“Amazing.” Odysseus grinned and stared into the flame of a torch. “Light. And the smell of regular water. It’s been so long.”
Athena smiled. She looked at the scepter in Ares’ hand. “Minos’ scepter. You should toss it back inside.”
“But I like it,” Ares said, and held it up to the torchlight. With a closer look, Athena saw that the lines of razor didn’t stop at the handle. They twisted and worked all the way down the grip. To wield the scepter turned the fighter’s hand into hamburger.
“You would like it. It’s monstrous. But it isn’t yours.”
Ares squeezed the handle one last time, and blood ran down his wrist. Then he tossed it back into the arena before pulling the door shut behind them. One glance at his hand turned Athena’s stomach; it didn’t resemble fingers and palm so much as a pile of julienned tomatoes. They’d have to wrap it. She reached for Odysseus’ sword and cut a strip off the back of his shirt.
“Hey, my shirt,” Odysseus protested, but he looked as green as she did, watching Ares tie the bandage.
Athena took a breath. All that stood between them and the living world now was a leisurely walk up smooth stone steps. She started up, and stopped. A familiar sound was coming from somewhere farther up.
“Do you hear that?” she asked.
“Hear what?” Ares asked. But it wasn’t her imagination. The wolves stood at attention, ears pricked forward. They heard it, too. “Hear what?” Ares asked again.
Athena leapt forward with a shout.
“Hermes!”
16
THE MOTHER COUNTRY
Despite the fact that Thanatos had sprung for a suite, the room felt cramped. Cassandra had been on the road for too long, on the run for too long, on the hunt for so long that she couldn’t remember sometimes what was more important, the hunting or the running. She was tired of crappy water pressure and shampoo that never lathered enough. She was tired of the way Calypso hummed through every task she performed. And she was tired of Thanatos. Of the way he looked at her sometimes. Like he could see through her skin, all the way down.
He probably can. He’s the god of death, for Pete’s sake.
Cassandra looked out the window. They’d been in Athens for two days. Down on the streets, mopeds slipped easily through late-afternoon traffic. Up on the hill, the lights surrounding the Acropolis were on, and the ruin glowed. Athens was beautiful like she’d always thought it would be, back when she daydreamed about going someday with Aidan, when she thought it was just an ancient city. Before she knew the bitch it was named after.
Thanatos called it “the Mother Country.” It wasn’t. Not really. But it was all they had left. The last trappings of lost glory, a handful of crumbling buildings mostly poached of marble. And somewhere in the midst of it, the god of the dead lived out his final days.
There hadn’t been a plague. No rash of illnesses or packed hospitals. No hastily dug graves or backed-up crematoriums. No deaths that could be called out of the ordinary for a city of Athens’ size. They’d checked when they arrived, and found not so much as a fish kill. Cassandra should have been relieved. But she’d been so sure there would be traces of Hades and his illness that the lack made her pause. In her mind, he’d been a moldy black spot on the map.
Thanatos was out there now, scouting, determining where Hades was and what paths they should take. Looking down at the crowds of pedestrians, she thought she might catch a glimpse of him maneuvering through the shadows, but there was no sign, not of him nor of Calypso, either. Cassandra was alone, a princess in an ivory tower, waiting patiently to slay her dragon.
The door to the suite opened and Calypso entered, carrying a large plastic bag of food with her good arm. Souvlaki stuffed with French fries. It smelled good, but it looked as though she’d bought enough to feed Hermes.
“Is he back yet?” Calypso asked.
“No.”