Antigoddess gw-1 Read online

  Athena looked down at the Nereid. It stared at them with almost delirious satisfaction, breath coming in shuddering gasps. It would be dead in seconds.

  “Who are we fighting against?” she asked. “If you believe what you say, if we’re all dead anyway, then it won’t matter if you tell me or not.”

  For a second the creature stared at her stubbornly. And then it blinked. Motion caught the corner of her eye and she watched its webbed fingers flicker in a hesitant, reluctant way, down toward its own thigh. Athena looked, but wasn’t sure what she was looking at. It appeared to be a series of scars, poorly healed and tightly puckered in fist-sized crescents.

  “What are those?” Hermes asked, cocking his head and peering closer.

  “They’re teeth marks,” Athena replied in a dull voice. She ran her hand over them gently, and the Nereid tensed. Athena shook her head to soothe it. The anger had leaked out of her as her fingers had traced those scars. She thought she could see wetness clouding the Nereid’s eyes and understood. They were tears of humiliation and powerlessness.

  “Do you want me to see?” she whispered, and the Nereid strained toward her. She stretched out her hand and pressed her palm to the creature’s forehead.

  The world was water. Clear greens and blues and diamond sand. Cold surrounded their bodies, but didn’t chill them; it was a constant breeze upon their cheeks. They might have been in any shallow cove anywhere in the world. Beams of white light cut through the water and illuminated the sea floor in rippling patches. And someone was screaming.

  Many of them were screaming. It had been so still a moment before, glittering and calm. Now the water churned, it turned dark, it stank of blood. Sand was kicked up to mingle with the red cloud, a cloud that would attract no sharks, and continued to grow along with the sound of screaming. In the center, a bearded figure seemed to be nothing more than arms and teeth, reaching fingers and clenching jaws. He was eating them, wrenching their flesh loose, tearing their limbs free, cracking their bones. He called them and they came, because they always had, because they had to, and he swallowed them in chunks. Some died gratefully. Others, like this one, survived to swim away and heal, until the next time he called.

  Athena jerked her hand away, and the Nereid’s head dropped to the floor and bounced. It was dead, and she was glad that it had died here, at the hands of those it called enemies, rather than be murdered by him that it called master, that it called father.

  “Take a breath,” Hermes said. He had her by the shoulders and she put her hand over his. “What did you see?”

  I saw Poseidon gone mad, Poseidon surviving in the way of the Titans, only worse than the Titans, more savage, disgusting.

  She gestured to the bite scar. “Poseidon did that. He ate most of his Nereid’s leg.” Bile rose up into her throat and cold ran over her in waves. The Nereids were Poseidon’s most loyal servants. They had loved him, and he them, since the moment of their creation. They were his children. And he was eating them.

  “That is … disgusting,” Hermes said. “It’s like sampling the family dog.”

  “Anyway, it’s nothing useful,” she said, and spat onto the floor. A taste of bad fish coated her mouth. She had to get out of the bar, away from oily blood and salt. Hermes helped her up, and she bolted jerkily for the door. She didn’t breathe deeply until she was fifteen feet into the night air.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah,” she said, and spat again. Then she started walking. If she didn’t get away, she might throw up all of her beer, and that was beer she had paid plenty for.

  “What are we going to do?” Hermes asked for what felt like the millionth time.

  “You’re going to burn down that bar, and then catch up to me,” Athena said without turning. “And then we’re going to find Cassandra. Before they do.”

  5

  INTO THE DARK

  The backseat of Henry’s Mustang was way too hot. They’d cranked the heat up, not wanting Cassandra to get a chill, but it was stifling, and when she came back to herself she jerked upright, trying to get air. Her foot knocked against the side armrest and made everything worse; it felt cramped, too hot and too small. The camel-tan interior bled through her vision and as the car lurched to the left her stomach heaved.

  “Open a window,” she mumbled.

  “Roll the window down,” Aidan said, and a moment later the cold hit her face. She sucked it in hard through her nose, feeling it saturate down to her toes.

  “Is that better?”

