by Cassie Day
The back is impossibly worse when I pull it back around for a better look. An empty space where my middle to low back would rest, fabric only at the shoulder straps. The dress would cover my bottom, if barely.
“No.” I fling it away. It falls onto the bed in a pile of too-tight silk. “Just no.”
Charon huffs, his smile turning almost boyish. “But it’s a gift.”
Frowning, I check the box for a note. A slip of paper with a swooping A and nothing else falls out. “Ares? Apollo? Athena?”
He laughs, squinting at the dress. “Aphrodite. It’s her style.”
“Oh, so you’ve noticed her style?” I ask, brow raised.
He shrugs. “Enough to know backless and frontless could only be created at her request. Who else would think of such a thing?”
He has a point. Ares would likely send me a weapon. Apollo some sort of musical instrument. And Athena? Who knows.
Charon passes over a smaller box, something heavy weighing it down. “Next one.”
This one contains a bracelet of glimmering silver set with faceted opal. The opals shine pure white, pink, or fluorescent green depending how I twist the bracelet around my wrist.
The note reads: At my wife’s request for a ‘lovely’ mortal - Hephaestus.
Hephaestus, god of the forge and a mostly forgotten son of Hera and Zeus.
Aunt found a deep sort of sorrow in telling his tale: of how Hera saw her imperfect son with his one shriveled foot and cast him to the outer region of Athansi. Aunt’s grin would begin with his return to the court and end with his tricks against Hera, the mother who hurt him so.
Yet the stories recount Aphrodite’s many affairs, one of them with the god of war Ares. From what I’ve seen, he lusts after her but the feeling isn’t mutual.
I turn to Charon. “Are Aphrodite and Ares—?”
His smile grows. “He wishes so, but no. People create their own stories through the years, one of them about Aphrodite’s supposed faithlessness to her husband, but they forget she is the goddess of love. When she loves, it is deep and true, and she loves Hephaestus.”
People creating stories, not telling the truth. The sort of treason Cosmas was executed for. But why Cosmas? Why not the countless others in the realm?
But I already know why. He was my friend, my father, and Hera’s rage knew no bounds when Zeus’ attention swung my way.
“Next one,” Charon says, voice bright with happiness.
I open it enough to glimpse sloshing liquor. Dionysus, no note needed. Throwing it on the bed to rest against the dress, I run a hand through my loose hair.
“Can I ask you something?”
With a frown, he nods.
“Why am I receiving gifts? A man was executed. I chose for him to be executed.” I gesture at the remaining stack of boxes. “It was wrong. I was wrong. So why do they send me gifts?”
His mouth purses to one side, then the other. “They’re grateful.”
I toss my hands up and barely miss clipping his nose when he moves closer. Frustrated tears build in my eyes. “For what? I killed someone!”
He cradles my hands in his, forcing them still. “You were given an impossible choice. There was no wrong or right, Agathe. But still, you saved a child from slaughter. The gods can be cruel, true, but some are not so bad.”
“Not so bad.” I lean my head against his shoulder, eyes closing against the memory of Cosmas’ blood against the stark marble. “They did nothing.”
“They are only able to do nothing.” He strokes my hair in long sweeps. “Zeus controls all of them. His whims are law as god-king. A single command could have any one of them thrown from the Olympian court, exiled from the palace and Athansi for all of time.”
“You’ve been in Nekros all this time.” I blink slowly beneath the warm weight of his hand on my head. “How do you know so much?”
“Hermes is a gossip,” he says with a chuckle I feel more than hear. “Besides, there’s much to observe when everyone forgets you’re there.”
“Not everyone.”
He strokes my head once more before pushing me back with a hand on each of my shoulders. Catching my gaze, he leans close enough for our foreheads to touch. “I know.”
“What’s all this?” Desma asks from the doorway.
We jump apart. Charon stumbles into the table still set with breakfast. I trip back, falling onto my bed. With a sigh, I prop myself upright and glare at Desma. She returns my glare with a knowing edge.
