Griffin felt another thrill of desire throb between the handmaiden’s legs. “Very much so,” she breathed.
The thrill changed, then, turning into a nagging ache. With a flicker of annoyance, Griffin realized his bladder was full.
And then he was awake, staring at the shadowed ceiling of his bedroom. With an effort he sat up, pressing the palm of his hand against his right brow and the ever-present ache that had bloomed into beating life behind it.
He grimaced. Given a choice, he’d rather be back in Greece with Medusa and the gorgeous Amphitrite. Of course, Poseidon would kill me, but Christ, it would have been worth it.
Wincing, he got to his feet and headed to the bathroom.
****
Poseidon didn’t spend much time in his home, only long enough to bathe and change into a clean linen chiton. His palace daimons hurried to pin the long white tunic at his shoulders, draping a himation, or cloak, across his left shoulder and lacing up his sandals.
Once dressed, he reached out and summoned his trident. The long, beautifully crafted golden weapon materialized, coming to his hand like a trusted pet. He hefted it, finding the balance point. It had been made for him by the Cyclopes as a gift for helping to overthrow Cronus and the rest of the Titans, and he could use it to soothe an angry sea or set the land to trembling.
A pity it doesn’t frighten the Fates.
Setting his expression to its sternest, he left the palace and set out on the white marble road that wound through Mount Olympus. He could have summoned more daimons to carry him, or the beautifully gilded chariot waiting in the stables on his pleasure, but he wanted time to think before he broached the Fates’ stronghold.
The home of the Gods was only tenuously related to the mountain in Greece that bore the same name. The divine Mount Olympus existed in a space between worlds, where it could maintain connections to the other pantheons of Earth as well as the planet itself. Olympus’s physical reality was a lushly verdant mountaintop spiked with dark green poplars and waving cypresses. Its road ran in a gently graded spiral around the mountaintop, terminating at Zeus’s mighty residence and the Hall of the Olympian Gods on Olympus’s peak. The road’s lower end began at a curious dark structure that was Hephaestus’s home and forge. Each of the Twelve Olympians maintained an official residence on the road, although Hades’s home was primarily ceremonial due to his need to remain in the Underworld, and side roads ran to smaller mansions belonging to various minor gods and demigods.
Poseidon had chosen to set off down the mountain before dawn in the hopes of avoiding the rest of his family. He’d successfully made it past most of the palaces just as the first rays of the sun crested the edge of Olympus. All he needed now was to pass Hermes’s sleekly aerodynamic home and the now-quiet forge before taking the trail to the pavilion of the Fates on the mount’s eastern side—
“Uncle,” a surprised voice said. “Fancy meeting you here.”
Poseidon cursed under his breath, then gave a grudging nod to the sleepy being who had appeared next to the road. “Hermes. A little early for you, isn’t it?”
“Late, actually,” the God of Messengers said through a yawn. Despite being thousands of years old, he appeared to be a tall, lean young man with curly dark hair and large greenish-brown eyes. “Hephaestus and I are still working on getting a Wi-Fi connection running up here. I can get the signal through the cable right up until that damned trans-world barrier, and then it goes all to Tartarus.”
The last thing Poseidon needed was to hear Hermes nattering away again on telecommunications issues. “You have my sympathies,” he said brusquely. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
“It’s a little early for you, though,” Hermes said though another yawn. “And on foot as well. That’s unusual for you, Uncle. I thought you went everywhere in your chariot.”
Poseidon drew himself up, planting his trident on the creamy marble of the road. “If I choose to walk this morning, Messenger, it is my business and none of yours,” he said stiffly.
“I suppose the horses would make a lot of racket on the road, of course,” Hermes mused as if Poseidon hadn’t spoken. “Which leads me to suspect that you’re headed somewhere you don’t want anyone to know about.” He smiled. “Now I am intrigued.”
For a moment Poseidon entertained the thought of running his mouthy nephew through with the trident. But Hermes came by his reputation for speed honestly. It would be annoying to fail at stabbing the little bastard while he translocated and continued his commentary. “What is it you want?”
