Ungodly Page 9
“Open your eyes,” he shouted over the noise. Cassandra pried her eyes open. Megaera had become a true Fury again. Veined wings writhed underneath the chains. Strange bones stuck out at odd angles, and Cassandra heard one snap. Megaera would tear herself apart, getting free. But she would get free.
“Kill her!” Thanatos shouted.
“What?” Cassandra jerked. He wanted her to kill the Fury. To lay her hands on a tip of one wing, and watch the red eyes burst inside her skull. He wanted Megaera dead so she wouldn’t be on their trail, and so she couldn’t warn Hades that they were coming.
It would only take seconds, and the screeching would stop. They would all be able to think again. And breathe. Cassandra’s hands clenched into fists, but she felt no heat.
“You do it!” she shouted, but he shook his head.
“I’ll do it.” Calypso dashed to the shelf and took up the knife. In two quick strides she positioned herself behind Megaera and drove the knife through the base of her skull, up into the brain. She twisted the blade and sawed her head off. It happened so quickly. Cassandra hadn’t even thought to look away.
“Worthless gods of death,” Calypso said, and tossed the Fury’s head into a corner.
* * *
The bowl of blood sat heavily between Cassandra and Thanatos on his kitchen island. Blood filled the lower third, still and thick as a dark red soup. Cassandra wasn’t sure, but she thought she could smell it, as if it had already started to rot.
Calypso remained down below, annoyed with both of them for not acting sooner. She’d volunteered to bury the body, and occasionally Cassandra thought she heard the strike of the spade, or the thumping of the corpse as Calypso rolled it into its shallow grave.
“Are you sure this is going to work?” Cassandra asked.
Thanatos shrugged. “You know the old saying. ‘Find a Fury, drink its blood, all day long you’ll have good luck.’”
“That’s ‘find a penny, pick it up.’ And that blood better last more than a day, because I don’t want to summon another one of those things.”
Thanatos’ lips pressed together in a grim line. She got the feeling he was annoyed with her, too.
“Do we need to do anything to it? To prepare it?” she asked.
“Nope. Just drink it.”
“Am I going to have to watch?”
His dark eyes flashed.
“You’re the one who’s set on vengeance. You should have to be the one to do it,” he said. “You should want to do it.”
“What’s your problem? Are you seriously pissed that I didn’t kill the Fury in the basement? Because you’re the flipping god of death, so—”
“It’s not that you didn’t. It’s that you couldn’t.” He placed his hands on the counter on either side of the bowl. “You couldn’t.”
“Whatever this is”—she fluttered her fingers—“it doesn’t work the way I … It’s like my visions. It does what it wants.” But Cassandra could hear the lie in her own voice. The visions came from outside of her. From some other force that showed her what would be. When she killed gods, she drew their deaths right out of their centers. It was her will, like a sword.
Thanatos grabbed her hand.
“Whatever this is,” he said, “it comes from rage. From hate, and from pain.”
She waited for him to throw her hand back, but he didn’t. Instead his touch softened and he slid his cool fingers against her palm.
“And that makes it dangerous,” he said. “It makes it corrupt.”
“You’re the expert.” She curled her lip. “But this? It’s not about death. It’s about killing. And there’s a big goddamn difference.”
Thanatos’ eyes were sad. “Yes. There is.”
The door to the garage opened and closed. Calypso had finished the burial. Cassandra pulled her hand free before Calypso turned the corner into the kitchen.
“The blood is still in the bowl,” Calypso said, and flicked irritated beach-glass eyes in both their directions. She pushed sweaty strands of hair off her forehead. Her fingers left dark streaks of dirt and blood. “I’m going to use your shower,” she said, and left.
“We should probably have the blood out of the bowl by the time she gets out,” Cassandra said.
“She grows impatient,” said Thanatos. “She wants it over. She wants to be dead.” He went to his cupboards and pulled out a dark blue metallic sport cup. Roughly half the blood went into it, and then into the refrigerator. The other half he poured into a glass tumbler.