Though her looks only become more pointed throughout the day, long after Charon leaves, I can’t help but think of how close he stood. Close enough for our lips to brush if I tilted any closer. Sliding my fingers across my lips, I try to imagine a kiss from my ferryman. Would it be soft? Passionate? Warm? Tender with affection?
Do I want to kiss him at all? But from the moment I think of the question, I know the answer. There’s no doubt or second guessing.
Yes.
Chapter 25
THE SILVER TRAY PILED high with food wobbles in my hands. I grunt, edging into Molpe’s room, and try to rebalance it as best I can with Desma breathing down my neck.
The food steams. Rich smells of salted meats and seasoned vegetables fill the little room.
Molpe’s head pops free from the nest of sheets and blankets on the bed. She pulls aside the gauzy curtains layered over the tall canopy, walking closer with her nose in the air. “You’ve brought me food.”
Zeus must forget to feed her, too.
Desma pauses at my side with another platter. “Of course.”
While reaching for one of the fig tarts, Molpe glances at the closed door behind us. “No one else?”
I shake my head. Who else does she expect? Charon, perhaps, since he helped me two days ago.
Desma turns but not before I see her scowl. There’s no point asking why she watches me closely, always with a frown. She wants me to decide.
No, she wants me to take the path of stealing Molpe and escaping into the night.
But I’ve been a castoff of the gods my entire life. I won’t become their prisoner, too.
I haven’t made a decision yet. I will. As soon as I find more information about how to bargain with Zeus without losing myself, my sanity, or worse—my life.
Plastering on a smile, I breathe deep. The nearest food, cooked fish, invades my senses. A smell like the sea. I grimace.
Molpe catches the look. She tilts her head, fine braids tumbling across her shoulders. “You must despise fish after living in the sea for so long.”
Then she pauses, face emptying. “My choice was no easy task.”
Gods, her voice is not her own. Hollow of more than a siren song.
Is the choice looming over me any better? Either way could spell death.
A finger-shaped bruise rings her arm. I swallow, throat tight. There’s worse things than death.
She shakes the emptiness away and smiles, sweet as the sugared dates on Desma’s platter. “Come, set those down.”
The platters rest next to the books from yesterday, smells of rich food and old paper mixing. The few utensils—a golden fork, spoon, and knife—rattle against the tray.
The sirens starve in the Akri and here is the Olympian Palace with its piles of food and golden forks. Bile fills my mouth.
Molpe offers me a glistening bunch of grapes. I shake my head, pushing them away with a trembling smile. She sighs, moving along the platters while we back away.
I assess the room. The barred window lets in the barest hint of sunlight. The cold marble walls and matching floors. Colorful bedding. An assortment of trinkets, each gilded and covered with faceted jewels catching the light, refracting it in vivid color against the walls.
Somehow the splashes of color do nothing to liven her room. Her prison.
Molpe stills, hand hovering over the platter.
“Molpe?” Desma says.
We share a look. Did we include something offensive?
I step close
r, hand out to grasp her shoulder. It never lands.
Molpe twists around, braids swiping through the air. One lashes my cheek, a jewel-encrusted bead slicing into my skin. I hiss and stumble back. Clutch my face. Blood trickles between my fingers.
“Molpe?” Desma says. “Put that down.”
Through the haze of pain, I finally glimpse what’s in her hand.
A knife.
The golden knife for cutting meat. But she’s not pointing it at us or a roast.
She has it against her own throat.
The whites of her eyes are stark against her dark irises. Her knees knock together with each violent shake of her body. The knife presses closer. A thin line of red peeks from beneath her hand.
“Put it down.” I infuse my words with song. The string Molpe should have is a severed, dead line.
“Don’t bother,” she says, voice shaking. “When I lost my song, I lost the ability to hear my sisters’ songs, too.”
I stretch my hands out in front of me like she’s a spooked animal. “Don’t hurt yourself.”
The knife digs deeper.
Desma lunges forward.
Molpe twists until she’s backed against the barred window. “Thanatos,” she shouts.
No.
