*
The candles in the basement had burned down to nubs. A few had gone out. The torches, too, burned low. Instead of relighting them, or exchanging the candles for fresh ones, Thanatos pulled a chain and lit dusty, yellow sixty-watt lightbulbs screwed into the ceiling. Cassandra didn’t know why they hadn’t used them before. Maybe because it changed the entire mood—from ritualistic to interrogation chamber in the pull of a cord. Two detectives from the ’70s might come out any minute and straddle backward chairs.
The Fury had also altered the room: She’d heated it to the point of being suffocating. But the heat had a used-up feel. It must’ve been ten times worse at the height of the Fury’s rages. Now she knelt at the ends of her chains, having somehow gotten her legs underneath her. Her wings and sinewy veins were nowhere to be seen. She was just a girl in a short black dress and boots.
The claws would come back soon enough, though. When Thanatos took her blood.
Cassandra could hardly blame her.
Calypso drew Cassandra to the side and nodded toward the Fury.
“Don’t be fooled,” she said. “Don’t get too close. Let Thanatos take the lead.”
“Okay.” Cassandra poked her arm. “But you and I are going to have words about whatever it was you did to us down here.”
“I did what I needed to do,” Calypso said innocently. “You should be glad I did it. Or we’d never have gotten Megaera.”
“That’s Megaera?” Cassandra blinked. That twisting creature of blood and rage was the Fury they called the Jealous One?
“Of course that’s Megaera. If she was Tisiphone, I’d be sporting more than a bruised chin and a cut leg. And if she was Alecto”—Calypso shrugged—“I’d probably be dead.”
Cassandra felt a tickle on the back of her neck. When she looked back, Megaera was watching. The Fury’s eyes were still full of blood—so much blood the irises had been completely obliterated. Only the black dots of her pupils remained.
She’d thought the eyes were part of the creature’s form, like the wings and the veins. Now it seemed more likely that the eyes were some kind of wound. Another symptom of the deaths of the immortals.
“Who are you?” Megaera asked.
“Don’t answer that.” Thanatos pulled on the end of the chain and drew the Fury to her feet. Her arms were bound tight to her sides, secured twice with shackles at the wrists. When she stood, she wobbled.
“I know who you are, boy.” Megaera’s eyes swiveled toward him. “I can smell the death on you. I can smell the death in this room. And just as I know that, I know you didn’t call me here for you. So who is it? The nymph?” Megaera’s red eyes twitched to Calypso. “No. The nymph is along for the ride. So it must be the girl.”
“I—”
“Don’t talk to her,” Thanatos cautioned. “We don’t need to talk to her.” The Fury shuffled backward as he continued to tug and shorten her chains. It was strangely sad to see her so bound. So powerless.
“No need to talk?” Megaera bared her teeth. Rope-like veins popped beneath the skin of her face, but disappeared again. “There aren’t many reasons to summon one of the Erinyes. Someone must need punishment. Tell me who, and quickly, and I’ll forget how rude you were in the asking.”
“No one needs punishment,” Thanatos said soothingly, and took a knife off of a shelf, along with a smooth, black bowl. He sliced into Megaera’s wrist before she knew what he was up to, and blood ran down her fingers. It splashed against the sides of the bowl and collected in a fast puddle, flowing so thick and so quickly it made Cassandra’s head spin. But it was worse when he decided he had enough, and withdrew the bowl to let the blood drip and spatter onto the dirt floor.