Against All Gods

by Maz Evans

  The Councillors appeared confused. After a bewildered pause, Aries spoke up softly.

  ‘I don’t understand . . .’

  ‘Don’t you?’ screamed the Goddess of Love, running right up to him. ‘Your stupid procedures took her kardia away! If you’d given it back to her—’

  ‘B-but,’ Aries stammered, ‘we did.’

  Zeus was so taken aback by the absurdity of the statement, he forgot for a moment to be angry.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ he said.

  ‘We did,’ Taurus agreed. ‘We gave her kardia back.’

  The Gods stared at the Zodiac Council in disbelief. Aphrodite’s beautiful face scrunched into a dangerous scowl.

  ‘Well, a fat lot of use it is to her now!’ she spat. ‘It’s too late!’

  ‘Yes, it would be now,’ agreed Aquarius. ‘But we returned it to her the moment she fulfilled the terms of her suspension.’

  ‘Her suspension – what are you blithering on about?’ roared Zeus. Now he remembered how to be angry.

  ‘Our sentence was very clear,’ said Cancer, consulting her notebook. ‘Virgo’s kardia was to be returned once she satisfied the terms of her probation.’

  ‘She had to be a hero,’ whispered Athene, a dangerous hope entering her eyes. ‘You mean—’

  ‘Quite,’ said Pisces. ‘The moment she decided to throw herself in the way of the Chaos Stone to save the world, she proved beyond any shadow of a doubt that she is a true hero.’

  ‘When did you give her kardia back?’ snapped Aphrodite, looking down at Virgo’s still body. ‘When, exactly, did it return to her?’

  ‘The very second she made that choice,’ smiled Leo. ‘Look for yourself.’

  Aphrodite gently pulled at the collar of Virgo’s T-shirt, clearly terrified of what she might not find. But as she revealed Virgo’s neck, there, sparkling around it, was a crystal heart in a flame.

  The kardia of a Constellation.

  Zeus gasped along with his children as the realization dawned. Even Elliot raised his tear-soaked face.

  ‘So,’ he sniffed. ‘You’re saying that Virgo was immortal when the blast hit her?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ smiled Sagittarius. ‘She’s one of us.’

  ‘So why hasn’t she woken up?’ said Zeus quietly, looking at the grey figure on the ground. He didn’t dare hope that Virgo might actually be . . .

  ‘Well, of course we had to file the relevant paperwork,’ huffed Taurus. ‘And do you think anyone could lay their hands on Form x40gjeigArtichokebum-fluff: Reinstating a Kardia After an Act of Selfless Heroism – on a Monday? But we found it eventually. In the tumble dryer – no idea why.’

  ‘In fact,’ said Scorpio, looking at his watch, ‘I would anticipate it coming into effect any time—’

  ‘Oh, my Gods!’ cried Aphrodite. ‘Her hair!’

  They all stared at Virgo’s long brown hair, not daring to breathe lest their eyes were deceiving them.

  ‘It’s . . . it’s changing colour!’ Elliot gasped.

  He was right. At the very tip of her long tresses, a small silver gleam sparkled. It worked its way up a single thread of hair until it reached the crown of her head. The gleam flourished, growing in magnitude until it became a bright star glowing over Virgo’s head.

  ‘Virgo!’ cried Elliot, shaking her body. ‘Can you hear me?’

  The star expanded and brightened, forcing everyone to step back from the dazzling silver glow surrounding their friend. Suddenly, it shot out a sparkling beam, immediately transforming the rest of Virgo’s brown hair into the iridescent silver it had once been.

  ‘I don’t . . . I can’t . . .’ Zeus muttered, holding his daughters to him as tears traced the lines on his face.

  The star shone over them all, lighting the evening with its boundless glow, growing bigger and more glorious with every passing heartbeat. Just as it reached its zenith, it sucked all its light back into itself, trembling with the weight of its own luminescence. And then, in a blaze of light, it exploded into a shower of stars – all over Virgo.

  ‘Virgo?’ Elliot cried again. ‘Virgo – are you OK?’

  For a moment, Virgo lay utterly still.

  And then, with a gasping breath, she spluttered back to life.

  ‘VIRGO!’

  Zeus wiped away the flowing tears as his children embraced their revived friend. He walked over to Pisces and quietly offered his hand.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, cupping Pisces’s fin.

