Coils

by Barbara Ann Wright

  “Let’s get going,” Agamemnon said. “We’ve got one more stop to make, and we have to get past the Hecatonchires.”

  “Not a problem,” Cressida said, her voice dreamy.

  “Maybe you should put it away,” Medusa said. When she gestured to the sheath, Cressida growled at her like a wild animal, and Medusa pulled her hand back. “Cressida?”

  A tiny sound came from behind them, as if someone had dropped a champagne flute. Medusa turned as she walked, all of them did, though they seemed to be moving in slow motion. The crack Pandora had made inched downward as they watched, making another of those little, delicate sounds.

  “We have to run.” Arachne’s voice had a strangled quality, and the last syllable was lost as the tinkle grew to a crack, and then to a great grinding sound as huge chunks of ice dropped from Cronos’s prison, exposing one blue-veined hand.

  They all froze as that hand flexed, fingers reaching.

  Medusa grabbed Cressida’s arm and ran for the wall of black, the way back to Tartarus. Cressida lifted the harpe as if she might take on the father of the gods with his own weapon, but Medusa didn’t know if he could call the harpe back to his hand, send it reeling from Cressida’s foolish mortal grip and into his so he could reap them like wheat.

  They streaked for the entrance, and Medusa readied her power, knowing they would have company as soon as they emerged.

  *

  Cressida didn’t know why they were running. She had the key to victory in her hand, a weapon as inevitable as a bolt of lightning. No one could defeat her while she wielded such a weapon, not Cronos, not the Hecatonchires, not mighty Zeus himself. A nagging thought tried to tell her that it was exactly that kind of thinking that had gotten Cronos imprisoned in the first place, but she promptly told her brain that it didn’t know what the hell it was talking about.

  Still, she ran with the others; she supposed it was bad form to kill a Titan with his own weapon, even if it would have been a piece of cake. But when they careened through the blackness and heard the roars of the Hecatonchires, she knew she wouldn’t be dissuaded again. She’d put the harpe to good use.

  Everyone was shouting and rushing around. Arachne was throwing her webs, and Agamemnon had his sword out. Medusa took a wide stance as if she could defeat the Hecatonchires with sheer moxie. Cressida knew she should have been terrified, at least a little worried, but all she felt was a slow simmer of anger. For the first time in her life she was keenly aware of the play of muscles under her skin, the potential for power in her shoulders, and the way a blade felt in her hand, with just enough weight to remind her of the damage it could do.

  Glee wrapped around the anger, bolstering it. She would show these upstart creatures, oh yes. She’d been pushed around enough, pulled from one crisis to the next because everyone wanted something from her and instead of trying to win her over, they threatened or promised or implied that they alone could change the fate of everyone involved. Well, not anymore.

  Her hindbrain kept up a steady refrain of, Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, but she laughed past it. That logical part of her tried to say that she didn’t know how to fight, but the set of her knees seemed to argue. And when the first Hecatonchires ambled toward her, she leapt straight into the air as if the gods themselves were lifting her and sheered through three reaching arms with the ease of a lawnmower cutting through a grasshopper.

  “Yeah, mutha fucka!” she yelled as the blood washed over her in a spray so warm and soothing it was like a hot shower after a long day. “How do ya like me now?”

  Gross, her brain said. That was disgusting, and she should have acknowledged that, but her brain wasn’t really in charge anymore, at least not the parts that didn’t want to bathe in blood. Before, she would have said that was every part of it, but now she wasn’t so sure. Now she saw what she’d been missing by talking to people instead of killing them.

  The Hecatonchires howled from his fifty heads, trying to cradle his wounded arms. He backed toward the other Hecatonchires, and they stared at her in fear. Damn straight they should be afraid. That was only right. It was just. She’d take care of them, and then she’d go after the rest of her no-good, backstabbing turncoat family.

  Her what?