“Help,” Hermes said promptly. “From Bythos. He’s awfully clever with all that mortal science and technology, isn’t he? I’d like to get him up here to consult with Heph and me.”
Poseidon felt a muscle jump in his cheek, but controlled his irritation. “I’ll pass on your request. I warn you, though, he’s very busy at the moment.”
“Yes, I heard. New consort and all that, not to mention the unpleasant business with Thetis.” The Messenger God glanced down the road at the dark forge. “You might not want to bring up that particular subject with Hephaestus, by the way. You know how he feels about her.”
As well as being the smith of the Gods, Hephaestus was also known as the Lame God due to his twisted leg. Thetis had saved the infant Hephaestus’s life after his mother Hera had seen his deformity for the first time and thrown him in horror from Olympus. Hephaestus considered Thetis to be his foster mother and would undoubtedly be on the Nereid’s side in any struggle.
“I understand the smith’s gentle feeling, but he may not have that luxury for much longer,” Poseidon said. “The Thetis we fight now is not the loving Nereid who raised him. Worse, she’s become disturbingly powerful in her madness.”
Hermes pursed his lips. “Even so, if it comes to choosing sides you’ll have a hard time convincing him to fight against her, or indeed to do anything contributing to her downfall,” he said seriously. “A word to the wise, Uncle.”
“Noted. And now, if you’ll excuse me?”
Hermes gave a florid bow, followed up by a wink. “Don’t forget to speak to Bythos for me, will you? I’m getting very tired of traipsing down to Earth every time I want to check my Twitter feed.”
Poseidon’s only response was a flat glare. Hermes took the hint and sauntered back to his own mansion.
The sea god set off again, passing the forge. At this point the road petered out, changing from unpolished white marble into a worn but usable path in the turf. Poseidon followed it into a stand of oak and cypress, taking care not to snag his trident on a low-handing branch.
Eventually the path disappeared completely, leaving him in the middle of a forest. He stopped for a moment and extended his senses. The entirety of Mount Olympus flared to life in his head, each being currently in residence picked out in a flickering aurora of light. And ahead of him—yes, up there and to the right.
He pushed through the green, sweet-smelling thicket until he wound up in a clearing that held a stone cottage. Roses of every color swarmed up the cottage walls in wild proliferation, their scent perfuming the air even in the coolness of dawn. On the cottage’s far side was a well-tended garden, and a few industrious workers had already emerged from a bee gum at the bottom of the garden in search of pollen.
In front of the cottage was a tidy hard-packed courtyard, newly swept. A young woman with long black hair and almond-shaped brown eyes sat there on a wooden stool. At her feet was a basket full of shimmering golden fiber that she drew out with one hand, twisting it into a fine thread. In her other hand she held a spindle, with the end of the newly spun thread looped through a small hook in the top of the device. As Poseidon watched, the girl deftly unlooped the golden thread and wound what she had just spun on the spindle, then relooped it and began spinning out more of the gleaming stuff.
He cleared his throat. The girl didn’t look up from her work but lifted her head and smiled in his direction. “Welcome, Lord Poseidon. Please pardon me—I’m trying
to catch up on a backlog,” she said.
He nodded. “Lady Clotho.” The youngest of the three Fates, Clotho was responsible for spinning the life threads used in the Tapestry, the massive, never-ending textile that detailed the lives of every individual on the planet. “I apologize for interrupting, but might I speak with you and your sisters?”
Clotho glanced up at him then. Her lips curved up in a tiny, amused smile as she wound the spun thread again, before lowering the loaded spindle into the basket. “Lachesis and Atropos had a bet on how long it would take you to come here for clarification,” she said, glancing over her shoulder into the cottage. “Lachesis won.”
Poseidon gritted his teeth at that. “How charming. I’m glad I was able to provide you with some amusement.”
“And we thank you for that, Earthshaker,” Clotho said easily. “It does get rather dull around here at times.” Standing up, the Fate brushed golden threads off a deep blue tunic trimmed with red. Her feet were shapely but bare, and somewhat dusty from the courtyard. “Come in, then. The tea should be ready.”
