“Sure,” he said. He flexed his arm. “Check out my bicep. It’s almost doubled.”
She smacked him. “I mean, do you think it’s made a difference? Do you think we can stand against gods?”
“Hermes won’t let us face gods,” he said. “We’ll handle the wolves. We’ve faced off against them before.” He didn’t look her in the eye. He didn’t look Lux in the eye either. The deep red scar on his cheek said enough. “And we have you-know-who. What’s-his-ass. Achilles. Besides, I don’t want my sister to go alone.”
“Me, neither.” Andie stuffed her hands into Lux’s fur, and his tail thumped. “I don’t know what I’m saying, anyway. They killed Aidan. Hurt Cassandra. Hurt Lux. It’s our fight.”
“Hey,” he said, and pointed to his cheek. “And me.”
“Yeah,” she said. “And you.” She moved Lux’s head from her lap and stood up, looking at the posters like Henry had just done. “I spend more time in here with you than I do with Cassandra these days,” she said. “Must be annoying. Bet you never counted on your kid sister’s friend always hanging around.” She crossed her arms. “I don’t remember you dying. But it feels like I do. And that almost feels like a premonition.” She looked back at him. “Or an omen? I don’t know what the word is.”
Henry swallowed. He’d never seen Andie so small and scared and nervous. He didn’t know what to do, so he didn’t do anything.
“When the wolves said that you were the boy who had to die, everyone thought that they made a mistake,” Andie went on. “That they thought you were Odysseus, or somehow Achilles. But what if they knew you were you?” Her voice grew quieter, but more breathy, more intense. Her cheeks flushed rosy, and she shook from shoulders to wrists. “What if Hector has to die?”
“I’m not Hector.”
“It doesn’t matter to them!” She turned on him with big, scared eyes and rushed him, hugging him hard and fierce, like he always guessed her hugs would be—part affection, part cutting off circulation.
“I’m not going to die, Andie,” he whispered.
“I think you are,” she said.
Henry slipped his arms around her. He could feel her curves through her clothes, and all her hard muscle, from years of hockey as much as from bashing shields and swinging swords. Her black hair lay soft against his cheek and smelled like herbs. The dirt-smeared tomboy had grown into a pretty girl when he wasn’t looking. And she hadn’t been just his “kid sister’s friend” in a long time.
Henry’s heart pounded in his ears. It was weird to think that he could kiss her. Shove Lux off onto the floor and press her back on his bed. No time like the present to play the Last Night on Earth card. He cleared his throat.
“I guess it’s a good thing you’re not psychic,” he croaked.
“Oh.” She pulled away. “It’s not a joke!” But she laughed a little and punched him in the liver, almost hard enough to make him buckle. The moment was over, and he tried to laugh with her, hugging his internal organs and kicking himself.
Henry Weaver, chickenshit of the ages.
*
Pack light, Athena had said. For the underworld. When Cassandra didn’t even know what she was packing for, or what the weather was like, or if there was even weather at all. The open mouth of her suitcase yawned. Most of her clothes had gone into it already, only to be taken out again. Pack light. She nixed the suitcase and reached for her schoolbag, then dumped her books and notebooks onto the floor to make room for a few shirts and a spare pair of jeans.
“This is an impossible trip to pack for,” she said to Odysseus. “You’ve been there before, haven’t you? How about some advice?”
He leaned over the bed and surveyed the choices.
“Here.” He grabbed a few t-shirts and a zip-up hoodie. “That should do it. Just don’t forget your goat’s blood and honey.”
“What?”
He waved his hand. “Hermes will take care of it.”
Cassandra peered down into her mostly empty backpack.