  Someone spun her around and shook her, yelling and pointing toward the black box. It was shaking, shuddering as if something was trying to come through, and Cressida backed away from the arms restraining her, a face she couldn’t even recall. A haze of wind and cold flashed in front of her face, and she staggered. She was still stuck in the blasted ice, just when she’d thought she’d gotten free enough to slaughter these Titans, she was still stuck in prison.

  Was it a dream? No, someone was shaking her again and trying to tell her something, and she blinked away enough fog to ask, “When did I get this short? I didn’t say I wanted to be so small!”

  “Cressida!”

  Another flash, but it wasn’t of the ice or her ungrateful family. She saw a woman older than her, one who was depending on her, but no one depended on her. They were afraid of her, and they were right to be because fear was the only thing you could count on to keep everyone in line.

  “Cressida!”

  “No!” And it wasn’t the right voice, only it was, and she felt like two people, maybe three. She looked to the harpe and the Hecatonchires, and it wasn’t her they were afraid of. It was the sword and the box and what seemed to be struggling to get out of the box. “This isn’t me.”

  The hands in front of her pointed to something at her waist, a sheath, and she tried to slide the harpe home, but those parts of her that had gotten a taste for killing were still hooked into the rest of her, and they weren’t letting go easily. They howled as she moved her hand toward the sheath, gibbered at her to keep the sword drawn. She would need it when she finally got free, and the killing could begin in earnest.

  With a groan of mortal effort, she sheathed the harpe sideways, letting the hook stick out the back, and the strength went out of her legs. She slid to her knees, only Medusa’s steadying arm keeping her from sliding all the way to the ground.

  “Medusa?”

  “It’s all right, Cressida. It’s all right now.” She reached past Cressida and tied the leather straps hanging from the sheath, keeping the blade inside.

  But it wasn’t all right. She was covered in gore, and her legs felt as if she’d done a thousand squats. She turned to see how the others were faring against the Hecatonchires, but the monsters had fled, and the others were staring at her wide-eyed.

  The black box had stopped shaking as if the call of the harpe had deadened Cronos’s ability to come forth. Still, Cressida didn’t want to stay near it in case he tried again. Just a brief touch with his mind had been enough to know that he didn’t have an ounce of pity or compassion. He was anger and fear, maybe the source of it for all the world.

  Agamemnon sniffed. “Well, if I had known you had such skill with a blade, this trip wouldn’t have seemed so ominous.”

  Cressida let out a breath, feeling lighter, as if his words had sucked some of the horror out of the room.

  “We shouldn’t stay here,” Medusa said.

  Arachne nodded. “Right. You’ve got what Hecate sent you after; now we have to get the item she wants from us.”

  The farther they walked into the twisting labyrinth, the more of those horrid boxes they saw, and Cressida knew they all held complete hell for whoever was trapped inside, a custom-made punishment. It was terribly efficient, and Cressida couldn’t help picturing Hades sitting behind an enormous desk, filling out paperwork and designing specialized hellscapes for new arrivals. Of course, there hadn’t been any arrivals worthy of their own personal hells in a long time. Maybe he dreamed them up anyway, manufacturing crimes just so he could think of a way to punish those who might commit them. It gave her shivers just thinking about it.

  The presence of the harpe, even sheathed, was enough to keep the Hecatonchires away, though Cressida wasn’t in a hurry to draw
it again. She wondered about the one whose arms she’d lopped off, if the others would take pity on him or cast him out even though he still had ninety-seven arms to operate with. Maybe they had elaborate dinners where exactly one-hundred arms were needed to dine properly, and the one she’d maimed would have to eat by himself in the kitchen.

  She tried not to think such pitying thoughts about a monster that had seemed determined to squash her, but she couldn’t help it. It felt as if the dark, bloodthirsty thoughts of Cronos had to be tempered by charitable thoughts, and nothing else would cleanse her of the taint of his mind. Nothing she had in her pack would cleanse her of the taint of the blood, either, though she’d done the best she could with wet wipes. Nero had given her some side eye when she’d first packed them; she’d have to tell him to make them a part of every Underworld explorer’s kit from now on.

