Hermes watched him walk to the kitchen, the god of death in jeans and Hollister plaid. Thanatos might not love Cassandra. But he certainly did like her. The college-boy costume he wore had never seemed a truer fit. He looked cagey, nervous, caught in the headlights.
I should be afraid for her. People he grows fond of have a habit of wilting like cut flowers.
But if wilting was in Cassandra’s blood, she’d have done it already. It was Thanatos who was in danger here. Love. Hermes snorted. It made you a moth to a flame, they said. More like a bird to a plate-glass window. And for Thanatos it would be worse, because his very touch could kill her, if he wasn’t careful.
And you’ll want to do it, too. Maybe not at first, but eventually. It’s in your nature. It is your nature.
“I don’t get you,” Ares sighed. “The lot of you. Getting so attached to these people. Even if we survive, you’re just going to lose them.”
“Then you shouldn’t get attached to anything, Ares.” Thanatos poured a splash of wine and drank it down. The sound of the glass when he set it on the counter was so brittle Hermes half-expected the stem to crack. “Nothing lasts forever. You’re walking proof.”
Ares frowned. “But it’s just how they’re made. They’re made to die. I don’t get it.”
“Well,” Thanatos said. “Agree to disagree.”
“You think you get to keep her,” Hermes said softly. And then louder, “You think Cassandra’s like you. A god of death.”
Thanatos stared at his hands. His voice when he spoke was firm, but patient.
“That’s exactly what she is. Haven’t you been paying attention?”
*
When Cassandra’s phone chirped, she almost didn’t know what it was. It seemed like a long-dead corpse, come back to life after being plugged into a wall. She grabbed it off her bedside table with a little distaste. People could reach her again. She was back on the grid.
The text was from Athena.
I’m in your backyard. Can you come?
Cassandra sighed. If she left the house, even to stand in the backyard, her parents might have tandem heart attacks. They probably weren’t even asleep. They were probably lying there listening for telltale scrapes of canvas against carpet or suitcase zippers. She typed back:
I’ll let you in. We can talk in the kitchen.
Minutes later, Cassandra had robed up and sat across the kitchen table from a distracted-looking Athena. The goddess looked like crap. Worn around the edges. And she hadn’t bothered to clean herself up: the shirt she wore had a fat bloodstain on the side and she hadn’t put on a jacket.
“I gather you’ve been gone since Olympus,” Athena said quietly.
“Yep. And until two days ago, I thought you were lying dead at the foot of it.”
“You thought?” Athena asked. “Or you hoped?”
Cassandra’s palms tingled and she pulled them into her lap. She shrugged. It didn’t make much difference.
“Are you all right?” Athena asked. “You don’t look all right.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m here.”
“Do you want me to smooth things over with your parents? I could, you know.”
Athena could charm them. Use her god’s tricks to muddle their brains and make everything seem like a reasonable dream.
“No. I don’t want you to do that.” Cassandra nodded toward the bloodstain. “How are your feathers?”
Athena pulled the shirt away from her side. The darkest part of the stain stuck to her skin. She was still bleeding.
“They’re a bitch, as usual. Had a little break from them in the underworld. But now they’re back. And they’re angry.” She smiled. Talk of feathers shouldn’t have made her smile.
“You were in the underworld?”
Athena nodded. “Odysseus is alive.”