HELL-BENT FOR LEATHER
They approached with stealth. A whisper of sand here, a glimmer of steel there. Just slow enough to make her doubt what she’d heard and seen, to convince her she was dreaming or perhaps just truly getting old. She’d felt safe in the desert for so long. Underneath the same star-speckled black sky. The darkness cloaked her; it settled on her weathered, stretched skin like the softest of blankets. So she was confident, and comfortable. Levelheaded enough to talk herself out of gleams from the shadows. Enough even to push it away as imagination when she felt their feet press her edges into the sand. Not even the sting of that first slice woke her completely. It took four, five, six, seven, the shears cutting so fast and sharp that it felt like being burned by hot pokers.
And by then it was too late.
*
“Demeter!”
Athena jerked upright in her bed. Her arms struck out, idiotic panic punches at nothing but the warm, quiet air of her room. Had she screamed? She thought she’d heard herself shout as she woke, or maybe that’s what woke her. She felt back for her pillow. It was soaked with sweat. Her hair, too, was wet. And when she made to swing her legs out of bed they were hopelessly tangled in damp sheets. She turned for the bedside lamp and saw a thin, moonlit face standing inside her door.
“Hermes.” She flipped on the light and rubbed her hand across her face. “Did I wake you? Did I scream?”
“We both did.” Hermes was pale. The whole of him was covered with sweat. His T-shirt stuck to every hollow of every rib.
“We both?” Athena extricated her legs from the sheets and slipped her feet out.
“Demeter in the desert,” she said, and Hermes nodded. “She was asleep and they—they cut her apart with their shears.” She saw it again as soon as she said it. Twin silver blades, racing through Demeter’s skin. Clean cuts all. They moved through her like razors through wrapping paper, so fast it took seconds before the wounds realized they should bleed.
“They were so sharp,” Hermes whispered.
She looked at him. He was more than terrified; he was close to crying. She wondered if he could taste the blood and desert dust in his mouth like she could.
“It doesn’t mean anything,” she said. “It doesn’t mean it’s true. It’s just a dream.”
“We don’t have just dreams.”
No, they didn’t. And certainly not the same dream at the same time. The Moirae were doing it. They were killing them all. Aunt Demeter … Athena closed her eyes.
“Do you think they did it because of what happened at Hephaestus’ house?” Hermes asked, shaking. “Because I stood against them? Because we fought?”
“I think they did it because they’re mad,” she said quietly. “And I mean mad like nuts. Not because they were angry with you.”
“But they were. They had to be. You didn’t see the way they broke Hephaestus’ bones. The way Atropos smiled—” His breath hitched and he hugged himself. Sweat beaded on his forehead and upper lip.
“Hermes.”
“You didn’t see!” And just like that he collapsed at her feet.
“Hermes!”
He flopped and jerked and bit his tongue; blood shone red and slick on his teeth and lips. She shouted for Odysseus, for anyone as she held him down, ignoring how hot his skin was and how many bones she could feel.
“Is this it?” she heard herself screaming, and it made no sense. He was sick, that’s all. He was sick and he’d upset himself. Any moment he’d be still, and take a breath, and his eyes would roll back the right way.
“Oh, shit.”
She looked up; Odysseus stood over them.
“Help us!” she shouted, and he knelt and took Hermes’ head in his hands.
“He’s burning up. Hermes, can you hear me?” He slapped his cheeks lightly. Hermes bucked in her grip.
“Give him here.” Ares bent and scooped him up, keeping his head clear of Hermes’ flailing arms. “Get ice.”