by Cassie Day
She clears her throat, eyes damp.
“And now?” I ask. “Have you found what you seek?”
She bumps my shoulder once before pulling away. Striding far ahead, she pivots and walks backward. We face each other again.
Her smile is sad but real. “I’m beginning to.”
She turns. I rush to catch up until we are side by side, heads bent low to recount stories of our childhood beneath the Akri Sea. Our kind Aunt, her never-ending tales of heroes and creatures alike. The twins and their antics with a nearby pod of whales, no doubt continuing right now. The blessedly warm sun shining through the waves during each summer.
My front bumps into a wall. I stumble to a stop with a grunt. Two hands, one on each of my shoulders, brace me from stumbling sideways.
I back away and look up, coming within the barest of spaces from grazing Charon’s nose with my own.
“Good afternoon,” I mumble.
Or begin to say. It turns into a choked grunt by him grabbing first me, then Desma, by one arm each. He pulls us to the side, close to a long scarlet tapestry, and shoves it aside to reveal an arched alcove. He tugs us both in. The curtain falls back into place. Sunlight streams through the thin silk, painting the space a rich red.
“You’re snooping,” he says with a hiss. His tongue flicks outward as that of a snake: sleek and forked at the end. He drops Desma’s arm but not mine.
Both of us open our mouths, ready to refute his words. But his scowling stare has both of us snapping our mouths closed.
“Do you realize the danger of doing such a thing?” he asks.
I shrug, gaze fixed on a slant of light above his head.
“Someone less forgiving could catch you,” he says. His grip tightens on my arm but never comes close to toeing the line of pain.
Desma’s cleared throat startles both of us. “I’ll stand guard.”
She’s gone through the tapestry before I can stop her from leaving me alone with Charon, his scowl closer to anger than I’ve ever seen.
I swallow around a dry throat. Think of all the gods and goddesses I passed who didn’t question what we were doing. What if one asked? What if I answered wrong? Would I be brought to Zeus or killed outright?
“We have a reason.” At his look, I continue. “A good one.”
His eyes soften. His scowl, so fierce moments earlier, is replaced by the steady blankness I’m accustomed to. His hand against my arm loosens until it’s caressing more than holding.
I glance at it, at his human nails and ripped cuticles, and know I trust this man. “Nyx passed on a clue.”
The muscles on his forearms flex and shift beneath his sooty skin.
“There’s something hidden here,” I say, gazing at him through my lashes. The curtain light paints red highlights in his hair.
The alcove becomes otherworldly. Somewhere separate and safe from the rest of the Olympian Palace. “There’s something behind a door empty of carvings, something I can use as leverage in my bargain with Zeus.”
His hand squeezes my arm once, twice, then falls to his side. “I understand,” he says. “But please be careful.”
I sigh. My breath lifts his hair from his forehead. Have we been standing so close this whole time? “I will, don’t worry.”
“I’ll worry regardless.”
Blinding sunshine sears through the alcove. I squint against the light. Desma waits, cheeks flushed. Her hands shake against the silk tapestry she’s pulled to one side.
Charon hisses again. The noise is more beast than man this time.
“There’s guards at the end of the hall,” she says. “They’re walking away. We must hurry to follow.”
“Why?” I ask.
She jumps in place. “Think: what do guards do?”
I shrug. “Guard people and things?”
“Valuable people and things. The sort Zeus wouldn’t want anyone to find.”
My stomach leaps. I shove her back into the hall with trembling hands, then follow on clumsy feet. “They didn’t notice you?”
She grins. “No. But hurry before we lose them!”
She points to the guards. They’re obvious in their differences from the gods. Hardened leather coated with metal plating set over short tunics. Their spear ends clanking against the floor with each step.
Each wears a helmet obscuring most of their face. Helmets acting as blinders from seeing us standing against the wall.
They turn the corner as a controlled unit. Desma rushes to follow, her footsteps quiet against the floor. I trail in her wake. Halfway through the hall my heart races, thudding so loudly in my chest I’m sure the guards can hear.