  ‘You’re welcome.’ Pisces nodded. ‘Your Majesty.’

  Zeus looked back at the happy, tearful group of people he loved.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ Athene asked, her dark eyes full of concern.

  ‘Now that,’ Virgo croaked, her lungs desperately refilling, ‘was highly sub-optimal . . .’

  ‘Virgo,’ Elliot gasped. ‘I . . . you . . . why . . . ?’

  For the rest of time, Elliot would deny any mention of it. But the long, loving hug that he then gave Virgo when words were insufficient was one of the most beautiful sights Zeus would ever witness.

  After who-cared-how-long, Elliot looked straight into her eyes.

  ‘What were you THINKING?’ he shouted.

  Virgo shrugged.

  ‘Seemed like a good idea,’ she smiled.

  The two friends looked at each other. And then the laughter came. And it wouldn’t stop. And before long, everyone else was laughing too.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ gasped Elliot, wiping happy tears from his eyes. ‘What happened? Why wasn’t Virgo, like, blown to pieces?’

  ‘I’m guessing because there is only one force in this universe stronger than all the elements combined,’ Zeus declared, taking Virgo into a giant bear hug.

  ‘And that, my darlings, is love,’ declared Aphrodite, joining in the cuddle.

  The King of the Gods gazed upon his heroic young friend. As he had so many times before, Zeus guessed exactly what his mortal friend was thinking.

  ‘Gross,’ Elliot muttered, before being smothered in hugs and kisses by Aphrodite.

  ‘Where is the Chaos Stone now?’ Athene asked.

  ‘There isn’t one,’ shrugged Elliot. ‘When the beam bounced off Virgo, it kind of . . . exploded.’

  Zeus breathed a sigh of relief. The Chaos Stone was gone. No longer could it threaten the mortals. Nor the Gods. Nor the Daemons. Speaking of whom . . .

  ‘Where is—’ he began.

  ‘Hypnos?’ said Hermes, responding to a face-call from the Daemon. The other immortals and Elliot gathered around his phone. ‘Oi – where the bosh are you?’

  ‘Oh, you know me, here and there,’ said the bruised and battered Daemon. ‘Nowhere you need to worry about. Maybe . . .’

  ‘I want you where I can keep an eye on you,’ said Zeus. ‘I still don’t trust you one iota.’

  ‘I’m hurt,’ gasped Hypnos. ‘And after all I’ve done to help you? Who do you think let Hermes and Hades out of that prison? How ungrateful . . . anyway, can’t chat. Now all the drama’s done, I need to find myself. I need to be me. So, I’m going back to what I do best – being other people. Of course, I need somewhere a Daemon would go unnoticed . . . I think I’ll try my hand at politics.’

  ‘Where’s your brother?’ said Athene quickly. ‘We can’t risk him escaping.’

  ‘Oh, don’t you worry – I’ve already taken care of him,’ giggled Hypnos. ‘I don’t think Brother Dearest will be bothering you anytime soon . . .’

  The first thing that struck Thanatos as he came to his senses was that he couldn’t believe he was alive. When the force of the Chaos Stone had struck him, he’d felt sure that, kardia or no kardia, it was the end of his immortal life. He knew he was strong. But he had no idea just how strong he was. No one did.

  The second thing that struck him was that the Chaos Stone had gone. Before the blast knocked him unconscious, he’d seen his beloved elemental gem shatter into infinite pieces. He had lost its power. The world was no longer his. But – he was st
ill here. He still wanted the world. And he wouldn’t rest until he had it.

  He rose to his feet, dusted himself down and started to make his way across the cave.

  And that’s when the third thing struck him.

  He’d not taken three steps when he was pulled up by something around his leg. He lifted the hem of his black robe. His left ankle was encircled by an iron ring. And attached to the ring was a chain. And the chain was attached to a mighty rock.

  His heart quickened. Where was he?

  Thanatos allowed his groggy eyes to absorb more of his surroundings. He wasn’t at the Earth’s core. He was somewhere torturously familiar. Somewhere he had spent two thousand years exploring every chink in the rock, every pebble on the ground, every dent in the dust. He felt his soul shrink at the very thought of spending one more second here.

  He was back beneath Stonehenge.

  ‘ZEUS!’ he roared, with such force that small rocks came loose from the ceiling. ‘ZEUS! I WILL FIND YOU! I WILL HAVE MY REVENGE! I WILL BE YOUR MASTER! I SWEAR IT ON THE STYX!’

