Siren Daughter

by Cassie Day

  “Agathe,” he says.

  “Don’t.” I can sense the apology building within him easy as the dormant song string between us. “Don’t you dare.”

  His mouth snaps shut.

  Good. Let him have this guilt when mine is too heavy to bear.

  I move toward the bathroom. The blood needs to come off. My skin is flaking bits of rust-red-brown already, leaving a gruesome trail across the floor. Even while my skin itches and my stomach revolts, part of me wants to keep the blood. Her blood.

  A reminder of what I’ve done. Who I’ve killed.

  “Leave, Thanatos.” My voice is devoid of anything at all. I’m worse than a winter chill. Heartless. Numb.

  “You know I can’t.” His plodding steps draw closer. “Your sickness—”

  “To Hades with the sickness.”

  “Agathe,” Desma says.

  Inhale. Exhale. “Leave and don’t bother coming back.”

  He does.

  His protection clears away, leaving my aching bones and pounding headache behind.

  I sink beneath the steaming water in the bathroom pool. The water muffles all. Sight, noise, sound, even pain. Muffles all until I’m gone beneath the ebb and flow.

  Desma’s gone when I wake the next morning. The sun crests above the clouds, casting her neatly made bed in warm sunlight. Strands of her hair linger on a pillow. The ashes of our bloodied dresses fill the low-burning hearth.

  I don’t find her in the halls or kitchen. Not in the new-found community pools or the length of humid hallways beyond. Hermes flutters by with a jaunty wave. The guards patrol past but pay me no mind. Charon falls into step at my side.

  Still no Desma.

  She’s in the palace, she has to be, but where?

  I’m gasping for breath by the time I throw the library doors open. My blistered feet ache, throbbing against my tight sandal laces. The sickness is a steady throb in my bones.

  “Desma?” I ask into the hushed quiet.

  Nothing.

  Why do I care where she is? By tonight, she’ll have returned to our room all the same.

  Yet I want to grip her hands tight. To lean my throbbing head against her shoulder. She is family by blood and memory both. She’s the only one I’ll remember Molpe with and not think it a fading nightmare.

  Maybe that’s the truth about grief: it doesn’t feel real until we share it with someone else.

  “Are you all right?” Charon asks, hands warm on my shoulders.

  I close my eyes, smothering tears beneath heavy lids. “I don’t know.”

  Charon steers me toward a couch rich with turquoise upholstery and mounds of soft blankets. He pushes me with gentle hands until my back rests against the cushions.

  He moves through the library on silent feet. Each time he returns, it’s with a new stack of books he sets on the wide table in front of the couch. He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t utter a single word. He offers his quiet company without pressure or expectation.

  I sink into the cushions. He settles beside me, side pressed against mine in a long line of heat. Our breaths sync.

  Between one moment and the next, I’m lost.

  I WAKE WITH MOLPE’S name on my lips, my fingers scrabbling at the couch. Gasping, I lurch upright. The midday sun sears. I slam my eyes shut with a groan.

  A hand settles on the crown of my head. Another rubs my back in slow, sweeping strokes. The scent of river water, soot, and dusty books. Charon.

  He doesn’t say anything. No useless platitudes or reassurances. Just the steady warmth of his presence is enough. Molpe’s gaping neck and empty face drift away.

  Sunlight catches on dust motes. The deep brown facets in Charon’s hair shine beneath the light. Stifling a yawn, I lean my head against his shoulder. A massive pile of books teeters on the floor by the couch.

  “Did you find anything?” I ask.

  “Not yet.”

  I take heart in the hope suffusing his voice, plopping in front of the able strewn with books. Charon settles on the other side, only the top of his head visible where he leans over an open book.

  “Are you sure you want to help?” I ask.

  “Of course. What else do I have to do in this ridiculous palace?”

  “You could join one of Apollo’s musical theaters. Or Aphrodite’s intimacy workshops. Even one of Artemis’ stag hunts might be fun.”

  I’ve heard servants speak of all of them, their voices hushed yet full of humor. With their endless lives stretched before them, they have little else to do but gossip. The gods seem the same with an added bonus of strange hobbies.