  “Yeah.” She blinked at him. She was half on his lap, her legs twisted down behind the passenger seat. The dome light was on and Henry was driving, a little too fast maybe for the way he kept glancing into the back.

  “Is she okay?” he asked. “Are you okay, Cassie?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “Do I need to drive to the hospital?”

  “No,” Aidan answered for her. “I think she’s okay. Just head to your house.”

  Henry’s eyes met hers in the mirror; she nodded.

  “Where’s Andie?”

  “Right behind us.”

  Cassandra lifted onto her elbows and looked back. The familiar headlights of Andie’s silver Saturn followed close behind. She took one more deep breath. She must’ve blacked out. When she remembered why, her eyes snapped to Aidan, but he was just Aidan, no feathers or blood. He reached up to touch her face and she jerked away. There had been feathers coming through his fingers as well, red-tinged quills breaking through the joints and twisting out from beneath his fingernails. It made her fingers sore just thinking about it, like a nail had been torn off.

  “Hey, it’s okay.” Aidan held his palm up and didn’t touch her until she’d relaxed. He looked from one eye to the other, checking her pupils.

  “She’s never done that before,” Henry said from the front. “Has she eaten today?”

  “Probably not enough. And then she had a beer on top of it.” But not a lot of beer. Not so much that she’d hallucinate. They turned onto Ticonderoga Drive, which led to Somerset Street and their house. Henry kept watching her in the rearview mirror, ready to jerk the Mustang around and drive to the hospital at the first sign of distress. When they pulled into their driveway, he came around to get her door.

  “Hold still,” he said when she got out. He put his hand on her chin and turned her face into the beam of their garage door light. “Do you hurt anywhere?” Cassandra moved her shoulders and shifted her weight from foot to foot. She shook her head. “Do you remember what happened?”

  “I think she’s fine,” said Aidan.

  Henry ignored him.

  Andie’s Saturn turned into the driveway, bathing them in its headlights. Her shoes squeaked on the pavement a few seconds later.

  “You screamed and fell down.” Andie’s brows knit. “That’s weird even for you.”

  “Nice going,” Henry snapped. “I wanted to find out if she remembered what happened.”

  “Shut up, Henry.” Andie shoved him, but did look sort of regretful.

  “Let’s just get her in out of the cold,” Aidan suggested. They walked with her to the front door in a tight formation, ready to catch her if she fell. It was nice of them, but the tone of the conversation had started to change, taking a turn toward talking about her like she wasn’t there.

  When they got through the door, Cassandra squirmed free and took off her coat and shoes, grateful that her hands weren’t shaking. “I probably just didn’t have enough to eat today,” she said. “Andie keeps stealing my lunches.”

  “You never fight me for them.”

  Inside the house she felt better. There was space to move, even in the entryway, and it was familiar. Home. The TV was on in the den, and canned audience laughter from the sitcom rerun their parents were watching carried down the hall. A hint of garlic laced the air, along with roasted chicken.

  “I think I’m fine now,” she said, right before a black-and-silver German shepherd barreled past her legs
on his way to Henry.

  “You kids have fun?” Their dad came into the hall holding an empty snack bowl. Cassandra looked at Henry. When he looked away first, she knew he wouldn’t say anything.

  “Nobody better smell like beer.” Her father stopped short in front of them and scrutinized their faces. He adjusted his glasses and leaned closer to give her face a sniff.

  “Dad.”

  “Cassandra smells like beer.”

  “A glass and a half. Over like three hours. I swear.”

  He gave her the eye and grilled everyone else. They came up clean.

  “Sixteen-year-old girls don’t need beer,” her dad said, but it was a tired lecture. He’d been talking to them about drinking responsibly since they were thirteen. “You might be grounded. I’m going to talk to your mother.” He reached a long arm into the kitchen and set the empty bowl on the counter. “Honey,” he called. “The kids are hammered!”

  “What?!”

  “Kidding, dear.” He smiled, but when he raised a finger his voice was stern. “I am going to talk to your mother.” He turned away back down the hall. “You kids just be careful.”

