But Athena will. I have to get them away from here. Away from her.
“Andromache,” said Andie softly, trying it out in her mouth. “And Hector. From Troy.” She paused. “Wait. I totally saw that movie. And this guy is no Eric Bana.” She shoved Henry in the shoulder.
“This isn’t a joke. Look at my neck. They did this to wake me up. So I’d remember being the other Cassandra. So they could use me for something. They’ll do the same thing to you.”
They stared at the blackening fingerprints around her windpipe. “You remember being … the other Cassandra?” Henry asked.
She nodded. “And I remember you. When you were Hector. It’s true. I’m not crazy.”
“What—what are they going to use you for?” Andie asked.
“I don’t know. Aidan’s trying to find out.” She didn’t tell them what he’d done to her back in Troy. There was so much to tell.
And it doesn’t matter. Not in the middle of everything else. Not even when it feels like my heart’s stopped beating.
She took another sip of tea. It had cooled, or maybe her throat had gotten warmer. The purplish liquid swirled in the bottom of the mug; leaves and bits of flower floated and swayed in suspended patterns, like drifting seaweed. Cassandra watched as the pattern became less random, as the leaves strung together into shapes. An open, screaming mouth and long, drenched hair. She blinked and tried to unsee it, but couldn’t. It was like seeing the hidden shape in a Magic Eye puzzle, or catching the shape of Elvis in a grilled cheese sandwich. Once you saw it, it was all you could see.
“Is it cold?” Andie asked. “Do you want me to nuke it? Or make you more?”
Cassandra glanced up. When she looked into the mug again, the face was gone, blown apart.
“No, I—”
Water coated her eyes. Bubbles churned against her cheeks and her own hair found its way into her mouth and choked her. Someone was holding her under. Her lungs felt ready to bleed.
It’s not me. It’s someone else.
She took a deep breath and her lungs filled with air. She was safe, in the kitchen, her back firmly planted against the wood of the chair.
It’s just a vision. No different than any other.
But this was monstrous, seen through a blurry surface, like a windshield sheeted with rain. The air smelled of moss and wet rocks, of freezing saltwater. The only light seemed to be light reflected off of water; it danced over every surface and made her dizzy. They were in some kind of cave. Or a cove, in the cliffs.
She felt Andie and Henry’s hands on her arm and shoulder. They asked questions, but she didn’t understand them. Their voices were muffled and echoed. They might have been shouting through a cement wall.
In the center of the cave a hole of dark, greenish water rippled. Then the surface exploded and a girl was tossed out with a wave, thrown onto the stones. The sound of her slapping against the rock hurt Cassandra’s bones. The arms that threw her were just visible inside the retreating water: slimy and scaled and cut through with stiff seaweed. Wet rot blackened the tips of the fingers.
The girl hacking and vomiting water on the stones wore jeans and a sweater, clothes that didn’t belong to her. They were cheap and the sweater was too large. She pulled in deep breaths and kept her eyes on the rock. She seemed afraid, but not panicked. Water ran out of her thick mass of red hair as she tossed it back over her shoulder.
A foot clad in a slingback heel stepped before her and the vision opened up. Two women stood in the back of the cave, both dry and hideously beautiful. The one nearest had dark blond hair, cropped short. The second lingered behind and swayed on bare feet. Long yellow hair hung down her back. Dirt streaked across her fragile blue dress. She was young, and unbelievably beautiful, except for the bruises that marked her arms and legs.
Those aren’t from fighting. It’s sickness. And she isn’t young. She just appears that way.
Her big blue eyes blinked, vacant and wild. Insane.
Aphrodite. And the other …
She saw a stone fist, heaviness in her limbs. A peacock feather.
Hera.
Hate streaked through Cassandra’s blood, hate that she hadn’t known she had. The vision jerked; it sped up and skipped ahead in a montage of torture. Something dark erupted from the greenish water and dragged the red-haired girl back down. Red clouds bloomed in the water and churned up flashes of pale bits, pieces of loose skin. Screams mingled sound with bubbles and spit.
Poseidon. And not Poseidon. At least, not the sea god I knew.
When he slammed the girl back onto the rocks, he rose out of the water to his waist. Sea plants shot through his skin, cracking it. Long, red cuts crossed his torso from kelp leaves working their way inside. His once handsome beard was infested with shells and creeping claws, and in the place of his right eye was a piece of bone-white coral, jutting from the socket. Where his blood oozed, it was oily and reddish black. The sea was polluted, and so was he.