“Now we make mortal mistakes,” Aphrodite said, nodding. “Now we have consequences.” She twisted the filthy fabric of her skirt between her hands. “It’s … unpleasant. I don’t enjoy it.”
Athena laughed, and Aphrodite looked up in surprise.
“I’m not laughing at you,” Athena said, and they paused. It was as close as they’d ever come to a warm moment. But it didn’t last. Aphrodite was saner in the underworld, but still not sane, and Athena’s laughter put her on edge. Her blue eyes wobbled.
“I’m sorry,” Aphrodite said. “I didn’t know what I was doing, when I killed him.”
“You mean when you killed my brother. Aidan.”
“My brother,” Aphrodite moaned. “Our brother.” She clutched the sides of her head. “It went right through him. But I didn’t know. Forgive me.”
“Forgiveness for that isn’t something you ask for,” Athena muttered. “You either get it or you don’t. And it isn’t up to me. It’s up to the girl you stole him from.”
“I didn’t know,” Aphrodite said again.
“Explain it to Cassandra.”
Athena brushed past Aphrodite to return to the riverbank. Aphrodite seemed about ready to weep, and Athena had no wish to be moved to sympathy. Not about that. Not yet.
But before she could go, Aphrodite grasped her arm.
“You have to protect him,” Aphrodite cried.
“Who?”
“Ares. You promised.”
Athena scoffed.
“He didn’t have to come here,” Aphrodite said. “And he doesn’t have to stay. He can leave whenever he likes and let you deal with Hades. Leave you alone to bargain for Odysseus.”
“Except he won’t,” Athena said, tugging free. “Because he needs me to stand between you and Cassandra.” She paused. “You keep saying ‘him.’ ‘Him’ and not ‘us.’ Not ‘we.’” She looked at Aphrodite, and Aphrodite looked back, imploring her to figure it out so she wouldn’t have to confess. But reading emotion wasn’t a skill Athena had much practice in.
“I’m not going back with you,” Aphrodite whispered. “I’m staying here. Where I’m sane. I want to be sane, for as long as I can be.”
“Down here? With Persephone? Just the two of you, doing what? Playing bridge?” The words didn’t have the heat Athena had intended. They came out gentle and filled with more wonder than malice. To stay in the underworld— to be functionally dead—seemed like torture.
“Up there you can’t trust me. Up there I’m useless,” Aphrodite said. “Up there I’m mad.”
“You don’t think we stand a chance. Against the Moirae.”
Aphrodite’s eyes drifted toward Ares.
“I think some of us need to fight to the end,” she said. “And some of us don’t.”
“Does he know?” Athena asked, and Aphrodite shook her head. Ares wouldn’t be happy when he found out. But Aphrodite was right. Without the borders of the underworld to keep her death in check, she was a wild dog.
“You probably think I’m a coward now,” Aphrodite said. “Not that you ever thought I was anything else.”
Athena looked at Aphrodite’s torn dress and the bruises that spotted her skin from ankle to cheek.
“I think you’re conniving,” she said. “And silly. And a bitch.” She watched Aphrodite bite her tongue on every retort. That Athena was cold. Self-righteous. Also a bitch. “But never a coward.”
*
Persephone gave away Hades’ arrival. Not even her deadest eye could hide its brightness, its happiness at his homecoming. Athena, too, felt something dense and heavy the moment he crossed over, a black hole opening up in the back of her head. Ares leapt quickly to Persephone and dragged her to her feet. His wolves circled around them both.
“It feels different now,” Odysseus said. “Not so empty.”
“It isn’t empty anymore,” Athena said. “He’s home.”