“How are you?” Calypso asked. “You don’t look well.”
“That’s a rude thing to say,” Athena said. But Calypso hadn’t meant anything by it. Besides, it was true. Athena looked like walking shit. She sucked air into her lungs. No feathers, but a suspicious, warm throb in her side told her they were up to something new. Her eyes zeroed in on the refrigerator. There had to be a beer in there.
“You brought him here.”
Athena winced at Henry’s voice. Of course he would be there. That’s how her luck was going. Maybe she could wedge herself into the crisper drawer until he left. Behind her, Lux whined, and his black muzzle poked into the fridge to sniff at the cold cuts.
“He looks better,” she said. She stroked the dog’s ears. A growl rumbled through her fingers even as she fed him a slice of roast beef. “He doesn’t trust me. Because you don’t trust me.” She looked up at Henry. “Sign of a good dog.”
Footsteps sounded behind them, and Henry stiffened. Achilles. She tensed and got ready to intervene in case they decided to go for each other’s throats. Henry wouldn’t remember Achilles’ face, of course. And Achilles hadn’t seen Hector since the night he’d ransomed the body outside Troy. And by then it wasn’t so much Hector’s body as a ragged slab of meat, no matter what the poets said.
Achilles broke the silence. The corner of his mouth curled up.
“Ody was right,” he said. “You’re not him. You don’t look a thing like him.”
Athena narrowed her eyes. Henry was the spitting image of Hector. Maybe Achilles was lying. Or maybe he was lying to himself. Either way, it seemed like a good thing.
“I don’t remember anything,” Henry said, and for a second Athena was ashamed of him. He sounded like a coward. But that wasn’t fair.
“I know,” Achilles said. “And that’s good.”
“I guess so.”
Hector and Achilles in her kitchen. Their fates had twined together so tightly. And now they maneuvered them face-to-face again. Why? To bury old hatchets? Maybe in each other’s backs.
The sliding door opened and closed around Andie. Her hair stuck to her forehead in sweaty black streaks.
“You’re back so soon,” she said. “We thought you were pizza. Who’s this guy?”
“Andie, Achilles. Achilles, Andie.” You remember her. You killed her husband once.
Andie stiffened and turned white. “What is he doing here?”
Cassandra and Hermes edged past Achilles, Hermes to linger near the wall, Cassandra to stand by her brother. Beads of sweat crept down the back of Athena’s neck. Had the kitchen always been so small? She wanted to blow out the walls, let the late winter wind rush in and distract them with shivering. Where was Odysseus? And Calypso? Hermes caught her eye and made a face. Tension in the mortal ranks, that look said. What are we going to do about it?
But she’d just gotten off of a plane. Couldn’t he think of something for once?
“Look.” Achilles put his hands in his pockets. “I don’t know what I’m doing here. I think I’m here to help you.”
Andie stepped beside Henry. “We don’t want your help.”
“I’ve heard that before. But you need it.”
“Why didn’t you kill him?” Andie hissed.
Athena rolled her eyes. “Why don’t you give it a try? He can’t be killed. At least, not easily.”
“He can’t be killed?” Hermes snorted. “Great. Now even mortals are more immortal than we are.” He sighed. “Well, he’s pretty enough. What are we going to do with him?”
“He broke my arm,” Athena said. “He can do worse to Hera and Ares. I figure, we use him like a bulldozer. It’ll keep Cassandra a hell of a lot safer.” Athena shifted her weight and caught sight of Odysseus and Calypso still in the entryway. Their heads were bent together intimately.
“A bulldozer?” Achilles said, and shrugged. “I’ve been called worse.”
“Athena,” said Andie. “He can’t stay. He killed Henry.”
“You don’t remember that.”