Hermes pushed his arms out blindly, trying to get a solid hold and keep Ares at bay. But the god of war was strong. Hermes tasted blood and wondered whose it was. Had he bitten his lip? His eyes cleared just in time to see Ares’ bared teeth inches from his face.
“I used to clothe my throne in the skins of men,” said Ares. “But times have changed. Perhaps the skin of gods will prove more durable.”
“Times have changed,” replied Hermes. “Nothing about gods is ‘durable’ anymore.” The blood on his lips did belong to Ares, forced into his mouth from a seeping cut on the god’s forearm. It was gross. He’d rather have bitten his lip. “Is that what’s happening to you?” Hermes asked. “The god of blood will die slathered in it. Seems fitting.” He braced himself and shoved. “Ha,” he said. “Still strong enough to send the god of war skidding backward.”
Backward, through Artemis’ remains. Did Ares even know what it was, all that red beneath his feet?
Hermes didn’t have much time to wonder. Ares crashed back into him, his weight like lead. All the air left Hermes’ lungs in a rush. Spots and stars flooded his eyes as his spine ground against a tree, and the roots began to give way.
“Odysseus! Run!” he groaned, but he didn’t even know if Odysseus was conscious. But he’d have to get up. Hermes couldn’t keep this up for long. Grappling with Ares, he could almost feel the point when his arms would break.
Then, as if he’d wished her into existence, Athena slammed into Ares with full force. The impact tore him off of Hermes and sent him sprawling, tumbling like a pile of expensive clothes. Athena’s hands were on Hermes’ shoulders, keeping him on his feet.
“Stay up,” she said, and he did. Her voice brought his senses back from whatever scared corner they’d run to. It was even and strong, and more than a little angry.
“As you wish, big sister.”
*
Odysseus lay in a heap beside the broad trunk of a tree. Cassandra ran through the clearing, splashing through what had to be the last of Artemis, and knelt beside him.
“Is he all right?” Athena asked, her eyes on Ares, who had rolled to a sitting position and stayed there, looking amused and not at all in a hurry to flee.
“He’s awake. His throat is black with bruises,” Cassandra said. She whispered to Odysseus, and he nodded. “He’s breathing. He’s okay.”
Ares got to his feet and made a show of brushing himself off, but he’d rolled twenty feet in blood. It soaked into his clothing and streaked across his bare forearms and cheeks. It was terrible to see him so, covered in his sister’s death. Yet it was right. Ares wore blood like armor. In it, he looked like himself.
“Is that her?” he asked.
“Never mind her,” Athena replied.
“But it is her, isn’t it? The prophetess. The girl who kills gods.”
Cassandra pulled Odysseus into her lap. She glared but said nothing.
“It is,” Athena said. “Is that why you’ve come? Want her to put you out of your misery?”
Ares laughed. But he didn’t charge in like he had with Hermes. Athena was a different game altogether. No one really knew which of them was stronger.
“Hera said you were infested with owl feathers,” Ares said. “Seems like she exaggerated. I can’t see a single one.”
“When did she tell you that?”
Athena flexed her fist, annoyed at the small bandage wrapped around her wrist. The only visible blemish. The rest of her was long mahogany hair and smooth skin. Healthy, and without weakness. She hoped it irritated the shit out of him.
“And what about you?” she asked. “What death waits for the god of war?”
“Who says I’m dying?”
“You’re dying,” Athena said. “I’m not blind. Not all of that blood belonged to Artemis.” She gestured to a long, shallow cut running along his elbow. “Unless Hermes did that to you.”
“Hermes? Not on his best day. And this is nowhere near his best day.”