“It’s not that you didn’t. It’s that you couldn’t.” He placed his hands on the counter on either side of the bowl. “You couldn’t.”
“Whatever this is”—she fluttered her fingers—“it doesn’t work the way I … It’s like my visions. It does what it wants.” But Cassandra could hear the lie in her own voice. The visions came from outside of her. From some other force that showed her what would be. When she killed gods, she drew their deaths right out of their centers. It was her will, like a sword.
Thanatos grabbed her hand.
“Whatever this is,” he said, “it comes from rage. From hate, and from pain.”
She waited for him to throw her hand back, but he didn’t. Instead his touch softened and he slid his cool fingers against her palm.
“And that makes it dangerous,” he said. “It makes it corrupt.”
“You’re the expert.” She curled her lip. “But this? It’s not about death. It’s about killing. And there’s a big goddamn difference.”
Thanatos’ eyes were sad. “Yes. There is.”
The door to the garage opened and closed. Calypso had finished the burial. Cassandra pulled her hand free before Calypso turned the corner into the kitchen.
“The blood is still in the bowl,” Calypso said, and flicked irritated beach-glass eyes in both their directions. She pushed sweaty strands of hair off her forehead. Her fingers left dark streaks of dirt and blood. “I’m going to use your shower,” she said, and left.
“We should probably have the blood out of the bowl by the time she gets out,” Cassandra said.
“She grows impatient,” said Thanatos. “She wants it over. She wants to be dead.” He went to his cupboards and pulled out a dark blue metallic sport cup. Roughly half the blood went into it, and then into the refrigerator. The other half he poured into a glass tumbler.
Cassandra swallowed. She fought the urge to look away or to ask for more sparkling water to calm her stomach.
“Bottoms up.” He swallowed the blood in one long gulp. It took forever to leave the glass. So much longer than it took to run out of the Fury’s wrist. When he finished, he looked even paler than when he started.
“Thanatos?”
He buckled, and Cassandra reached for him across the counter. But his weight was too much. It pulled her halfway up and over. Her elbow upended the mostly empty tumbler of blood and it leaked a large, dark dot onto the white countertop.
“I can’t hold you!” She jerked him hard to the right so she could clamber around the end. Thanatos convulsed. She held him, even though the blood coating his teeth made her want to retch.
“Are you all right?” she asked. “Should I do something?”
He didn’t answer, so she lowered him to the floor and went to the sink to wet a towel with cold water. By the time she pressed it to his forehead, the convulsions had mostly stopped.
“Something to drink,” he said. “Something strong.”
She ran to the bar and poured a large snifter of brandy.
“Date-rape brandy to the rescue,” she said, and pulled his head into her lap so he could drink.
“I would never—” He sipped. “—roofie anyone. Don’t be insulting or I’ll barf Fury blood all over your skirt.”
“I was kidding.” She brushed her fingers across his forehead. “And you should have warned me about the seizure.”
“I’ve never had a reaction like that before.”
“Was it because she was dying? I noticed her eyes. All the vessels looked like they’d burst.”
“No,” he said. “It wasn’t the death, but who put it there. Another god. Atropos. I could taste her corruption.” Cassandra pressed the brandy to his lips again. “She’s the one. The Moirae of death. She’s the source.”
The source. Cassandra sucked in breath.
“What do you mean?” she asked. “Do you mean she’s the source of the gods’ deaths?”
“Yes,” Thanatos said. “It all stems from Atropos. And trickles down.”
“Do the other gods know?” She was fairly sure Athena didn’t.
“I’m not sure. Maybe some suspect.”