*
The goddess of war never slept the night before a battle. As the rest of the house slumbered, storing strength for the fight to come, Athena stood in her quiet kitchen, peeling an apple with a paring knife and feeling all the blood in her veins. She was full of blood and life, her lingering death forgotten in the face of a more immediate, and much more violent, end.
It felt wonderful.
She was nervous, of course, and she always felt a small measure of fear. But that was secondary. Leaving Cassandra in the school parking lot that afternoon, she’d never felt such power. Clear, pure force, radiating off Cassandra steady as a beam of light. The girl was ready. Somewhere across the trees and yards, Cassandra was lying in her bed. But Athena doubted that she was sleeping, either.
She bit into the apple and swallowed the juice, sweet and sour. This was the fight of her life. It would save her brother and retake their home. It would make them gods again.
And all it would cost were the lives of other gods.
She set the knife on the counter. War came with a price. There was nothing she could do about that. All day long, she had waited for doubt to creep in, to tell her there was another way, some other destiny hanging in the stars. But it didn’t, and there wasn’t. No matter what Odysseus said.
He was there somewhere, in the house. She took her apple and sought him out, needing his voice suddenly. She walked down the basement steps.
“Odysseus?”
The basement was empty, the heavy bag still, weapons in their place. Even Achilles took the last night to rest, or to revel. She had no idea where he was, either.
She walked back up the stairs, finished the apple, and tossed the core. Every inch of her hummed and vibrated like a taut bowstring. Her body was ready to fight, ready to kill, but it would have to wait until morning.
As she passed by the sliding doors, she saw Odysseus standing in the backyard. He was alone, in the breeze, under the moon and the yellow light cast into the grass from the porch. Stubbornly freezing without a jacket on. He had half of Hera’s statue propped on top of the other half and balanced on the ends like a skateboarder. Just watching him calmed her. Only not enough.
He could, if she let him. He could make her sleep the sleep of the dead, like he had in the back of that truck, in his arms.
The muscles of his back flexed as he adjusted his balance, and her lips parted, remembering what he felt like pressed against her. The long, lean hardness of his body. His hands on her hips and the heat of his mouth. Odysseus was a boy whom girls devoured, and he looked at Athena a way no one had ever looked at her. Like he wanted to make her lose her mind. Like he could.
Inside the house, beside the table, she imagined walking up behind him. He would be confused at first. Surprised. But then she’d hold out her hand, and her fingers would stop trembling when they touched. He’d say her name in that way he had, and his fingers would push into her hair. His lips against her neck. All of him at once, making her dizzy, so fast she could never change her mind.
Her heart pounded into her fingertips, and she reached for the sliding door.
“What are you doing?” Calypso asked.
Athena spun, her cheeks red hot.
“Calypso, what the hell?” She checked to make sure Odysseus hadn’t seen them and pulled the other girl farther into the kitchen. “You creep like a cat.”
“What are you doing?” Calypso asked again.
“Nothing. I … I need to talk to Odysseus.”
“Talk. About what?”
Athena squinted at her.
“None of your business,” she said.
“None of your business, you mean,” said Calypso. “What do you think you can do for him in the middle of the night? Goddess of battle. You’d use up these hours talking in circles.”