“Thanatos?” Andie asked.
“The guy Cassie came home with,” Henry said. The god she came home with.
“Yeah,” Ares said. “Thanatos. You know. God of death.”
Andie glanced at Henry. He knew exactly what she was thinking. Where the hell had Cassandra hooked up with the god of death? And why?
In the five seconds since Cassandra had been back, they’d barely had a moment with her that didn’t involve one of their parents. She hadn’t told them anything. That morning she’d made pancakes before Henry left for school, and he’d practically choked on them, sitting across from her pretending to be nothing more than her relieved brother.
“She really doesn’t tell you much, does she?” Ares smirked.
“She will,” Henry said. No matter how curious he was, he had no desire to hear anything from Ares.
Hermes shuddered beneath the blankets, violent as a seizure. Every one of them moved closer, ready to do who knows what. Andie nudged past Ares and stepped over Panic’s back. Henry started to tell her not to get so close, but she edged her toe underneath its rump until it whined and jumped away to lay someplace less pokey. She pressed the back of her hand to Hermes’ cheek.
“He’s so hot.”
Henry stood over the back of the couch and looked down. Hermes’ cheeks and eyes had fallen in. Had he really been so healthy yesterday? Or had they imagined it, refusing to see how much of him had wasted away? His skin was so pale. Almost blue.
How can skin that color be hot? How can it have any blood in it at all?
“What happened?” Andie asked. “He seemed fine when we left. He was so happy to see Athena.”
“They had a nightmare,” Ares said. “From what I understand, they saw the Moirae kill old Demeter.” He flipped the cloth on Hermes’ forehead to the cool side. “I guess it set him off. Or maybe he was just waiting for his big sister to get home.”
Henry gritted his teeth. What was that in Ares’ voice? Resentment? Regret? He wanted to shove him, take the damp cloth and throw it in his face. Being nursed by Ares was the last thing Hermes would want.
“Is there anything we can do for him?” Andie asked. She tucked the blankets tighter around his chin, and his eyes fluttered.
“Not unless you can kill the Moirae.”
“So you believe it then,” Henry said. “I know Hermes does. But you do, too?”
“Believe what?”
“That if the gods kill each other … if you kill the Moirae, you’ll get better. He’ll get better.”
Ares shrugged. “Maybe. But fuck, why not? I haven’t heard any better suggestions. And even if we don’t get better, with them dead at least we can live out the last of our days without worrying about a pair of shears to the guts.”
“So how do we find them?”
“Henry,” Andie whispered, like she didn’t want Hermes to hear. But Hermes couldn’t hear anything. Henry could’ve shouted it point-blank into his ear and he wouldn’t have flinched. He was so close to gone. And Athena wouldn’t take that sitting down. She might be playing nursemaid with chicken soup and Tylenol for now, but soon enough the goddess of battle would remember who she was. They’d be on the road after the Moirae before they had time to pack socks, and they’d better have a good idea about which way to go.
“If they were in the desert last night, do you think they’ll stay there?” Henry asked.
“Henry, shut up!”
He couldn’t. He wished he could hold Andie and tell her he was still scared, that he knew Achilles would be waiting. Maybe he would later, when Ares’ mocking eyes weren’t assessing every inch of his frame for signs of trembling.
“Hermes is our friend,” he said. “It’s going to come down to it sooner or later, so why not now, when some good might come out of it?”