  They finally stopped at another black box, though Cressida couldn’t tell it from any of the others. Pandora examined it and nodded before she felt around it, searching for a way in. Eventually, she tapped it, and one side fell away. They lined up, ready to walk in, though when Cressida tried to tell her feet to take her inside, they ardently refused.

  Medusa started forward, but when Cressida didn’t follow, she looked back over her shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

  Cressida nodded toward the box. “What’s in there?”

  “I don’t know,” Medusa said with a sigh. “I don’t know what Hecate wants.” She took Cressida’s hand. “But I’ve got you, don’t worry.” Her normally sexy smile slipped into one that was soothing, one Cressida could fall asleep looking at.

  It seemed a better thing to focus on than going into one of the horrid boxes again, so her imagination took a brief leap, thinking on all the things she could do with Medusa besides fall asleep. She shook her head, telling herself yet again that she had a job to do, but she’d started on a track, and visions of Medusa in bed wouldn’t leave her so easily. Out of desperation, her brain replayed Nero talking about dental dams, and that dried any desire she had right up.

  “Come on,” Medusa said. “Let’s do it together.”

  Oh, the entendres, but it got Cressida’s feet back under her. They stepped into the box together, and Cressida told herself that whatever environment they encountered would be an illusion, but heat still hit her like an open furnace, and she sagged, wilting among the onslaught of a lava-dotted landscape. Well, she had been looking for lava since she came to the Underworld. It was about time it stopped disappointing her.

  Rivers of lava ran across mountains of volcanic glass and oozing patches of slowly melting rock. The air glowed and shimmered, and the landscape extended into obscurity, unlike Cronos’s hemmed in glacier.

  “I guess ‘watch your step’ goes without saying,” Cressida said. The others seemed too hot to laugh, all of them wiping their foreheads and cursing. Cressida tried to tell herself it was an illusion, but the feeling was hard to overcome when the visuals were leeching sweat out of her every pore.

  “Where’s the prisoner?” she asked.

  Arachne grinned back at her. “Tartarus isn’t just used as a prison. It’s also a vault for things the gods would rather not fall into our hot little hands.”

  “Why not keep them wherever the gods are, then?”

  Agamemnon smiled condescendingly at her. “Because they’d rather the items not be in one another’s hands, too. No, best to hide them down here. Best to hide all the dangerous weapons.” He pulled at his collar, and she wondered if he was envisioning the axe coming for him.

  “Okay, so where’s the vault?” Medusa asked.

  “This is it.” Pandora took off her sweater to reveal a modest tank top. “That’s why we’re actually feeling the heat. Now we just have to find what we’re looking for and not be reduced to shades in the process.”

  Arachne slung them from solid ground to solid ground using her string, an unending supply, and Cressida began to think of them as webs and wondered again if she was hiding her spider bits in that backpack. If she could exist as part spider and part woman, it could mean that all that was under that canvas was a swollen black abdomen and spinnerets. It made it hard not to peer, and she forced herself to look away before she was caught.

  They walked for what seemed like forever, and Cressida lost the ability to think, having to focus on her feet and try to ignore the oppressive heat.

  *

  After too much walking and not enough changes in scenery, Medusa pulled Cressida to a halt, making everyone stop. She didn’t think Cressida had noticed, but there’d been a few looks shared between the other three as they marched across this hot wasteland, and when Cressida had asked what they were here for, they’d stumbled for an answer before Arachne finally said, “We’ll know it when we see it.”

  Cressida seemed to accept that as no more bizarre than anything else she’d heard, but Medusa’s hackles had been inching up. Something about the heat of this place pulled at her, sparking half-buried memories of her childhood.

  “I can’t help but notice you march as if you know where you’re going,” Medusa said, “yet by my calculations, we’ve been traveling in a circle.”

  “What calculations?” Pandora asked. “I haven’t seen you making any. Can you do trigonometry in your head?”

  Medusa ignored her. “You’re waiting for something to happen, but what?”

  Arachne looked at the rest of them. “We’re waiting for the guardian to attack so we can get the item we’re looking for.”

