Mortal Gods

“Stay with me,” she barked, and took off again, slower this time. Achilles had built his traps well. It must’ve taken him countless days to dig the pits and sharpen the poles to line them, to figure out the ideal branches to lay his pulleys across. And he was clever. She jumped over a poorly hidden tripwire and nearly fell into a covered pit of skewers.

“Watch it,” she called to Odysseus. “He let that one show on purpose.” She nodded toward the concealed pit and held out her hand to pull him across. She evaded three more traps before a thin, half-buried tripwire caught on her foot. When the hundred-pound log fell toward them like a swooping hawk there was nothing she could do but take it, catch it, and keep it away from Odysseus. Her shoulder crunched and popped out of its joint. If it wasn’t broken, she’d put it back in later.

By the time she made it to the clearing, she was panting, bloodied, and pissed. But Achilles hadn’t lost them. The look on his face as she walked toward him was somewhere between surprised and disappointed.

“You’re not afraid,” she called.

“Not then and not now,” he called back. So he remembered the old days, and who he was. Achilles. Manslayer. That should have made it easier. But Odysseus’ voice rang through her ears. He’s my friend, Athena. He’s just a kid, caught up in your mess.

“How did you die?” she asked curiously. “How did you get your old memories?”

“An accident,” he said. “A fall. A long time ago. I was seven.”

Seven. He would’ve been a skinny towheaded kid with big green eyes. Dirt on his nose. Maybe a lizard in his pocket. A boy she would’ve liked. Damn it.

But the traps. He knew why she’d come. He was no deer in the headlights.

Odysseus grabbed her arm.

“I found him last year in Brisbane. I don’t know how. I just knew where he was. He took one look at me and laughed. Hugged me like we’d never been apart. When I told him about the war, he wanted to hide. So just … let him stay hidden.”

Her maimed shoulder and foot throbbed dully, like beacons on a far-off shore, and she’d be hurt worse before it was done. Let him stay hidden. But if she did, they would pay for it. Cassandra would pay for it. Hermes. Weapons like Achilles never stayed quiet. And the regret of that wasn’t something she could live with.

She pushed Odysseus away gently. Achilles wouldn’t die easy. Not the best of the Greeks. He held something in his hand. A hammer.

He ran at her and swung. The end of the hammer breezed inches shy of her cheek as she turned her head. He brought it back fast, and it caught her in the shoulder. The already dislocated bone cracked.

A mortal, cracking my bones. Am I getting weaker, or was he always so strong?

She wasn’t sure. She’d never fought him. But she’d watched him cut down men like wheat in a field. The hammer pulled back, and she could have grabbed it. Should have grabbed it and made him face her hand to hand. But he was still a mortal. Letting him keep his weapon felt fair.

She dodged the next strike, meant to bust into her rib cage, and kicked out, but what should have dropped him only knocked him backward. Not even off-balance. And he still wasn’t afraid. The light in his eyes was the same mad light she’d seen on the battlefield in Troy. Hector must’ve been terrified, looking into them.

She caught Achilles by the arm and threw him around her in a circle. He rolled to his feet unharmed, and so damned fast. He sprang forward and struck, his fist against her jaw. The clack of her teeth was loud and embarrassing. But he’d overplayed his hand. She reached around the back of his head and threw him to the ground, on him before he could regain his feet, her one good arm wrapped around his head. With brutal grace, she snapped his neck.

The body slumped to the side and rolled onto its back. Odysseus shouted, and the clearing went silent. It was over. Athena rose and closed her eyes. She didn’t want to see the body, or Odysseus’ face. But when he tried to go past her, she caught him across the chest.

“I knew you would do it,” he said. “I knew. But I didn’t believe it.” He threw her arm off and turned back the way they’d come.

“Where are you going?”

“To get a shovel. To bury him.”

“I don’t have any shovels, actually.”

Athena spun around at the impossible voice. Achilles’ head rolled toward her and smiled.

“I broke the last one digging that bloody pit,” he said. “Haven’t made it down to buy any replacements.” He pushed himself up onto his elbows and twisted his neck. Broken bones popped back together with a hideous sound. “But I appreciate the sentiment.”