“But I know it.”
“Hey,” said Achilles. “I didn’t kill any Henry. I killed Hector.” He bared his teeth. “And Hector killed my friend. I should’ve killed him twice.”
Hermes winced and raised skeptical eyebrows, but Athena waved him off. Yeah, yeah, it was a mess. Henry and Achilles would never be pals. But both weapons were there, in the same room. She had them both. Why couldn’t anyone else see how everything was going according to plan? Why couldn’t they see that it would be over soon? The war would be won.
She wished Odysseus were paying attention. He could defuse things when no one else could. But he was still lingering in the entryway with Calypso, her hand pressed to his chest.
“This might not work, big sister.”
“It has to, little brother. It’s meant to.” And if Odysseus didn’t get his ass into the kitchen soon, she’d be reduced to stomping her feet.
Achilles pulled his hands from his pockets.
“If you don’t want me, you’re welcome to die. Again. I’m an instrument of battle, but I don’t need it. I sat out half a war in Troy and would’ve sat out all of it, had Hector not murdered Patroclus.”
“That’s a lie,” Henry said.
“A lie on lots of counts.” Odysseus walked in with Calypso behind him and threw an arm around Achilles’ shoulders. “Your pride would’ve dragged you back sooner or later. And in war, there’s no such thing as murder.”
“We can’t trust him,” Andie said. “You know we can’t. We should put him in a block of cement or something.”
Achilles laughed. “You’re brutal, girl,” he said. “I like you. But I’d like to see you try.”
Odysseus stood between them. “We can trust him. And we will. We’re not on opposite sides anymore. This isn’t Troy.” He looked at Achilles, who nodded.
“This isn’t Troy.”
*
“Knock knock.”
“Go away.”
“But I saved you a slice of pizza.” Hermes pushed a plate through the cracked open door and waggled it. Athena had been hiding in the darkness of her room for hours, not bothering to turn on a lamp when the sun went down, just trying to keep from hearing mortal drama and ignoring the throbbing of her mangled foot. Hermes flipped the light on and sat on the bed. He eyed her shoulder and leg, elevated on a pillow.
“You look rough,” he said.
If she looked rough, he looked worse. Skin stretched across his wrist as he passed her the plate. She couldn’t tell if the extra eating was helping at all.
But it might be slowing it down. Please, let it slow down.
“Here,” he said. “Eat up. Sausage, bacon, and onion. I don’t waste space with low-calorie veg.”
She snorted and picked it up. “Hermes. There’s a bite taken out of it.”
“Well what did you expect?” He swooped in and stole another bite. “I only ordered six, and you brought home two extra mouths.”
“This house is getting crowded.”
“Well.” Hermes lay back beside her. “We’ve got the space for one more boy. And such a pretty boy.” A low fever radiated off him. He hadn’t had it when she’d left, but they’d come and gone before.
“How are you feeling, brother?”
“Fine and finer,” he said. “Don’t worry about me.” He gestured to the plate. “Eat that before I do.”
She took a bite but barely tasted it.
“It’ll be over soon, Hermes. The war. I promise.”
He put an arm around her. “Why so blue? Suburban life getting you down?”
She rested her head against him. What had he said to her on the banks of the Green River, camped out on their way to find Circe’s witches in Chicago? They were obsolete gods in a dying world. He wanted peace. Comfort in his final days. If she’d left him there by the river, he might’ve accepted dying and had months of wine and beauty and decadence. But they would win, and he would live. So there would be plenty of time for that.