“Screw off,” Hermes muttered.
“Brave now, aren’t we?” Ares said. “Brave, once Athena is here to hide behind.” He made a fist and squeezed a few drops of blood back onto the forest floor. “So this is Artemis?” He looked at his gore-streaked hand. “I don’t know whether to feel dirty or comforted. Like she’s a blanket.”
“She’s dead, you asshole.” Athena kept still, uncomfortably aware of her sister’s blood, and worse than blood, beneath her shoes in a grotesque carpet. The sight of it, and the smell, made her stomach tighten. She should’ve known. She never should have let Hermes and Odysseus come. But they were there. A vision had led them there, straight to her handsome, grinning brother. Ares, just like she remembered him. His face full of blood.
“She’s dead,” Ares mused. “And I’m dead. And you’re dead. Spitting out feathers like a cat in a canary cage.” He snorted. “That’s funny. Can you do it now? I’d like to see.”
“It is funny, I suppose.” Athena kept her breath shallow. She didn’t need him to know how spot on he really was. The feather that had wormed its way into her lung was starting to tear loose. It was a maddening tickle every time she breathed, a gristle-coated fan, waving back and forth. “As funny as the god of war bleeding to death without taking a single blow. As funny as your bitch mother turned into a statue.”
The insult didn’t touch Ares. Maybe he didn’t care. He wiped a little more of Artemis onto his pants. Something was wrong. In the corner of Athena’s eye, Hermes tensed like he was trying to tell her something, and a familiar feeling ran through her frame. The same feeling she’d had when Hera had tracked them so effortlessly that fall. But Hera was dead. Cassandra had killed her.
Odysseus coughed, a raw sound, and got to his feet. Ares had a lot of balls, coming after him.
“What the hell is going on?” she asked. “What are you doing here?”
“These days, sister, I do what I’m told. And I was sent”—he pointed at Odysseus—“for him.”
Only not really for Odysseus. For what he could lead them to—Achilles. The other weapon. What was it about Achilles that made him so special? If Cassandra was the girl who killed gods, what could he do?
“Who sent you?” Athena asked.
Ares walked to the right, nonchalant and closer. Athena moved, too, staying in his path, and in her shadow Hermes did the same. It was a lovely little conversation they were having, but of the three of them, only Ares allowed himself to blink.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he said.
“Try me.”
He sighed and looked up at the sky. After a few long moments, he said, “My mother sent me.”
“That’s impossible,” said Athena. “Try again. Hera’s dead.”
“It’s true.” Cassandra spoke suddenly. “I killed her.”
“Yes, but unfortunately for you, it didn’t stick.”
“I turned her into a freaking rock,” said Cassandra. “Half of her face was granite.”
Athena looked from Cassandra to Ares. She’d seen Hera’s face half-fused to stone. Hera had lost the ability to work her jaw. Most of her chest and shoulder had solidified. Her cheek, even her hair on the right side, was statue. It should have killed her.
“You’re lying. I was there, Ares. She couldn’t speak. She’s dead.”
“You should have stayed longer and made sure the job was done,” he said. “She can speak now. Mostly about your foolishness. She’s being healed. You never used to be this sloppy, sister.”
“It’s not possible for her to be alive,” Hermes said.
“Don’t talk about possible and impossible. You have no idea. You’re on the wrong side, little brother.”
“What side is that? The side that hasn’t gone insane?” Hermes asked. “The side that doesn’t want to blow up buildings with innocent witches in them?”