Cassandra swallowed. She fought the urge to look away or to ask for more sparkling water to calm her stomach.
“Bottoms up.” He swallowed the blood in one long gulp. It took forever to leave the glass. So much longer than it took to run out of the Fury’s wrist. When he finished, he looked even paler than when he started.
“Thanatos?”
He buckled, and Cassandra reached for him across the counter. But his weight was too much. It pulled her halfway up and over. Her elbow upended the mostly empty tumbler of blood and it leaked a large, dark dot onto the white countertop.
“I can’t hold you!” She jerked him hard to the right so she could clamber around the end. Thanatos convulsed. She held him, even though the blood coating his teeth made her want to retch.
“Are you all right?” she asked. “Should I do something?”
He didn’t answer, so she lowered him to the floor and went to the sink to wet a towel with cold water. By the time she pressed it to his forehead, the convulsions had mostly stopped.
“Something to drink,” he said. “Something strong.”
She ran to the bar and poured a large snifter of brandy.
“Date-rape brandy to the rescue,” she said, and pulled his head into her lap so he could drink.
“I would never—” He sipped. “—roofie anyone. Don’t be insulting or I’ll barf Fury blood all over your skirt.”
“I was kidding.” She brushed her fingers across his forehead. “And you should have warned me about the seizure.”
“I’ve never had a reaction like that before.”
“Was it because she was dying? I noticed her eyes. All the vessels looked like they’d burst.”
“No,” he said. “It wasn’t the death, but who put it there. Another god. Atropos. I could taste her corruption.” Cassandra pressed the brandy to his lips again. “She’s the one. The Moirae of death. She’s the source.”
The source. Cassandra sucked in breath.
“What do you mean?” she asked. “Do you mean she’s the source of the gods’ deaths?”
“Yes,” Thanatos said. “It all stems from Atropos. And trickles down.”
“Do the other gods know?” She was fairly sure Athena didn’t.
“I’m not sure. Maybe some suspect.”
“Does that mean they’ll survive? If they kill her? They won’t be dying anymore?”
He blinked at her slowly. The panic in her voice had been hard to miss.
“Yes,” he said. “But don’t worry. They’ll never be able to kill her.”
11
THE INDUSTRIALIST
A Shield of Hector to replace the lost Shield of Achilles. It wasn’t exactly an easy task, but certainly more attainable than finding the real thing. Hermes sat impatiently in front of his laptop. He’d been searching and printing for the last thirty minutes, ever since he got off the phone with Andie, Henry, and the take-out guys from Stanley’s Wok and Napoli Pizza.
Damn slow Internet.
Everything except his own fingers and mind seemed slow at the moment. He tapped his toes and looked at the growing pile of paper, then at the wall clock. What the hell was taking Andie and Henry so long? Henry lived three streets away, for Pete’s sake.
Someone pulled into the driveway and killed the engine.
Damn it. Not pizza. Delivery guys never turn their cars off.
“Andie!” he said when she walked in. “What took you so long? And why do you look so pale?”
“Not until Henry gets here. And at least one of the take-out guys. I ordered a couple of garlic chickens and a Mediterranean special. And the left half of the Stanley’s Wok menu, as usual.”
She made a face.
“No food.” She sat down hard on the sofa and put her hand over her eyes. It was, he surmised, what the mortals called a hangover. Great. She’d be irritable, uncomfortable, and mostly useless for hours. A fine way mortals had of ruining the day after a good party.
Two more cars rolled into the driveway. One was particularly loud. Henry’s Mustang. He came into the house laden with boxes and bags.
“Hey.” Henry nodded. “You wanna go pay them? From the looks of it you owe them hundreds of dollars.”
“They’ve got my credit cards. I just have to tip the drivers.”
“Don’t worry about that. I took care of it.”
“Thanks.”
Henry shrugged. “You’re always feeding us, so.” He walked through to the kitchen and started assembling an eclectic plate of egg rolls, sweet-and-sour pork, and two slices of garlic chicken pizza.