He followed her into the cottage. The whitewashed great room that took up the majority of the building was rustic but clean, well-lit by oil lamps set into niches in the walls. The dawn light came through an east-facing window, adding its lambent glow to the illumination.
In the center of the great room a willowy blonde in a green tunic sat before a massive tapestry loom, long fingers passing a shuttle between the loom’s threads. The picture she wove was a stunningly complex array of images that seemed to move in the tapestry as he watched, making the rich cloth look alive. Which, Poseidon thought, it was after a fashion.
The Weaver glanced over her shoulder and beamed at his approach. “Lord Poseidon. And it hasn’t been twenty-four hours yet, Atropos. I won.”
“So I see, Lachesis,” the other occupant of the room said, her tone starchy but amused. Unlike her sisters, Atropos’s gown was floor-length and woven from a rainbow of color. Tightly curling silver hair lay close-cropped to her round skull, and while her face was heavily lined with age Poseidon could still see her beauty. She held up a tray bearing a teapot sculpted to look like driftwood, with four matching cups. “You’re more eager than I anticipated, Lord Poseidon.”
“Recent events have prompted me to accelerate my investigation, Lady Atropos,” Poseidon said. “For instance, I now know that the soul of Medusa has been reincarnated in the body of a mortal named Griffin Moore.”
The third Fate’s eyes narrowed as she set the tray down on a low table next to the loom. “Ah, you’ve already met him. Good. I was worried you might be distracted by one of Thetis’s tantrums.” She poured out fragrant tea into one of the cups, offering it to him.
“Thank you,” he said, accepting it. “Since you know my sons and I are busy battling Thetis, may I ask why you decided to reweave Medusa’s soul back into the Tapestry now?”
“Rather than at a time when you would be at leisure to court her, you mean?” Lachesis said, laying down her shuttle and accepting a cup from her sister. “Lord Poseidon, you know as well as we do that the Tapestry is a complex device. We are partially responsible for shaping it, yes, but every individual’s lifeline plays its part in how the threads interact with each other. Sometimes a section holds together quite well on its own, but other times it may require reinforcing. In those situations, I have the option to reuse threads that were previously cut from the Tapestry.”
Atropos picked up what looked like a large leather-bound folio. When she opened it, however, Poseidon saw that it was filled with page after page of pockets sewn to stiff vellum. Shimmering threads poked from the top of each pocket.
“These are the life threads of those souls who did not fulfill their destinies while on earth,” Atropos said. “I collect them after I snip them free from the Tapestry and store them here until Lachesis finds a spot where they can be rewoven back into the Tapestry.”
Lachesis nodded in agreement. “As for Medusa, she had a very specific fate, one that she did not fulfill,” the Weaver said. “Thus her thread went into Atropos’s book. At this moment you and your immediate circle are entering into a period of grave danger. That section of the Tapestry is severely kinked, so much so that I feared that it might cause the entire Tapestry to unravel.”
Poseidon felt a chill at the words. “So Thetis does threaten all life on earth.”
“Oh, yes. Your people are the only ones who can stop her. That is why I chose to reweave Medusa’s thread back into the pattern now, to reinforce your thread and Amphitrite’s. So far it seems to be holding.” She glanced at the Tapestry. “That being said, I wouldn’t dawdle with your wooing, Lord Poseidon. The Mad Nereid is unpredictable and may strike again at any time.”
The thought of Thetis attacking his lost agapetos made Poseidon’s hands clench into fists. “How long is Medusa’s remaining life thread?”
Clotho and Lachesis looked to the Shearer, who lifted her chin. “Fifty years, sea lord.”
He recalled Griffin’s appearance, the lines around the mortal’s eyes, all the signs of middle age. “How old is Griffin Moore?”
Atropos gazed at him steadily. “Fifty years old.”
“No.” The earlier chill now spread throughout Poseidon’s body, searing like deadly frost. “He can’t die. Not now. Not—” Just as I’ve found him.
The Shearer shook her head. “He can and will. The manner of his death, however, is yet to be determined.”