  Medusa looked at the landscape again and ran through the creatures she knew that preferred the hottest climes. Another Titan? But which one? If there was a guardian, it should have attacked by now. A Titan would be able to step over the rivers of lava, unless it was one that lived in lava and could leap through it.

  Or swim.

  A tickle started at the back of her head, sparking memories again: Eyes, watching her from a pool of boiling water. Green-gold eyes with slits like Medusa’s, they’d belonged to someone who would have loved to live in the lava, but who knew her daughters couldn’t stand that much heat. So they’d only lived near it, close enough that the water boiled in the ground.

  Here, with no daughters to worry about, she could slip from lava pool to lava pool with ease. Even with the heat, the thoughts were enough to freeze Medusa’s insides. “Oh, please no. It can’t be.”

  Cressida took her hand. “Are you all right?”

  Pandora’s expression stayed impassive, but Agamemnon looked a little guilty, and Arachne turned away.

  “What do you want with her?” Medusa asked.

  Cressida looked around them. “Who?”

  Medusa’s power began to flow over her, but she kept it in check, barely. “Daughter of Helios, slain by Zeus in the old legends, but not until after she’d birthed her daughters from Phorcys, Cronos’s brother, ancient god of the primordial deep.”

  Cressida’s brow furrowed. “Aix? Wasn’t she a…” Her mouth fell open, and she stared over Medusa’s shoulder.

  Medusa’s heart sank further, and she turned slowly. A giant, frilled snake reared from one of the closest lava pools. She gleamed gold in the light, green eyes shining, not with a human’s intelligence but with enough to recognize her offspring. They locked gazes, and Aix made some noise deep in her throat, a happy, welcoming purr. Her body rippled downward, coiling until she could look her daughter in the eye.

  “Mom,” Medusa whispered. “I’m sorry I haven’t thought of you in so long.”

  “Your…mother?” Cressida asked.

  Medusa didn’t turn. Cressida would never understand, and Medusa didn’t care to see her try. She’d call having a giant snake for a mother gross or weird, and that would kill any charitable thoughts between them. But maybe that was best. Maybe she should turn to confront the disgust that was no doubt infusing Cressida’s expression, and then she could get on with her plan, lead Cressida by the nose, do away with Perseus, and then Cressida would be free to do as she would,
and Medusa wouldn’t have to care about her any longer.

  But her feet wouldn’t obey her. Instead, she rested a hand against her mother’s golden snout, the scales slick under her fingers. “What are we here for?”

  Even as she said the words, her belly went colder. They wouldn’t. The gods couldn’t have made Aix guard the very thing they’d made from her skin, could they? The world couldn’t be so cruel!

  But there, tied to Aix’s back halfway along her length was the aegis of Zeus, his shield, made from Aix’s golden scales, loaned to his daughter Athena, who’d given it to Perseus, and in return for its use, he’d adorned it with Medusa’s own head. She’d heard it said that her head retained the full power she’d had in life rather than the diminished power she had now. The cold reflection of his eyes in its gleaming surface had been the last thing she’d ever seen.

  She whirled to face the others, but only Agamemnon stood there, covering his eyes. She marched forward, feeling her hair coming alive to hiss and spit. “Averting your eyes won’t do you any good when I shove you into the lava.”

  “Now, now,” he said. “No need for theatrics!”

  “You brought me to recover the aegis of Zeus? The one with my head, made from the skin of my dead mother?” She stabbed a finger in Aix’s direction. “And now Zeus has her guarding it in the afterlife when she doesn’t know any better?”

  He continued to stumble away, and her only thought was to get her hands around his throat because Medea wasn’t here, and Zeus wasn’t here. She expected him to try to explain, but all he did was jog away, and she remembered Pandora’s words about why they’d brought him.

  He was the bait.

  She turned as Aix cried out in outrage. Arachne had snagged the aegis while Aix had been fixated on Medusa. It gleamed as it spun through the air, her own head fixed to the front, turned from flesh into gold. Medusa ran for Aix, looking for Cressida and Pandora, but she couldn’t spot them in the shimmering air.