“NO!” I yell.
Desma glances between us. She holds her hands out, edging closer to Molpe. “What’s happening?”
And in my panic, I don’t understand she’s using mind-speak. I spend precious seconds floundering, open and closing my mouth, before answering in a jumbled rush.
“Only one god can remove immortality besides Zeus,” I say in a rush of mind-speak. “The god of death.”
Her face pales. She creeps closer to Molpe one precious step at a time.
Molpe watches, teeth bared. “Don’t.”
Desma steps closer.
She snarls. “When I’m gone, make sure you rip Zeus off his throne.”
“Molpe.” I walk closer. Her hand and the knife—out of reaching distance no matter how far I might stretch my fingertips. “Put the knife down. Please.”
She laughs, broken and brittle. “Why? Give me a reason to live.”
Desma stills. “We can take Zeus down together.”
“As a family,” I plead. “You know him better than us.”
“Do I?” She hums, tapping the edge of the knife against her bleeding throat. “Is a man the breadth of his shoulders and how fast he finishes? Is he his sugared words and useless trinkets?”
She smashes a hand into the table at her side. Glass baubles cascade to the floor in a crash. “I’ll save you some trouble, girls. A man is his actions and nothing more.”
One step closer. “Please.”
She swipes a hand across her face. “There’s nothing for me here. Let me have my rest.”
I trade a look with Desma. She doesn’t nod, doesn’t speak, but her eyes glint with understanding
We lunge forward.
Desma reaches for Molpe’s arms. I grab for the knife. The smooth handle glides through my fingers. Desma’s arms bump into mine, pushing me further into Molpe until I’m unsure where her fingers end and mine begin.
One smooth slice. Blood swallows my hands. Copper fills my mouth. My nose. So much red. So much blood.
A high keening echoes through the room. We fall sideways onto crushed glass. Remnants of two centuries worth of Zeus’ gifts. Glass digs into my knees where I kneel above Molpe.
Her ivory dress, my pale skin—all lost to the endless tide of red.
Molpe gurgles. I lean close. Only then I know the keening is not her; her throat is cut from ear to ear.
It’s me. I’m making that awful noise.
I can’t stop. I don’t know how to stop.
“It’s okay, you’ll heal.” Desma pulls Molpe’s braids free from her gaping throat. “You’ll heal.”
Molpe grunts. Blood pours from her mouth and nose.
“It’s not stopping,” I say. “How do we make it stop?”
Desma rocks back and forth. Tears stream down her face, mixing with the growing pool of blood at our knees. Her voice cracks. “I don’t know.”
“You’re a healer.”
“I don’t know how—she should heal, her immortality should take over.” Her breaths come in gasps.
Molpe coughs. Her chest moves with ragged inhales.
I pat at her face, smearing red across her cheeks like warpaint. “Open your eyes. You’ll be better soon.”
She wheezes a laugh.
Air escapes her neck, gusting across the skin of my collarbones. I swallow vomit.
A shadow falls over us. A reflection in the pool of blood—one I know.
I whimper, ducking my forehead to rest against her heaving chest. “Don’t take her.”
“She begs for this,” Thanatos says. His hand falls onto my shoulder, squeezing to the point of pain.
“Why now? Why not all the years before when she begged?” I croak, twisting my head to stare at him.
He kneels, uncaring of the glass and blood. “No god can be everywhere at once. Not even death.” His mouth lifts in a hollow smirk. “Besides, why would death visit the Olympian Palace? Even the lowest of the servants is eventually gifted immortality through Zeus’ ambrosia.”
I twist back to Molpe. She watches, smiling, blood coating her teeth.
Thanatos cradles her face. Shadowed smoke seeps from every pore of his skin.
Molpe’s face pales.
“Don’t! Leave her alone.”
I claw at him. At his face. Ears. Hair. The scratches and welts heal as fast as they appear.
I scream and sing and claw. My song is one born of desperation. His string brightens, connecting us, but his hands don’t waver. The shadows grab tighter to Molpe’s skin. His hands begin to shake.