“Agathe,” Charon murmurs.
I stumble, sandal scuffing against the floor, and wince at the resulting noise.
Desma huffs, hugging the corner where the guards turned, and sends me a look screaming hurry.
I turn. Beams of sun dabble his skin. There’s nothing beastly about him now. My heart aches. Surely when we leave, he’ll feel free to be himself again.
His eyes are molten, soft, intense when he speaks. A smile twists the corners of his mouth. “Be careful.”
I nod. My body is capable of nothing else. I’m frozen beneath the weight of his stare.
Nails dig into my arm. Desma, her grip harsh. I pivot, shaking her hand off, and begin walking. I stop myself from looking back when we turn the corner.
The guards stride to a door at the end of this new hall. Then stop and twist to face outward. Their spears hit the floor with a thunk.
The wall is cold at my back. Dips of a recessed doorway slide against my shoulder. Our footsteps are soft yet fear shivers down my spine.
If they glance to the side just once, they’ll spot us.
What will they do?
What will we do?
Fabric swirls when someone else pops around the corner at the end of the hall. I stifle a curse, pulling Desma behind me and pushing us both into the recessed doorway. We’re crammed tight against the stone door.
“It’s Hera.” Desma leans her chin against my shoulder, peering over.
I push at her head. Her hair is brittle and dry beneath my hand.
Hera steps closer. Closer still. I suck in a breath and hold it. Dots dance in my vision.
She stops. One moment. Then two. I keep count, mind-speak stretched out to Desma. Only when I’ve counted two full minutes do we dare lean forward. Peeking around the doorway, I can’t find her. Not at first.
Her fair hair shines in a ray of dusk sun. She’s bent near a door away from the guards. A door blank of anything. I gasp, twisting around as much as I’m able. The door behind us? It’s empty too.
Hera grunts. “You could help me, you know.”
Desma startles, pressing into my back. I lock my knees and grit my teeth, trying not to stumble.
“Not us,” I say in mind-speak.
The guards shuffle in place.
Hera sighs. She pulls a gilded pin from her curled up-do. Tries to wedge it between the door and its frame. Fails, the sharp point screeching against the stone. Still the guards don’t budge.
We can’t move, stuck in a doorway with our backs against the stone. So long as Hera’s in this hall, we can’t do anything. I watch the sky turning to inky night outside a nearby window. How are there windows in each hall? Work of some obscure god, probably.
I shake my head. Not now. I need to focus.
I tap the jeweled necklace against my neck once. “Nyx.”
Hera stills.
Pressing harder against our doorway, I hold back a hiss. Desma’s hands turn bruising on my arms.
A tendril of night seeps through a window. I breathe. My vision clears of darkness. Thank gods she’s arrived so soon.
I will always hear. Her words from my time in Nekros. I shiver despite Desma’s warmth at my back.
The tendril shifts to a loose ball. It floats along the hall, stopping next to Hera, and bobs in an odd dance. Hera sees it right away,
popping upright. She stretches to grab it but Nyx moves it out of reach, trailing the ball toward the end of the hall.
Hera rushes to follow. “Are you here to help?”
The ball bobs once. A nod.
She picks up her heavy skirts and gives chase. Down the hall, around the corner, until the swish of her dress is gone.
Desma gusts a sigh of relief. “What now?”
The guards shuffle. They don’t turn.
“Now we sing.”
Even as I say so, I weave a song through my voice. Desma joins in an undercurrent; a low hum. My voice rises in a swell of song, wordless but striking.
Their threads are dull, almost lifeless. I coax them one by one. Pluck them until they turn molten gold.
“Open each door,” I sing.
One by one, they break formation. Each stops in front of a single door. The amount of guards match the amount of doors: a perfect dozen. With a clank of their spear ends, each door opens at their command. No handles, no hinges; the doors slide into the wall itself, gone before I see how.
Desma searches the left side. I search the right. Empty. A room of crowns. Empty. Empty. A room of jewels. Empty.