“I take it you didn’t go to the party with Andie last night.” Hermes stuffed a slice of Mediterranean into his mouth. Olives and feta cheese popped on his tongue.
“I did. I just didn’t drink as much.”
“Hmm.” Hermes chewed thoughtfully. “Normally I would find the blush that’s creeping up your neck absolutely fascinating. But we’ve got things.” He jerked his head toward the living room, where Andie waited with a pillow over her face.
“Don’t tell me,” she said, her voice muffled and miserable. “You have a lead on the Shield of Achilles.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. We were never going to find that thing.”
She pulled the pillow off her face.
“What do you mean? Then what are we going to do?”
“We’re going to make our own.” Hermes sat and explained his plan to forge a new shield. A new set of weapons, given by the gods. And all they needed to do was find Hephaestus, the godly blacksmith, and make him do it.
“Hephaestus?” Henry frowned. “You mean Hera’s other son? The one she made all by herself in competition with Zeus? When he created Athena on his own and hatched her fully formed from his head?”
“And he was Aphrodite’s husband!” Andie added.
Hermes sighed. The mortals had been studying. How unfortunate.
“He’s a good god,” Hermes assured them. “I promise. He’s not going to be thrilled about what happened to his mother, but he’ll understand. As for the marriage, it was crap. Aphrodite was plastered all over Ares every time Hephaestus turned his back.”
“This is your only idea?” Andie asked.
“It’s the only idea.”
Henry and Andie exchanged a doubtful look.
“Even if we can convince him to do it,” Henry said, “which isn’t likely, how is finding Hephaestus any easier than finding the shield?”
“Ha! That’s the beauty.” Hermes went to his laptop and grabbed the stack of papers. He’d already been through it with a highlighter to pull out the pertinent information. “Here. Look at this. I know who he is. Or at least, who he was.”
Andie flipped through the first few pages and then put the pillow back on her face.
“Can you summarize?”
“I ran across Hephaestus in Germany during the Industrial Revolution. He was there making deals, touring factories. We ate white asparagus. We drank questionable German wine. I never saw him again after that one night. But I remember his name. Alexander Derby.”
Henry picked up the papers and leafed through them. What he held was essentially a comprehensive family history of the Derbys, from Alexander to Alexander Derby the second and third, to Alistair Derby the first through the third, and so on. They were titans of metallurgy. They built bridges, instituted innovations in the smelting process.
“So you’re saying that all of these guys … are Hephaestus?” Henry asked.
“No. Not all of them. That’s the interesting part. He’s fashioned himself a sort of family. But every generation or so, one Derby shows up who outshines the rest. He comes out of nowhere, a heretofore unmentioned relation, and dominates the industry for ten, sometimes twenty years before disappearing. Those Derbys in particular. They’re Hephaestus.”
“And you know which Derby he is now?” Andie asked.
Hermes nodded. “Rather cosmically, he’s come back around to Alexander. And he lives in a very big, very old house, just a few hours from here. Come on.” Hermes clapped his hands and jumped up.
Andie dropped the pillow and regarded him with eyes as large as one of Athena’s owls’.
“You want us to go now? Are you nuts?” She took a deep breath and made to push off of the sofa. “Okay.”
“No.” Hermes put his hand up. Of course they shouldn’t go now. They shouldn’t go at all. Who knew what Hephaestus might have waiting for them, especially if he’d heard about their part in his mother’s death. Who knew what state he was in, grappling with a death of his own. Just because they’d met as friends a couple hundred years ago didn’t mean they would do it again. Hephaestus might not even be sane anymore.
Hermes shut his eyes. How stupid of him, to rush in. How typical.
“I’ll go myself first,” he said. “I just meant, get up and get out, because I’m leaving as soon as I eat the rest of the Chinese and pizza.”
“Are you sure?” Henry asked. “I could go at least. I’m not hungover.”
