iPad.

  “The gods are getting bolder.” Cassandra sat back in her giant chair, her brow drawn with worry. “The Scions can’t waste any more time. We have to unite.”

  “And to do that, we need to figure out how we’re going to deal with this meeting of the Houses,” Hector said, taking the lead. “The three of you are all Heirs, so you’ll be standing behind your House Heads. Except for Orion, of course, who is the Head of the House of Rome. I guess you’ll have your second in the House standing behind you.”

  “No way in hell I’m standing with Phaon at my back,” Orion said with a grimace. He saw the questioning looks on Lucas’s and Hector’s faces and knew he had to explain. “Phaon and his elder brother, Corvus, disputed my succession when I was little.”

  “Wait. Corvus?” Lucas asked, leaning forward. “My father killed Corvus before any of us were born.”

  “No. Castor thought he killed Corvus. But he survived,” Orion said. His voice dropped. “Believe me, I wish it were otherwise.”

  “Orion. You don’t have to explain,” Helen said, trying to spare him.

  “It’s okay, Helen. I’d have to tell them about my scars eventually, anyway,” he said, giving her a sad little smile. “My mom’s cousin Corvus officially challenged me when I was eleven. I won.”

  “In the Colosseum?” Hector asked. Orion nodded. “Wow. Is it true that if members from the House of Rome kill each other in the Colosseum, they don’t become Outcasts?”

  “It’s true. Romans have spilled so much blood into the sands of the Colosseum that the Furies lost track of the blood debts. It’s a cursed place,” Orion said in a subdued voice. Hector’s eyes gleamed enviously like he would give anything to fight in the Colosseum, but the haunted look on Orion’s face kept him from voicing that desire. “When I killed Corvus, Phaon lost his only ally—the man who’d raised him like a son. Phaon’d put a knife in my back as soon as look at me. I’ll never stand with him.”

  “Well. That’s something to consider,” Lucas said quietly, and a heavy silence followed.

  Helen could see Hector’s heart swell for his friend. Out of all of them, Hector could relate to Orion the most. It was strange for Helen to think about, but both of them were killers. A bright flash from Cassandra’s direction caught Helen’s eye. The silvery orb that hung in her chest rippled like moonlight reflecting off a dark pond.

  “And you’re not to go anywhere near Phaon,” Orion said suddenly, following Helen’s eyes and pointing at Cassandra. His tone was uncharacteristically rough. “If he tries to get you alone, you come straight to me. Understand?”

  Cassandra nodded cautiously, puzzled by his angry look.

  “Why?” Lucas asked.

  Orion’s lips twisted into a bitter scowl, like there was a vile taste in his mouth. He shook his head, like he was shaking off Lucas’s question.

  “Why?” Lucas repeated, undeterred.

  “He’s a monster.” Orion looked away, his volume dropping. “He only goes for little girls.”

  Cassandra looked away and frowned, the light inside her chest dimming. “I’m not a little girl,” she said quietly, but no one responded.

  “Are you sure about that?” Hector asked Orion seriously.

  Orion nodded. “My father’s little sister.” He didn’t elaborate. “Trust me, Cassandra’s his type
. Some family I got, huh?”

  “They’re not your family,” Lucas said sharply. He tipped his chin at Helen and Hector and Cassandra, including everyone before looking back at Orion levelly. “We’re your family. You stand with us.”

  “We are blood brothers,” Helen said, reminding him.

  “If it makes you feel any better, I’ll be watching for a knife in the back, too,” Hector said, his face falling. “Tantalus will be there. Who knows what he’ll do when he sees me?” He looked over at Lucas, and the two of them shared a sad smile. “Some family we got, huh?”

  “I think the five of us have to stand together no matter what,” Helen said before Hector could get any more upset. She bit her lip, finding a snag. “Except Cassandra is supposed to be neutral, right? She’s the Oracle and she outranks us all, so she’ll be the only one seated.”

  “Right,” Hector said with a quick nod. “When the Houses meet, she is considered above all bloodlines and sits alone.”

  Helen looked over at Cassandra, so tiny in that big chair. She was always alone.

  “Are you guys okay with this?” Helen asked sheepishly.

  “It’s never worked like that before,” Hector said slowly. A moment later he looked around smiling, his decision made. “If we stand together it’ll be like we’re our own House—the Scion Heirs or something. I’m willing to do it, but I think our parents will be pissed.”

  “So what?” Lucas said, his eyes gleaming dangerously. “We’re not doing things the way they did them. I say we stand together.”

  “I agree,” Orion said with a definite nod. “But only if Helen’s our leader.”

  Helen burst our laughing. “Are you serious?” She looked around, and saw that everyone was nodding in agreement. “Wait. Back up. I can’t be the leader.”

  “Yes you can,” Hector said, nodding his head. “In fact, you have to be the leader.”

  “So when did all of you start eating bowls of crazy for breakfast?” Helen asked, her patience growing thin. She didn’t even like to win track races—she sure as hell didn’t want to be the leader of the Scion Heirs. “I’m the worst choice. Hector . . .”