Nothing. Not one bit of leverage unless I’m meant to threaten him with his own treasure.
“Agathe,” Desma says, voice shrill. The guard at her door startles.
I sprint across the hall, stopping in front of the open doorway. Inside is a bed covered in silk sheets all piled into an odd nest at the center. A small table with a silver tray empty of anything but crumbs. This room is lived in. Lived in and guarded.
Desma walks inside. I rush to follow.
“Who are you?” says a lilting voice.
A person more fabric than woman steps into my line of sight. Her dress doesn’t simply engulf her; the shade of peach flows from skin to fabric near seamlessly. If not for where the fabric pools, I would think her all loose skin.
Twin gold pins hold her dress at the shoulders. A matching belt in the shape of leaves cinches at her waist. She blinks at us with deep brown eyes bearing no wrinkles at the corners yet I know instantly she’s older than she appears.
“Has Hera sent you?” She evaluates us from head to foot before raising her thin brows. “You’re a bit young for assassins.”
“Assassins?” I ask, unfamiliar with the word.
I step farther into the room, catching a hint of dust and spice.
“Yes,” she says. Claps her hands together. Her narrow face lights up in excitement. “She sent you to kill me! There’s no use, not with Zeus’ immortality clinging to me still, but I suppose you’ll try regardless.”
Assassins. Someone sent to kill her.
Why would Hera wish this woman dead?
My chest tightens around my racing heart. If Hera wishes this woman dead and if she’s guarded by a legion of guards...she’s important.
Important enough to use in my bargain with Zeus.
She pushes herself upright. When she stands, her feet are bare, wholly at odds with her elaborate dress. She turns toward a table in the corner of the cavernous room, baring the uncovered skin of her back.
I startle. Desma sucks in a sharp breath.
There should be bare, smooth skin on her shoulder blades. Instead, raised scars slice through otherwise flawless skin. They shine in the moonlight fading in and out through a single small window.
A window barred with metal, the spaces too small to fit more than a hand.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
She snorts, picking at the crumbs on the tray. “Hera sent assassins who know nothing of me? I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.” She pauses. “I’m Molpe.”
“Cousin, the stories,” Desma says. She grabs my hand tight. “You’re one of us.”
One of us? I think of the stories passed through our generations. The gods, the goddesses, none with the name Molpe.
The original sirens. Thelxiope, our ancestor. Her sisters, Aglaope and Molpe.
Molpe.
A gasp escapes me unbidden.
“Excuse me?” Molpe says, turning to face us with furrowed brows.
“A siren,” I croak.
Her face clears. She watches us for one beat. Two.
The silence weighs on my shoulders. This is Nyx’s clue? One of the original sirens hidden away in Olympus? I glance again at the barred window. Remember her scarred back free of wings.
Not hidden.
A prisoner.
Chapter 23
HER STARE FLICKERS from Desma’s hair to my face. She staggers, leaning against the table.
“Thelxiope’s descendants.” She takes a shaking breath. “I didn’t dare hope for her to live on after being cast into the sea.”
We’re a reminder of the sister she lost.
My mind returns to my sister Eudora’s lifeless face. If she lived only to die after we grew close, this could be me. My heart sits heavy in my chest. I cross my arms against a chill.
Molpe laughs. She covers her mouth with a trembling hand. Her tears end but the tracks remain on her cheeks.
“You’re still alive,” Desma says, voice awed.
Molpe nods, chin quaking. “I remain immortal at Zeus’ order.”
My brows scrunch together. “Why?”
Something dark and ugly flashes across her expression. “I was given a choice: the Akri Sea or Zeus’ lust. I chose wrong.”
Two centuries have passed since their fall. Centuries she’s endured Zeus’ advances.
“He forces you?” I choke out.
Her answering nod is tiny, the barest movement of her chin, but it echoes through my mind in a torrent. Stomach turning, I swallow vomit building in the back of my throat, the taste acidic on my tongue. My skin heats. Hatred twists through my heart.