“No. It’s not that. I have to be sure it’s safe first. And I’ll hurry, so you’re not left unwatched here long.”
* * *
Henry did his best to pay attention during History. It wasn’t easy. It never was, but just coming off a vacation made it worse. Everyone in the room fidgeted, discreetly texting photos and tales of wild spring breaks. Henry’s phone had buzzed in his pocket no less than ten times in that period alone. He finally took it out on the eleventh and read a text from Jen Thomsen, a friend of Ariel’s.
What was with you leaving Ariel’s with Andie?
Henry texted back.
She needed a ride home.
His phone buzzed again.
Oh. So you 2 not dating? Good.
And again, before he could reply.
I knew you weren’t. She’s in tenth and you know.
Henry frowned.
You know what?
A delay this time, and then,
Well she’s not exactly hot and Ariels totally into you.
The urge to tell her what he really thought, that Andie was more beautiful than Ariel and all her friends put together, wrestled with the urge to tell her to shove it. Instead, he shut his phone off and tried to pay attention to Mr. Fisher. Strangely enough, Mr. Fisher was lecturing on the Industrial Revolution, and mentioned the Derby family at length. It took all Henry’s remaining restraint not to raise his hand and say, Yeah. And they’re also Hephaestus.
When the bell finally rang, he walked to his locker and scanned the halls for Andie. Two days had passed since Hermes left. He should’ve been back by now. They should have gone with him. If anything happened to Hermes, they would be stuck in Kincade, rudderless.
But that was stupid. If something could take out Hermes, who was faster than a cheetah and still strong, what the hell did he think he would be able to do about it?
But maybe I could, if I really had that shield.
The idea had crept into his head more than once since Demeter suggested it. Half the time it sounded ridiculous, as if one weapon could suddenly make him the equal of Achilles. He’d seen Achilles fight. He’d seen the inhuman strength Achilles had, and how fast he moved.
But Henry couldn’t deny that he wished it would. He wondered what it would feel like to have that kind of strength. That kind of confidence. To
be able to stand against Achilles and not be afraid. To be able to win.
“Henry.”
He turned and saw Max and Matt Bauer. He nodded, mostly toward Matt. Max’s comments about Andie’s rack at the party had almost earned him a punch in the face.
“What’s going on?” Henry asked.
“Nothing, man,” Max said, and leaned against the lockers. “What’s going on with you? Ariel’s pretty pissed about you leaving.”
“Ariel’s not my girlfriend. Let her be pissed. I don’t care.”
“I know, right? And what’s she got to be pissed about anyway? You just left with Big Andie.”
“Stop calling her that. You’re not going to make it stick.”
Max and Matt laughed, oblivious to his darkening expression.
“Wanna bet? There she is. Hey, Big Andie!” He waved to her, and Henry turned. The look on Andie’s face was carefully balanced. Only someone who knew her like Henry did could tell that Max’s jibe had gotten to her.
Come over here and pound him. Come on. I’ll help.
But she didn’t. She nodded their way and turned to go.
“Oh, come on, Big Andie!” Max shouted. “Come hang with the rest of us guys!”
Henry slammed his locker shut. He didn’t call her name, and he didn’t think. He just jogged after her and spun her around. And kissed her.
After an initial gasp, the hall around them went silent, but Henry didn’t care. He wasn’t aware of anything but the warmth of her lips, and the increasing rate of his heartbeat. When he pulled away, he braced himself for anything. Yelling. Glaring. Her fist to his face. What he got instead was her arm slipped around his neck. She pulled him back and kissed him again.
“We’re not them,” she said quietly. “Not Hector. Not Andromache.”
“We’re not. We’re us.” He smiled, and they walked down the hall together. Ariel and Max be damned.
* * *
Buffalo, New York. Hermes took a breath and savored the smell of Lake Erie before blowing it out again. The city was still ugly from snowmelt. And around every corner was the whisper of decline. It was a city that knew what it used to be. A city that wept rust. A city that Hephaestus would like.