“Oblivion!” Ares squinted at the wolf through the blood. It cowered on all fours. Behind it, Pain and Famine cowered as well. At the wolves’ entrance, the Moirae backed off again and tugged their silk back into place. What a relief.
“Where’s Panic?” Ares asked.
Took Panic, the black wolf answered. Your warlike sister. And the boy killer of men.
So Athena was already putting Achilles to good use. The bitch. He clenched his fists.
“They took Panic. But is Panic—?”
Alive. Yes. They torture Panic. They mean to be led here.
“Fools,” he muttered. The red wolf would never talk. Never betray him. It would hold its tongue until they lost their temper and cut it out. Until they killed it. And if she killed it, Athena would pay. She would pay already.
Reluctantly, he turned back to the Moirae. They’d listened to Oblivion and become incensed or excited, writhing like snakes beneath the silk. Clotho’s and Lachesis’ pale heads jerked back and forth.
“I’ll go,” he said. “I’ll get my wolf, and your weapons.”
(YOU CANNOT. YOU HAVE FAILED)
“I haven’t,” he said. Though he had. Twice. “I won’t. But I’m going to get my wolf.” He thought of Panic, constantly agitated. Constantly afraid. “My sister,” he said through gritted teeth, “needs a lesson on what she can and can’t touch.”
(NO. SHE HAS THEM BOTH. LET THEM COME)
“Not at the cost of my—” he said, and Hera rose and grabbed his shoulder.
“We will be ready,” she said, and hauled him out like any mother might. She stopped just short of taking him by the ear. Aphrodite and the wolves trailed them, through doors and down hallways, until the Moirae were left far behind.
“Get off me!” He shrugged loose and called the wolves to him. Athena wouldn’t get away with this. Even if the Moirae wanted her and their precious weapons for themselves. There was a price for offending the god of war. There was a price for everything. They’d just said so.
“Ares! Where are you going?” Hera hobbled after him. “Have you gone mad? You heard what they said!”
“I heard, Mother. And I saw. And I’m thinking that even they have limits now. So I’m going. Athena’s earned herself some bloodshed.”
20
BLOOD AND SMOKE
A late winter storm covered Kincade in eight inches of wet, white fluff overnight. Kincade High closed for the day, and Cassandra sat on the couch in the den, flipping through channels. Any minute, a special report would break through about a building blown up and gone down in flames. People dead and bodies to bury. But at least it would be over, and the uneasy feeling in her guts would go away.
She craned her head, trying to keep the screen in view as her mom dusted it for the umpteenth time.
“Mom, seriously. You’ve got, like, a cleaning complex today. And you’re blocking the remote.”
Her mom turned around and blocked as much of the TV as possible.
“I remember when snow days meant you and Henry would put on snowsuits and go make angels and snowmen in the yard. Now they mean two teenage slugs underfoot, saying, What’s for lunch, and I’m bored, and When are we going to get a snowblower. Can’t you go make me an angel or something?”
“I outgrew my snowsuit when I was nine.”
“So use your dad’s Carhartts.”
“They smell like turpentine. Also, he’s in ’em.” Cassandra jerked her head toward the garage, where her dad continued work on the armoire. Now sanding, or maybe varnishing.
“Well,” her mom sighed. “Talk to me while I clean, then. How’s school?”
“Fine. They’re holding Ody back.”
“What? But he’s so smart.”
“Maybe he just doesn’t apply himself.”
“Or maybe he helps himself to extra days off with Athena, like you do,” her mom said. Cassandra flipped the channel fast. “I still think we should’ve grounded you for your little spa day.”
“You don’t know how to ground me,” said Cassandra. “I’ve been too good for too long. Henry, too.”