Hera’s desperation in the hall minutes ago—she hasn’t discovered Molpe yet. If she did? She’d do anything to hide another of Zeus’ affairs.
“Leave,” I say. My voice has a flat undercurrent. Not a siren song but the rage building in my chest. “Use your song and leave.”
Her smile quakes. “He ripped away my song.”
Pressing a shaking hand to my forehead, I breathe through the pounding in my head. I want to scream. Want to open my mouth and sing a song promising revenge.
Desma’s cool hand against my forearm brings me back. I gasp a breath, leaning against her. She sways but doesn’t budge. Affection surges. It’s enough to abate the hatred. For now.
Molpe sighs. She wipes her face, clearing her expression along with tear tracks. Her face is lovely once more when she’s finished. “You must leave. Zeus could arrive at any time.”
I nod even as my throat closes at leaving her behind. We must leave. To stay and risk discovery is risking Zeus’ anger. His accusations of treason and our heads rolling across the throne room floor.
Desma pulls me until the door presses into our backs. It slides open soundlessly, cool air gusting against my skin. I keep my stare trained on the floor. Anything to avoid Molpe’s gaze.
We could sing our way out of the palace or call on Nyx for help. We could grab Molpe and run. But the gods would find us. Our songs and Nyx’s abilities are no match for god-king Zeus and his legion of children.
We are creatures lost to history. Creatures slain by gods and their whims. The power we have is what they gave us but nothing more.
“Return tomorrow,” Molpe says.
The guards face forward, oblivious to anything. Our song worked well on their malleable minds. Tomorrow we may not have to sing at all if the song persuades them so completely.
“Of course,” I say.
Desma echoes my words. The door closes behind us with a clack of stone on stone. The guards stand impassive. We turn a corner, leaving them behind.
She tugs me through the hallways toward our room. She blinks rapidly, dampness collecting at the corners of her eyes. She’s upset no matter how she tries to hide it behind crumbling walls.
Zeus could roam on hi
s way to Molpe. I shiver. At being caught by him or Molpe left alone with him, I can’t decide. The palace passes in a blur of white stone.
Desma shoves me into our room. She’s careful to close the door gently behind us.
I sit on my bed, insides scoured out. I found an edge for my bargain. I can use Molpe and her affair with Zeus. A piece of leverage to lure him with. He’ll accept my terms before I reveal names. Before I reveal information to invoke Hera’s wrath.
But there’s a risk. Isn’t there always?
Hera could put the pieces together without me saying much. She could use all of her wrath, power, and influence on Molpe. Zeus would stand aside, forgoing Molpe’s immortality if it meant appeasing his wife. Molpe would die, quietly executed. Forgotten.
Anyone could discover what we’ve done, who we’ve found, with a simple questioning of the guards.
I have to make a decision. Fast, before the sickness eats us from the inside out. Before we’re husks even Thanatos can’t save.
Desma settles beside me and sighs. I hold my trembling hand between us. She grabs it without hesitation. We grip each other tight. The moon hides behind a cloud, casting our room in shadow. A dark thought casts my mind in deeper shadows still.
“We can’t save her,” I say. “Zeus would chase us to the ends of the realm if we stole her away.”
“I know.” Her hold on my hand goes slack.
“And we are mortal, besides. We could hide her for our lifetimes but then what would become of her?”
“I know.”
“And all of that assumes we could sneak her from the palace to begin with. We know nothing about Athansi except those loyal to the gods live within its walls. And those who aren’t? They’ll be exiled or punished if they help us.”
Charon forever chained to his boat or a slab deep within Tartarus. Hermes trapped in a low chamber, unable to fly. Persephone trapped in the Olympian court, separated from Hades for all eternity. And Desma, captured and used by Zeus.
“Agathe.”
“We can do nothing for her.” My voice is loud, keening. Not my own.
For the first time I can recall, I’m ashamed. Of my voice, of the inherent wrongness festering within my soul, of how my first thought is to use instead of save.