  Yet the Prasinos people live and some suffer and all die. The sirens starve. My humor fades.

  Charon chuckles. “I much prefer this.”

  Clearing my throat, I nod. He senses my changed mood; silence settles between us.

  Time passes in the rasping of paper and Charon returning to the shelves for more books. The hourglass in a corner, a rotund creation of glass and black sand, empties one grain at a time. At some point, the lamps flicker until they’re lit, casting the library in a warm glow.

  When I look up next, the sky outside is dark. Charon’s head is on the table edge, cheek to the wood. He snores in great puffs interspersed with tiny groans.

  I duck my head back to my book and let him sleep.

  Trade, inventory, and obscure law. Recipes and lists of strange ingredients. Stories of long forgotten gods and the creatures slain by their half-mortal sons. Temples locations and mortal currency changes. Countless maps of Prasinos with the city of Athansi stretching ever-larger across the land with each passing century.

  I’m yawning every minute when I open a book titled TITAN LAWS: VOLUME II. If the gods have any sense of organization, I haven’t yet deciphered it; this book came from a shelf of old stories and kitchen recipes.

  Skimming the pages, I catch only snippets of the text. Unbiased, he, fair. Bargain.

  My eyes pop open. I grip the book tight, the edge biting into my palm.

  CONCERNING JUDGES

  If a mortal wishes for a fair bargain with the gods, they must secure a judge unbiased and godly. Said judge will not be of the bargain god’s court. The judge must remain separate from god and bargainer both; showing not deference, dislike, nor favoritism to either.

  The mortal may call upon the judge but nothing more.

  Bribery voids all.

  I gasp, blinking down at the paper. Could it be so simple?

  “Charon!” I shove at his shoulder.

  He startles awake, lifting his head. A scrap of paper sticks to his cheek. “What’s wrong?”

  “I found it. I found a way to bargain.”

  He stares. Then jolts, prying the book from my hand. He skims across the printed lines.

  When he’s done, his eyes are fierce as I’ve ever seen. “Do you remember what I told you?”

  “You told me quite a few things.” Brows furrowed, I lean closer.

  He sighs, unable to suppress his smile. “About the gods.”

  “They play tricks?”

  He nods. “Who is not of Zeus’ court and doesn’t bother with tricks?”

  Not of this court and godly. Prasinos is ruled out—besides the court, only demigods roam alongside the mortals.

  Nekros, the realm of the dead. Tartarus and Styx. Erebus and Nyx. Persephone and Hades.

  “Hades,” I murmur.

  “Hush.” He looks around the room. “He might not play tricks but others do.”

  I follow his gaze around the library empty of anyone but us. Yet servants or gods have other ways to spy.

  If Zeus discovers what I’m going to do, there won’t be a chance to call on Hades. No chance for a bargain. What he would do, I can’t say, but Molpe’s fate sticks in my mind.

  By morning, my nails are bitten down to the quick. I pace through the entirety of the palace until I chance upon the throne room.

  Gods and goddesses filter in and out through the open doors, feasting o
n an array of fruits weighing down a single stone table stretched from one end of the room to the other. Some of the fruits I know. Pomegranates, oranges, figs, and grapes. Others gleam in a living rainbow of color. The room and the hall beyond wafts a subtle, sweet fragrance.

  I grab a single pomegranate before retreating to the hall outside. The daytime heat combined with the warmth of people leaves the throne room stifling. The cool stone at my feet is no comfort; I mourn not being able to press my sweat-damp face against it.

  “Persephone,” I whisper from behind a column. “Queen of Nekros!”

  She doesn’t look, too busy dodging her mother. She glides behind other gods the moment Demeter glances away. In fact, the longer I watch, the more I’m sure Artemis and Dionysus are helping. They ask Demeter an infinite number of questions to distract her from Persephone’s growing distance.

  When Persephone stops at a column next to mine, I provide her a reason to leave entirely.

  “Come on,” I say on a hiss, grabbing her elbow and dragging her away.