  His vow echoed around the empty cave. And if anyone heard him, they didn’t reply.

  Thanatos, Daemon of Death, was left quite alone, trapped beneath the Earth’s surface to contemplate whether anyone would ever hear him again.

  23. Under the Hammer

  Patricia Porshley-Plum was about to get what she wanted. She could feel it. She could taste the victory on her lips. And, after all this time, it tasted better than ever.

  ‘Welcome, pudding,’ she said for the umpteenth time that morning as another potential buyer crossed the threshold of Home Farm. ‘Please feel free to ask any questions – I am here to helpykins.’

  She smiled insincerely at the fool whom she hoped to part from his money. By the end of today, she would have exactly what she deserved. And she couldn’t wait.

  A strange noise upstairs interrupted her self-congratulation. She followed the confused whispering that led her to the bathroom.

  ‘Excuse me, coming through . . .’ she said, pushing her way through the crowds until she saw what they were staring at. There, in the bathtub, was a fully-grown mermaid, singing to herself as she combed her long black hair. Patricia’s eyes narrowed. She plastered on a smile and turned to the crowds.

  ‘You see!’ she trilled. ‘I told you this would be a truly magical investment! Just a bit of fun – do keep looking around!’

  She ushered everyone out and hissed at the mermaid, who blew a raspberry at her. Closing the door with a scowl, Patricia had a nasty feeling this wasn’t the only surprise she was in for today.

  ‘Aaaaaarrrrgh!’

  The scream came from the master bedroom. Patricia barged past the concerned house viewers in the hallway.

  ‘I-I just wanted to see what the storage was like,’ said a trembling woman, pointing to a cupboard. ‘And then I found that – that – thing . . .’

  Patricia yanked open the door of the cupboard. There inside was a . . . She wasn’t sure what it was. It was small, green and slimy, with worms hissing around its head. And it was grinning at her.

  ‘Plop!’ it squealed, giving her a cheeky wave.

  Patricia shut the door firmly. This was the Hooper boy’s doing. She just knew it.

  ‘Please don’t be alarmed,’ she told the swelling crowd of people in the room. ‘The family that lived here before sadly had a very delinquent child – he was always up to mischief – this is merely one of his toys. They must have forgotten it when they . . . moved.’

  She sensed her buyers’ unease. Time to get them out of the house.

  ‘Have you seen the paddock?’ she said, a little too loudly. ‘Why, it’s nearly the size of a football field. You could get—’

  She stopped short as she looked out of the window. The paddock was indeed in use. By a group of centaurs, who were charging around the field.

  ‘You could get far too distracted looking at everything this property has to offer,’ she continued smoothly. ‘But will you look at that! It’s time for the auction to get underway. Hurry now, you’ll want a seaty near the front so the auctioneer can see you!’

  She started to shepherd the buyers out of the bedroom and down the stairs, leading them to the makeshift auction area she had prepared for the occasion, studiously avoiding the paddock.

  ‘Welcome,’ said the auctioneer, as the buyers settled on the hay bales in front of him. ‘I am pleased to offer for sale the house and dwellings comprising “Home Farm” – an idyllic slice of rural Wiltshire.’

  Patricia felt her shrivelled heart engorge with smug delight. It was happening. She had done it.

  ‘I’m delighted to say that this property has attracted considerable online interest,’ the auctioneer continued. ‘So I am starting the bidding at . . . five hundred thousand pounds!’

  Patricia resisted the urge to make a vulgar whooping noise. Whooping was for peasants. Cultured people like herself should limit themselves to a polite clap, and only then in response to Shakespeare, or to seeing a beggar arrested. But this was most encouraging – half a million pounds, and that was just for starters. The sale of Home Farm had ceased to be about the money long ago. But it would still sweeten her revenge.

  ‘Do I have five hundred and fifty thousand?’ the auctioneer began.

  A paddle went up at the back of the crowd.

  ‘Six hundred?’

  Another rose at the front. This was going to be magnificent. She, Patricia Porshley-Plum, was magnificent.

  ‘Six fif—’

  ‘STOP!’

  Patricia’s innards groaned. She might have known this would happen. She turned to face the scourge of her existence.

