“Come on.” He leaned in and brushed his fingertips across her arm. “When are you going to let me kiss you again? In the back of that truck I was half-asleep. I’m so much better when I’m awake. I promise.”
Athena’s cheeks flushed hot. She thought of Odysseus’ kisses in the sleeper of that truck more often than she cared to admit. The way his lips had made her tingle. It was hard to imagine it could be any better.
“Not on a plane, in front of a flight crew, with my brother four feet away and the ligaments in my knee held together with one of your socks,” she said, and tugged away.
Odysseus chuckled and put up the armrest. So gently, he pulled her injured leg onto his lap.
“As you wish,” he said. His fingers walked up her calf and over her knee. “But I don’t know how you stand it.”
“So sure of yourself,” she said, and her voice came out breathless. She grabbed his hand and held it tight, safe and sound, inside her fist.
11
THE WOUNDED AND THE DYING
Ares’ blood-soaked return sent Aphrodite into hysterics. Her wailing rang off the walls, from the caverns of Olympus to the peak.
“Calm, calm,” Hera said. She hugged Aphrodite, pinning her arms to her body to stop her flailing. Aphrodite moaned and went limp. Her slender form was no match for granite. “Go now, pet.” Hera kissed her. “Lie down and rest. Let Mother tend to her boy.”
“It’s not bad,” Ares whispered, and watched Aphrodite go. The way she’d screamed, one would have thought he was spraying arteries instead of slowly leaking.
“Not that bad?” Hera asked when Aphrodite was out of earshot. “You’re wet from the neck down. It’s soaking into our silk rug.”
“Not all of it is mine. Some of it is Artemis’. We fought in her remains. And some of it’s Athena’s.”
A shadow crossed Hera’s face when Ares spoke of Artemis’ remains. Another god gone. It didn’t matter that she would have joined Athena’s side. Artemis had been one of them. Hera cleared her throat and bowed her head.
“A fitting tribute,” she said softly. “The huntress would approve.”
“I hope so.”
“Show me your back,” Hera said, and gestured with her good arm. Ares pulled at his buttons sheepishly.
“It was the girl,” he said.
“I know it was the girl. I can smell the stink of her hands.” Her face crumpled as his exploded flesh came into view. Rock rolled through her half-flesh cheek. “You weren’t supposed to let her touch you. You said you’d be safe.”
“I got carried away.”
“Carried away doing what?”
“Killing.”
Hera made an exasperated sound in her nose, but she didn’t scold him. Instead she wrapped an arm around him and squeezed. Not a word about his being careless or stupid. She knew what he was, and how he was when he killed. He was the god of war. Her terrible son.
Looking at his wounds, Hera gritted her teeth, and the granite of her lower molars scraped against the regular enamel of her uppers. Ares would have rather taken another knife to the gut than listened to that sound. The motion made the rocks and cracks in her face tremble.
“Come and sit.” She motioned toward a pair of brocade-covered chairs.
“But the blood.”
“I’ve got other chairs. Two thousand years of collecting mortal finery. We’ll never want for new rugs, or art for the walls, or fine clothes. But you’ll want for blood, if you don’t sit down and slow your heart. I’ll bring some food.”
Ares sat in one of the chairs, and his blood sank hotly into the fabric. Hera set down a tray piled high with fruit and cheeses and some sliced cured ham.