  Dionysus winks at me the moment before we vanish around the corner.

  We turn and twist until we breach into another wide hall, this one empty of anyone else.

  I stop, gasping for air. The sickness buckles my knees. I wave her off when she reaches to help, steadying myself against a wall. Stone at my back, I throw her the pomegranate. She plucks it from the air with an easy turn of her wrist, smiling when she sees the fruit cradled in her palm.

  She jerks her head to the right, urging me to follow. We jog through the hall, into a cramped servant offshoot hall, through a bustling kitchen, and down one more narrow offshoot, stopping in a hallway filled with flowers.

  I struggle for breath, sickness trickling in and growing ever stronger. Meanwhile, Persephone doesn’t gasp or sweat or look anything less than perfectly poised.

  She pushes open a door. Then herds me through. She closes it behind us with a soft click.

  The room resembles the fields of Asphodel more than a bedroom. Vases of flowers cover every surface except a small bed and wooden storage chest. Through the pollen haze, I glimpse dense tapestries shining with embroidered stalks of golden wheat.

  She catches my stare and grimaces. “My mother’s room is on the other side.”

  I shared space with my own mother but only because I wanted to. Others my age or younger sought their own caves free from mothers, aunts, or sisters.

  Her expressions goes hard when she looks at the tapestries. Sharing space isn’t her choice. Yet I doubt Demeter will hear a single word about separate rooms.

  Persephone pulls a silver knife from the storage chest. She cuts the pomegranate in one long slice. The fruit trickles red juice. She’s nicked a seed.

  I flinch.

  “Are you okay?” Her knife stills.

  Gods, I’m sick of that question. Sick of Molpe’s name lingering on my mind with no one to speak to. Desma continues to vanish each day. She spends each night faking sleep no matter how I tempt her with memories of the sea.

  If Charon questions what’s happened to Molpe and why I no longer visit, he says nothing.

  “No,” I say. “I found the clue Nyx spoke of.”

  She pries the pomegranate open, offering me half. I take it to give my shaking hands something to do; my fingers immediately pick at the seeds.

  She brightens. “You’re ready for a bargain, then?”

  “No. Yes. I don’t know.”

  I grit my teeth until my jaw aches. The pain is grounding.

  But words pour forth no matter how I try to hold them in. “I found a siren. I found Molpe. She killed herself rather than remain a plaything for Zeus.”

  Persephone inhales. Her thumb picks at seeds until they’re empty husks. Red stains her fingers. “Zeus’ plaything?”

  “He gave her a choice when the sirens were exiled: the sea or his bed.” I swallow. Tears build, blurring the room. “He forced her over and over again.”

  I break off, squeezing my eyes shut. Open them. Throw the closest thing at hand. A vase shatters against the wall, water and plants splattering everywhere. I pant into the ensuing quiet

  “He raped her.”

  And it’s the first time I say so. The first time what happened to Molpe is real to me beyond her rumpled sheets and wrinkled dresses. The first time horror overtakes me. I fall to my knees, my half of the pomegranate rolling until it rests at Persephone’s feet.

  “I didn’t know,” she says. “I swear I didn’t. If I had...” She trails off. Stops and starts in a choked voice. “If I had known...”

  Gods, I want to believe her. I need to believe someone in this palace cares. But to believe her is knowing there was a chance Molpe could’ve been saved.

  “You did nothing.” I stagger to my feet, the scabs on my knees tearing open. My dress sticks. I glance down. Blood spreads across the fabric. “None of you did a damn thing for her.”

  “Agathe,” she says.

  “Quiet.” I pant, chest heaving like I ran across the palace. “Because we are creatures, because we are not godly, we mean less than nothing to you. To any of you.”

  Her mouth snaps shut.

  I snarl. “You kill us in the name of heroic quests, use us because we are convenient, and ignore our suffering. For what? To feel powerful, to put us beneath you? To know some creature trembles at the mention of your names?”

  My voice drops. “We are beings with emotions and dreams and needs. Yet we suffer because the gods need someone to blame when things go wrong.”