Poseidon’s hand tightened on his trident. “Then add more thread,” he demanded. “Splice a new life onto his.”
Clotho paled. “It doesn’t work that way, Lord Poseidon,” she said, appalled. “To do that would take life from another soul. It’s anathema.”
“She’s quite right, you know,” Lachesis said with a disapproving frown. “A life thread may be cut short, but not lengthened.” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter, though. The time Medusa has remaining on earth should be enough to bring you and Amphitrite back together again.”
“It doesn’t matter? You dare say that to my face?” Poseidon’s fear transmuted into anger. The tea in the cups began to tremble faintly, and fine motes of dust fell from the thatched roof. “You can’t kill Medusa—Griffin. I won’t allow it, Lady Atropos.”
The Shearer’s dark eyes were chips of black ice. “I do not kill mortals, Lord Poseidon,” she said. “My responsibility is to the Tapestry and making sure that its pattern abides. Sometimes a thread must be snipped in order to maintain the pattern. Other times, it simply runs out. That is the case here.”
“Medusa’s destiny lies with Amphitrite and me—”
“Which she still has time to fulfill,” Atropos pointed out. “But she was never meant to be with you forever, Lord Poseidon. Medusa was mortal, after all. So I would suggest that you move quickly before her thread ends.”
He lifted his trident, overwhelmed with a blinding urge to lay waste to the cottage and its inhabitants. “You will not—”
Poseidon.
An immense presence surrounded him, wrapping him in invisible bonds. He knew what—who—it was, but struggled until his muscles bulged and sweat broke out on his skin.
It held him as easily as a mother held a baby.
Finally he stopped, panting. Grandmother, please, don’t let them kill her. I’ll do whatever you ask, but let Medusa live.
The presence around him warmed. The Fates must fulfill their duties, just as you must, my child, Gaia said in his mind. But even they cannot see all of the Tapestry.
Poseidon went still. What are you saying, Grandmother?
There was a gentle increase of the pressure holding him, Gaia’s equivalent of a hug. Return to earth and court your agapetos, both of them, and I will consider your plea. But move quickly before Thetis can strike again.
The force disappeared, causing him to stumble a bit. Catching himself on the trident, he straightened and glared at the imperturbable Fates. “This will be remembered, ladies.”
>
The two younger Fates pursed their lips as if to hide smiles. Atropos merely raised an impassive eyebrow. “By us as well, sea lord,” she said.
Gathering the remnants of his shredded dignity around him, Poseidon stalked out of the cottage. He would deal with the terrible trio later. Right now, he had a pair of agapetos to win back.
Chapter Three
Griffin untied the sailboat’s mooring rope, wrapping it for stowage before moving to the boat’s stern. He took the seat next to the small outboard motor. It was only needed to move the boat out of the cove and into open water. Then he could let the sails take over.
He paused, tilting his face up and letting the Florida sun warm his skin. He’d slathered on his usual sunscreen that morning, then wondered why he was bothering. Not like you’re going to be around long enough to develop skin cancer.
Common sense kicked in. But a sunburn still hurts like a bastard.
The weather was definitely a huge improvement on the rain currently soaking Southampton, according to Weather Underground. His NOC colleagues knew about his sun worshiper tendencies, so none of them had been surprised that he was going somewhere warm for two weeks. The only shocker had been that he was going all the way to Florida. “I can understand wanting some fun in the sun,” an oceanographer named Danny with an ever-rotating carousel of girlfriends had said. “But Ibiza’s a hell of a lot closer. You know, just in case…”
Danny had trailed off, then, looking embarrassed. Nobody wanted to mention the elephant in the room. Griffin didn’t particularly want to look at it himself.
Hence his decision to take his holiday far from his well-meaning colleagues, friends, and the few family members he still spoke to. For two weeks he wouldn’t have to listen to the refrain of “Have You Heard About Griffin, Poor Sod?” In Florida he could be an anonymous tourist, spending his days out on the boat and his nights in a cottage drinking all the beer he could stomach, eating things that were horrible for him, and indulging himself in a read-through of the works of J.R.R. Tolkien.
Deep Water Page 5