  ‘Elliot! Pooky!’ she sang to the boy, who was flanked by his usual bunch of freaks. ‘Now let’s be shushykins and let the grown-ups talk.’

  ‘Good heavens! It’s the missing boy!’ one woman shouted, standing and pointing at Elliot. ‘I saw his picture on Wittering Women! I remember, they were talking about him just before the bit about whether it’s OK to marry someone you met on a Wednesday!’

  ‘It’s him! I read about him online! I retweeted his picture and everything!’ a man near the back cried out, pulling out his phone and taking a picture. ‘This is such great news! I’ll get loads of new followers . . .’

  A flurry of mobile phones were aimed at Elliot. Patricia scowled. This was not part of the plan.

  ‘Behave yourselves!’ another woman cried, standing to shield Elliot from the cameras. ‘He’s just a little boy. Are you OK, dear?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ said Elliot. ‘Or I will be. When I get my home back.’

  ‘Thank goodness you’re all right!’ said Patricia, moving towards Elliot with open arms. The two sisters stepped menacingly forward, suggesting she should advance no further. ‘We’ve all been so worried!’ Patricia cooed. ‘A young boy missing for two whole days.’

  ‘It’s been nearly a week,’ said the woman.

  ‘Doesn’t time fly?’ chuckled Patricia. No one joined her.

  ‘This is my home,’ said Elliot. ‘Give it back.’

  ‘Oh, schnookums,’ said Patricia. ‘I know you’ve had the most terrible time, what with Mumsy and everything. But your daddy sold me the farm.’

  ‘That wasn’t my dad,’ said Elliot. ‘And you know it.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ said the auctioneer. ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘No problem,’ said Patricia. ‘Just little Ellykins here struggling to get his head around the changes.’

  ‘Little Ellykins ain’t struggling with nothing, you horse-faced old bat,’ said an impudent young man with a winged hat. ‘You stole his house. And your fashion sense from the 1950s – double tweed? You are one epic anti-babe . . .’

  Patricia handed the deeds to Home Farm over to the auctioneer.

  ‘As you can see, everything is in order,’ she said, as he riffled through the papers. ‘Carry on.’

  ‘So I see,’ said the auctioneer, picking up his gavel.
‘So, do I see six hundred and fifty thousand pounds?’

  A shaking hand went up at the far side of the auction. Patricia couldn’t see the face. But she didn’t care what they looked like. Just what they were prepared to pay.

  ‘Thank you. Now do I—’

  ‘The boy’s right!’ a voice rang out. ‘This sale is illegal!’

  Patricia rolled her eyes. Was it National Everyone She Didn’t Want to See Day? And now she detected it: the unmistakeable waft of vegetable bisque.

  ‘Mr Boil?’ the Hooper boy exclaimed. He looked as surprised as she.

  ‘Shut up, Hooper!’ Boil slurred, swigging from a bottle in a brown paper bag. ‘This doesn’t concern you.’

  ‘Er – it’s my house,’ said Elliot. ‘So, yeah, it kinda does . . .’

  ‘That woman is a she-devil!’ Boil yelled, lurching slightly. ‘She’s a thief and a liar and . . . and . . . and a COW!’

  ‘Could we call security and have this drunkard removed?’ Patricia whispered to the auctioneer. ‘These local yokels are all the same. One sniff of cider and they’re all over the show . . .’

  ‘You can’t silence me,’ said Boil as a security guard approached. ‘Not like you silenced your husband . . .’

  ‘My beloved Charles died five years ago in a tragic boating accident,’ sniffed Patricia.

  ‘Your beloved Charles is recovering in a French hospital,’ sneered Boil. ‘He called me this morning.’

  ‘You’re drunk,’ spat Patricia, feeling the panic rise in her throat.

  ‘You’re done for,’ said Boil. ‘Once he can walk on his broken leg, Charles is coming over here. And he’s coming after you.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re—’

  ‘I know everything,’ Boil whispered, staggering towards her. ‘How you stole that winning lottery ticket from the weird cat lady. How you forged the papers to get guardianship of the Hooper boy. How you stole this house from under him. And the second Charles gets here—’

  ‘He’ll be arrested for fraud,’ Patricia declared. ‘Some use he’ll be to you then.’

  ‘Oh, he’s already talking to the authorities,’ said Boil. ‘They’re prepared to look far more kindly on him if he’ll testify against you. I warned you, Patricia. You should never have crossed me.’