  Somehow this has become about more than Molpe or Desma or me. How many stories does Aunt tell where a creature is slain for nothing more than glory?

  Even the sirens’ story of being punished for doing nothing more than allowing Persephone her freedom. Allowing her to take Hades’ hand and enter Nekros.

  I grab a shard of broken vase off the floor. Throw it against the wall, uncaring of how the edges tear at my palm. I pick it up and throw it again. Again. It shatters into smaller and smaller pieces until nothing remains but specks.

  Her arms curl around my shoulders. She presses her cheek against mine. Wetness. Tears. Hers or mine?

  The all-consuming anger should stay coiled tight within my chest. It doesn’t. Between one moment and the next, it vanishes. Smoke through my fingers no matter how hard I grasp. All that remains is my shaking body and cracked-open chest.

  “She died,” I say or maybe sob.

  “I know.” Her voice cracks.

  We sit on the floor and cry, grasping at each other. Eventually, I stop shaking. Eventually, our tears are nothing more than tracks on our cheeks.

  “What now?” she asks, helping me stand.

  I wince, fresh scabs tearing free from the fabric of my dress. I can’t force a smile, not yet, but I manage hope.

  I tell her about the library. About the book and its ancient law about judges. Her dull eyes shine by the time I’m done.

  She grins, all teeth. “Zeus won’t like it.”

  “He doesn’t have to. He’s as beholden to the Titan laws as any of us.”

  Chapter 27

  THE NEXT MORNING, THE throne room is cleared of all evidence of fruit. No pits, rinds, scraps, or seeds remain. Yet despite the gentle breeze fluttering against my dress, a sweet smell lingers.

  I try to take confidence in this one imperfection but my stomach roils. The sweetness sours in my nostrils. I hold back a gag.

  Persephone urges me closer to the thrones with a jerking nod. She called the gods here, spreading word the mortal in their midst wanted an audience with the god-king Zeus.

  All of them are here, resplendent in silk clothes they wrinkle by lounging carelessly across the couches.

  “Why have you called for us?” Hera asks.

  Her eyes pin me in place. My skin crawls. I take one deep breath, then another.

  Persephone waves me forward, then settles on a couch beside her mother. Her expression barely conceals her excitement.


  Black seeps into my vision. My knees knock together.

  Dionysus catches my attention. He winks once before wagging his brows comically. Aphrodite reaches over and whacks his shoulder, smiling sweetly all the while.

  The tightness in my chest eases. Disappears for good when I spot Charon settling on Persephone’s other side. His horns are massive, curling over his head in a graceful arch.

  “Well?” Hera says.

  Zeus watches from his ivory throne. His gaze assesses those gathered one by one.

  “I’m here to bargain with Zeus.” My voice comes stronger than I thought possible.

  The chatter cuts off. Everyone falls silent.

  Zeus leans forward, drawing my attention. “Is that so?” He grins, mischief laced with something like victory.

  He can grin all he wants. I still have leverage through the law buried deep in his barely-touched library.

  I wave Charon over. “I call upon a Titan law.”

  Charon hands me TITAN LAW: VOLUME II. His fingertips brush my palms. His hands shake. I take solace in not being the only one terrified.

  I open the book, taking care to read each line aloud at a slow clip. When the last one is done, the silence presses down on my shoulders.

  I clear my throat. “I call upon Hades as our judge.”

  Persephone grins, glancing over her shoulder.

  Hades should peel himself free from the shadows behind a pillar.

  Nothing.

  Did he receive her message too late? Will he do as instructed? Doubt clouds my mind.

  Charon’s clawed hand squeezes my elbow. “Give him a moment,” he whispers, breath warm against my ear.

  The breath held so tightly in my chest gusts out. My vision wavers once before snapping back to normal.

  Hades doesn’t appear.

  Persephone’s brow creases with a frown.

  She twists back around. Freezes. Her mouth gapes open.

  I follow her stare.

  Hades stands between the back of Zeus and Hera’s thrones. Purple-blue veins throb beneath the ashen skin coating his throat. “I’m sorry.”

  Why is he sorry? He’s appeared like planned, though in another spot.