Mortal Gods

“It’s going to be an interesting day tomorrow,” he said. “All that glory.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “And so many dead gods.”

*   *   *

Athena walked out of her neighborhood and into the outskirts of Kincade. She’d have liked to go miles away, until the house was little more than memory. Until she stopped imagining what was going on inside it, in Calypso’s borrowed bedroom.

She swore loudly, and the night was cold enough that it appeared in front of her as a little cloud. Except for her cursing and the sad, steady scrape of her boots against the gravel shoulder, it was quiet. She hadn’t seen a car for miles.

She stopped. She had no idea where she was. Tree-lined pastures surrounded her on all sides, some fenced in with white boards. Crusted patches of snow clung tenaciously to freshly green grass. A horse whistled; large and white. He stood beside the road, staring at her with his head over the fence.

She walked over and slid her fingers up under his forelock, smoothed his mane and smelled grass on his breath.

“You remind me of someone I used to know,” she said. Poseidon. Back when he was more man than monster, he would turn into a great white stallion and run thundering down the beach. “Earth shaker, they called him. Poseidon, earth shaker.”

The horse regarded her with wide black eyes. But he was only a horse. Poseidon was gone.

“If you’re planning on running, Henry’s Mustang is a better choice than that one.”

The horse jumped as Hermes made the scene the way he liked best: out of nowhere in a cloud of dust.

“Hermes.”

“Who else? What are you doing out here?”

Athena shrugged. “Killing time. He looks like our uncle, doesn’t he?”

Hermes scrutinized the horse. “He’s got more dappling on his hocks. Quit fussing over the steed and answer the question.”

“Night before battle. I needed to walk.”

“Or you needed to get out of the house before Calypso and Odysseus started to make it rock. I heard your little exchange.”

“If you were so sure you knew already,” she said, “why did you bother to ask?”

“I wanted to know if you would be honest. I should have known you wouldn’t be.” He leaned against the fence and stroked the horse’s neck. “You should have let me throw her out of the house when I offered.”

“No. She’ll still come in handy tomorrow.”

Hermes looked into the sky. “Later today, you mean. The sun’s almost up.” He sighed. “I suppose it is difficult to think about love when there are so many estranged family members to kill,” he said, and patted the horse solemnly. He draped his arm across the animal’s withers. “Athena?”

“What?”

“Are we really going to kill them? Kill them for real? I mean, they’re still … our family.”

“Hermes, they’d do the same to us.”

“Yeah, but,” he said, and tried to smile, “I thought we were the good guys.”

Kid brother, she reminded herself. It did no good to tell him to stop being childish. To grow up.

“There are no good guys,” she said.

“It matters, though, doesn’t it? That we feel bad? That it makes us sad that it’s all over?”

“Maybe,” she lied. But it did make her sad. No matter how twisted they were, and what pain they caused each other, the gods had once had forever. Forever to fight and hate and make up, to switch loyalties and regain trust. They’d been at it so long they didn’t really understand what it would mean for it to be finished. They wouldn’t, until it was far too late.

She couldn’t say any of that to Hermes. Underneath his selfishness and sarcasm he had the biggest heart of all the gods. One more ounce of sympathy, and he’d hesitate in the face of his family. And they would slice him in half for his trouble.

“We’re going to kill them tomorrow, little brother. All of them. Just like we killed Poseidon.” She pushed the horse’s face away, toward the open pasture. “We’ll kill them for real, and if there’s regret to feel, we’ll feel it later.”

She slapped the horse on the hindquarters, and he tossed his head and galloped away. Together they watched him go and pretended the snow scattering beneath his hooves was beach sand. Pretended he was Poseidon, running for the surf.

26

IN WAIT

Ares and Aphrodite stood together on one of the many slopes of Olympus. The mountain had infinite surfaces, infinite tunnels and pathways and exits, more plateaus and edges than any mountain should contain. It wasn’t a real place. It wasn’t a real mountain. Olympus belonged to the gods, subject to only their will, strength, and fancy.