Persephone scoffs. “Goodness, no. We were always in our muted forms around you, which blocks out a great deal of knowledge and puts us all at a disadvantage. When we were with you, we didn’t know what was happening on Olympus, in the Underworld, with our enemies, with allies… But at least toning himself down meant that big brute never accidentally killed you.” She jerks her head toward Ares, who glowers in response.
“It takes concentrated effort to read a mind when we’re in human form. I did it with you, at first, to try to get to know you faster. But your thoughts were always so dark and violent that I mostly stopped. After a while, that faded somewhat, but then there was just too much sarcasm to bear.”
I snort, the knot in my chest starting to untangle loop by loop. She’s still Selena. She’ll still tease me, and love me, give me frustrating half-answers, and tell me when I’m wrong. Right then, I realize I haven’t lost her.
She smiles. She’s definitely reading my mind.
“Oikogeneia,” Persephone says warmly, using the old language.
The ancient word for family doesn’t send a potent shock through me like the first time she used it, claiming me as her own. That bond has already been forged, and the magic in it was so intense I should have guessed there was more to her than a powerful Magoi woman running a circus. There was a Goddess, and real family, because in a roundabout way and about a hundred generations apart, she’s my aunt.
“Back to the question at hand.” Ares examines Athena, traces of wariness and reserve creeping into his voice. “Why do you want Piers?”
“We’re all in agreement—for once.” Athena rolls her eyes, showing a frightening amount of white, and then gestures vaguely toward Griffin and me. “We need to keep these two together so they can get on with what they’re supposed to do. Kaia should stay here, but Piers can go. Let me take him to Attica. I have scientists running amok with sensitive information.” She shrugs, as if it matters, but not all that much. “He might be of use.”
Scientists? Does she mean alchemists?
Persephone cocks her head, studying the other Goddess’s face. “You’re worried,” she finally says.
Athena tenses, if the slight stiffening of her rather prominent jaw counts as tensing. “They may have forgotten all about worshipping me and lost their magic when they did, but Attica is still my world.”
Ares grins all of a sudden, looking almost devious with excitement. “They do have interesting weapons there.”
Athena turns a glare on him that would frost icicles. “I’ll thank you not to stir things up. Again. And you would like anything capable of mass destruction,” she adds bitterly.
“Mass destruction?” I ask. “Like Galen Tarva?”
All three Gods laugh at me. Laugh! At least they’re finding common ground.
“So, can I have him?” Athena’s tone goes back to neutral, almost bored, but she’s not fooling me anymore. I doubt she’s fooling anyone else, either. If she’s here, and she asked for Piers, she wants him.
I glance at Piers. He looks totally defeated, and I get the impression he doesn’t really care what happens to him after this.
“You’ll owe me,” Ares says.
Athena’s brown irises flare with hints of power-infused red and gold. Then her eyes narrow to aggravated slits. “Owe you what?” she asks.
“An audience with your father. Zeus hasn’t heard me out in decades.” Ares turns to me and winks. “He put me in charge of you as a punishment. Olympian idiot. That was the most fun I’d had in an age.”
I can’t help smiling, even though it’s weak. He was the best part of my life growing up, the only good part—him and Eleni. “Punishment for what?” I ask.
“For causing and prolonging conflict in Atlantis,” Persephone answers for him. “Poseidon still hates you, by the way.”
Ares looks perfectly all right with that. “He’s not so fond of you either after you poked him with his own trident the other day.”
Uh-oh. That was because of me.
Persephone shrugs. “He was moving too slowly.”
“Or you’re too attached.”
Persephone snorts. “We’re all too attached. Don’t even pretend that you’re not. You’re even more revoltingly sentimental than I am.” She nods toward his hand. “You still wear her hair around your wrist.”
My heart slamming in my chest, I look more closely at the thick, dark cord around Ares’s wrist. I’d hardly noticed it, thinking it was some sort of braided rope bracelet, but it’s not. I know exactly what it is now.
I was ten, small but fierce. He’d bested me on the training field—as always—but I kept fighting with a broken arm, cuts and bruises, and one eye swollen shut.
Thanos dodged every knife I threw at him, got behind me, grabbed my hair in his big fist, and then started dragging me toward the castle with a frustrated curse. But I wouldn’t stop. I kept hissing, spitting, and twisting like a slippery little snake, landing blows and shouting that I wasn’t done yet. I was never done, because I was so determined to beat him one day.
“Enough, little monster. Time to find the healer, or you’ll be weak for days.”
And that would have left me vulnerable to my brothers. To Mother.
I still wouldn’t listen. If I fought hard enough, I was sure I could finally win. He held on to my hair and pulled until my eyes watered. I wasn’t getting anywhere with my thrashing and yanking, so I drew the last knife I had in my belt and cut off my hair above his grip. The second I could, I spun around and plunged the dagger into his thigh with a bloodcurdling scream of triumph.
Thanos had looked at me then, with my long hair still clutched in his fist, like I’d just become an entirely different creature. One he liked even better. It was the first and only time I ever drew his blood.
Staring at his bracelet now, I lift my hand and touch my head, memory’s ghost still flitting through my mind. The morning of that training session, my hair had started out longer than it is today. The day had ended with a bushy tangle of barely chin-length curls.
The following morning, Mother had slapped me and said I looked like a boy. Father, a nonentity in my life, hadn’t recognized me for days. Thanos had given me a rust-colored scarf to cover the mess I’d made. He’d patted his thigh where I’d stuck him with my knife and told me he’d dyed the cloth in his own blood.
Remembering his pride in me that day, I get the most horrifying urge to cry. “You kept me alive all these years.”
Ares shrugs. “I was nowhere about after you left Castle Fisa. The others made sure of that.”
“No, you were here.” I press my hand to my chest. His training was never about hurting me—or my trying to hurt him back. It was about skill, yes, but also about perseverance, about finding inner strength, both mental and physical, when the wells of each seemed not just dried up but completely drained and destroyed. His often-brutal methods taught me that giving up is never an option. A true warrior fights through pain. Through anything. Through everything.
“You’re not dead until you’re on the far side of the Styx,” I murmur. It’s what he always said. And I know that better than anyone for having nearly been there. Until you’ve paid the ferryman and taken his boat, there’s always one more swing, one more kick, one more bite if it comes to that. That lesson never left me. Or failed me.