  * * *

  Aidan insisted she get into bed, so she sat, still dressed in jeans and her blue cardigan, her blankets pulled up to her waist and the big black-and-silver dog stretched along one side. Andie sat on the edge of the bed and scratched his ears.

  “Can’t believe Henry let you borrow Lux,” she said. “He must think you’re dying.”

  Cassandra stroked the dog’s furred shoulder, and Lux tilted his head toward her and whined. He’d stay with her until she fell asleep, then sneak out of her room to go crawl in with Henry. Despite being adopted as a family dog, he’d been Henry’s from the start.

  Andie stood up. “Listen, I’ll call you after I’m done at the nursery tomorrow. You need a ride home, Aidan?”

  “I can walk.”

  Andie waved, and they listened to her footsteps tramp down the stairs. There was a short, muffled exchange with Cassandra’s parents, and a few seconds later, the front door opened and closed. Lux’s ears pricked when she started her car. For a few deep breaths it was silent, and Cassandra sat in her bed, cuddled into her blue comforter. Whatever it was she’d thought she’d seen, it wasn’t real. Feathers didn’t sprout from people like leaves. They didn’t slice through a body and tear them up from the inside out. And Aidan was fine.

  “So,” Cassandra said hesitantly. “Did I make a scene?”

  Aidan shrugged from the foot of the bed, where he lay reclined on one elbow.

  “A little. Sam said it was a nice diversionary tactic from Casey and Matt.”

  Cassandra smiled. It was what she expected. Kincade was full of nice, nonbigoted people. She’d been a little strange all her life, but no one ever made her feel it. When she went back to school on Monday, a few would ask how she was doing, whether she was okay, and when she said she was fine, they’d talk about something else. It seemed strange sometimes, like something was in the water.

  It feels like a shield, she thought, but didn’t know why she thought that.

  “You going to tell me what happened?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” In a minute or so. She wished they were somewhere else, at the kitchen table, maybe, or in the den had her parents not been in it. Her room seemed suddenly childish, with its white dresser and vanity and gauzy blue curtains. There was a jewelry box on the vanity that played music; her mother had gotten it for her when she was six. She wanted to throw it out the window.

  None of this is mine.

  “Cassandra?”

  “You’re not going to believe me,” she said, and he gave her a look. Of course he would believe her. He always did.

  “I saw you, standing in front of me. Except you weren’t right. There were cuts—wounds—and there were feathers coming out of them.”

  “Feathers?”

  “Everywhere. Brown and white. Like they were slicing through you somehow. Even through your tongue and”—she made a face—“under your fingernails.”

  Seconds ticked by with Aidan staring at the blanket. It wasn’t exactly the quick comfort she’d expected.

  “It was really real. I think I could smell the blood, the disease, even through the cold.” She swallowed, careful not to inhale too deeply. That smell might stay with her the rest of her life: sweet, cloying, and sick. It reminded her of counting pennies from her piggy bank.

  Beside them, something struck the window, and Lux nearly punctured Cassandra’s lung scrambling off the bed to attack. It was gone before he’d managed to bark twice, gone in a thump and a flash of silent feathers, but they’d both seen what it was: an owl. An owl had landed on the windowsill. It had balanced for an instant, all tufted ears and yellow eyes.

  “Lux, quiet,” said Cassandra, and the dog gave one final bark before returning to jump back onto her lap. Aidan went to the window and rubbed his sleeve through the fog of dog breath.

  “It’s gone.”

  “That’s a weird coincidence,” Cassandra said.

  “Yeah.” Aidan returned to the bed but didn’t sit. He reached for his jacket. “Listen, I’d better let you get some sleep. You and your dad.”

  “My dad?” she asked as he walked to her door.

  “You think he actually goes to bed before he hears me go out the door?” He smiled, then paused with his hand on the knob. “You know I won’t let anything happen to you, don’t you?”

  “I know. Are you weirded out?”

  “No. And if I am, I like it.”

  * * *

  The sensation of cold hit her first. It shocked her insteps and made her toes clench. The dead, half-frozen grass spread ice all the way up her legs, and slow, chilly wind took care of the rest of her.