“Stop!” I beat him with clenched fists.
The string between us snaps.
He gasps, color returning to his cheek. “Rest.”
Molpe takes a shallow breath. A trickle of blood leaks from her wound. Then nothing more. The rattling breaths stop. Her chest stills.
My vision blurs with tears. I screech, lungs heaving. Desma crowds close to my side, still rocking. Still gasping.
Footsteps pound closer. Metal spear tips screech against stone.
The guards. Their strings snapped along with his.
Thanatos grabs my arm, bruising tight. He pulls me away from her. My knees slice open on shards of glass. I scrabble for something, anything, to grab onto. But I’m too far from Molpe. I reach for the table she lies beside, scraping its leg with my fingertips. A fingernail catches and tears free.
I don’t care. Let my blood join hers. I deserve worse.
His shadows enshroud us in a tight cocoon of cool smoke. I can’t guess how long I’m lost to it or if time ceases to exist entirely. There’s only shadow and Thanatos’ grip on my arm.
Then nothing at all.
Chapter 26
WE COLLAPSE ON THE cold floor. The hearth has burned to embers, allowing dusk to seep cool air into our room.
Footsteps race past the closed door.
Desma slaps Thanatos away, smudging blood along his arms. “You ass.”
She glances at herself and snarls at the blood. Molpe’s blood.
How long before Zeus discovers what we’ve done? How long before we’re executed for finding her? For her death? Perhaps he won’t do anything at all. Executing us is admitting to Molpe’s presence as his unwilling mistress to the entirety of the court—Hera included.
Stomach twisted into knots, I stagger to my bed. The silk sheets, plump cushions, and feathered mattress should bring comfort. But luxury comes with a price. Zeus gives as well as takes.
“She rests now,” Thanatos says. “Already her soul has found its path along the river Styx.”
Desma pushes him until he stumbles a step backward. “She would’ve healed! We could have saved her.”
“Save her?” He straightens. “You mean by runnin
g away from Zeus? You wouldn’t have gotten far. If he found you, when he found you, he would’ve kept you all as pets.”
“We could’ve hidden her.”
He leans close. “Neither realm would hide you.”
Desma wilts, staggering back. She sits beside me, her head on my shoulder. Her hair sticks to the blood drying on my dress. Her hand lands on my still-bleeding knee.
Somehow my tears turn to a simmering pool of heat in my stomach. I’m accustomed to the stabbing ache of grief. But oh, the rage. How it tempts and twists until I want the whole world to burn.
“I could’ve bargained for her.” I stand, spine straight. “I could have bought her freedom.”
He frowns. “You—”
“Don’t. Don’t you dare make excuses.”
His mouth snaps shut. Pink darkens his cheeks.
“She would have lived. But no, you had to defy us and Zeus both.”
The pink spreads to his neck. “I answered her prayers.”
“You killed her.”
“Did I? Seems she killed herself with the knife you provided.”
“She was broken and she was wrong but she was ours. You didn’t have to listen.”
“I’m the god of death. I listen and answer when someone draws my attention. It’s my job.” He extends his hands, placating even as he pushes me back.
“So why not sooner? She was in that godsforsaken room for two centuries. Two hundred years of lying beneath Zeus. Don’t you think she prayed for death sooner?”
His jaw works back and forth. “There are many who pray. I can’t hear them all.”
“Then don’t pretend you knew her. Don’t pretend you know what’s best.”
“And you do?” His eyes narrow to slits. “If not for you and the attention you brought to her, she might still be alive.”
The attention I brought to her?
Then I remember. I told her how Thanatos protects me from the sickness. How he shadows me at Nyx’s command. Molpe saw her opportunity because I brought it to her.
Vomit fills my mouth. I run, spewing it into a water jug. My stomach heaves until there’s nothing left. I wipe my mouth with a shaking hand, gagging at the rotten aftertaste left behind.
A hand lands warm against my back. I turn, expecting Desma, but it’s Thanatos. I shove him. In his surprise, he stumbles back.