  It’s cold and it’s dark. And I’m flipping barefoot. Where am I?

  Moonlight showed the bony trunks of pines, green needles silver in the night. Up ahead was the orange glow of a dying fire, and the wind rattled through dry, brittle things.

  Abbott Park?

  No, not Abbott Park. There was no crumbling, patchy stone fence, and the trees were different. No sound of moving water from the stream either. Wherever she was, it wasn’t in the hills of Kincade. It was wide open, and flat.

  This is a dream.

  But every physical sensation was there, from the cold on her goose-bumped skin to the irritating wet of thawing grass between her toes. Even the weight of her body. It felt completely real, to move and blink, to feel her hair shift across her back.

  But I’ve had these dreams before. This must be someplace I’m going. Soon.

  Cassandra stood silent, waiting for whatever mundane tidbit the dream wanted to impart. She crossed her arms. Stupid. The last thing she remembered was lying in her bed with a warm dog beside her. Now she was in the middle of a frigid, overgrown field, edged by pine trees.

  I’m dreaming of an overgrown field. I’m not really in one. Just show me what you’re going to show me already.

  Nothing happened. She waited, and then walked toward the place where the small fire ebbed in a hand-dug pit. She wondered who dug it; maybe her dad, or Henry. Maybe this was a preview of a really miserable future camping trip. When she stepped into the small clearing, off the grass, her wet feet turned the dirt to mud that stuck to her soles.

  “Damn it.”

  Her voice rang out too loud and made her jump, which made her feel stupid. Cold air crept down the neck of her sleep shirt and the embers of the fire inhaled and glowed brighter. She put her foot over them to get dry, but couldn’t feel heat. Her foot dropped lower and lower, until she stood on the embers.

  This is different.

  “This is different.” Her voice was too loud again, though she’d spoken softly. But she didn’t care. Something was off here; something was unfamiliar. What was off was hard to say. It felt … altered.

  I don’t know this place. I’ll never know this place.

  The urge to leave rose up in her neck and s
houlders and rushed down to her feet. The instinct to back up, to return the same way she’d come and disturb nothing.

  Maybe then they’ll never know I was here.

  But who did she mean? Her heel shuffled backward, out of the coals she couldn’t feel, and in her hurry she sent pebbles and sand skittering across the ground, loud as her voice. She jumped back, and gave a short yelp when her feet ran up against a rough wool blanket.

  It hadn’t been there before; she was sure of it.

  There’s something under that blanket.

  She knew it as surely as she knew it hadn’t been there a moment before. She wouldn’t touch it in a million years, but she bent, and her fingers found the edge.

  Don’t.

  Her heart hammered. The adrenaline would wake her up as soon as she lifted the blanket. Too soon for whatever was underneath to move. But not too soon to see it.

  Don’t, idiot.

  Her fingertips tightened on the edge of the wool and pulled until his face came into the light.

  His face. Just a boy. Not much older than she was, relaxed and asleep. Shaggy, dark hair hung across his forehead. He was handsome, with angular cheekbones. The sight of him filled her with cold dread.

  I know him. Or I did. I would if he’d open his eyes. If he opened his eyes, they’d be dark, dark brown. And they’d be so clever.

  But she couldn’t know him from anywhere. Not from school, even though he seemed about Henry’s age, maybe seventeen or eighteen. The gentleness of sleep wasn’t at home on his face. This boy was a flashed grin, narrowed eyes, a quick tongue. An image of him flickered: fierce and confident. She wanted to hit him in the head with a rock.

  It wouldn’t do any good. It’s done. It’s started.

  “What’s done? What’s started?” Words flew into her mind. Her own thoughts, but she didn’t understand them.

  The wind shifted, and drew her gaze up and away from the boy, into the trees. She couldn’t see anything but black shadows between trunks. Maybe that was where she was supposed to go. Her way out.

  “No.” No. She stared at the darkness. That’s not the way out. “There are wolves in the woods.” Not wolves.