Ungodly: A Novel (The Goddess War) (11 page)

“
That’s
Megaera?” Cassandra blinked. That twisting creature of blood and rage was the Fury they called the Jealous One?

“Of course that’s Megaera. If she was Tisiphone, I’d be sporting more than a bruised chin and a cut leg. And if she was Alecto”—Calypso shrugged—“I’d probably be dead.”

Cassandra felt a tickle on the back of her neck. When she looked back, Megaera was watching. The Fury’s eyes were still full of blood—so much blood the irises had been completely obliterated. Only the black dots of her pupils remained.

She’d thought the eyes were part of the creature’s form, like the wings and the veins. Now it seemed more likely that the eyes were some kind of wound. Another symptom of the deaths of the immortals.

“Who are you?” Megaera asked.

“Don’t answer that.” Thanatos pulled on the end of the chain and drew the Fury to her feet. Her arms were bound tight to her sides, secured twice with shackles at the wrists. When she stood, she wobbled.

“I know who you are, boy.” Megaera’s eyes swiveled toward him. “I can smell the death on you. I can smell the death in this room. And just as I know that, I know you didn’t call me here for you. So who is it? The nymph?” Megaera’s red eyes twitched to Calypso. “No. The nymph is along for the ride. So it must be the girl.”

“I—”

“Don’t talk to her,” Thanatos cautioned. “We don’t need to talk to her.” The Fury shuffled backward as he continued to tug and shorten her chains. It was strangely sad to see her so bound. So powerless.

“No need to talk?” Megaera bared her teeth. Rope-like veins popped beneath the skin of her face, but disappeared again. “There aren’t many reasons to summon one of the Erinyes. Someone must need punishment. Tell me who, and quickly, and I’ll forget how rude you were in the asking.”

“No one needs punishment,” Thanatos said soothingly, and took a knife off of a shelf, along with a smooth, black bowl. He sliced into Megaera’s wrist before she knew what he was up to, and blood ran down her fingers. It splashed against the sides of the bowl and collected in a fast puddle, flowing so thick and so quickly it made Cassandra’s head spin. But it was worse when he decided he had enough, and withdrew the bowl to let the blood drip and spatter onto the dirt floor.

“You’re healing slower these days, Megaera.” Thanatos wiped the blade of his knife on a towel and set it back on the shelf. “I figured on having to cut you twice. But look. A bowl full, and you’re still bleeding.”

The Fury’s bloodied eyes followed the bowl.

She knows what we’re after. But how can she? There have to be other uses for the blood of a Fury.

Or perhaps not. Megaera jerked toward Cassandra with such sudden force that they all stepped back, half-certain the chains would snap. They held, but the walls shed dust from the effort.

“You. You’re the girl who kills gods. And you think now to track back to
him
. To
Hades
.” Before Cassandra could say anything, Megaera screamed. The sound was terrible, infinitely worse than what they’d heard through layers of stone and floorboards. It was a million gears ground backward; it was silver fillings come loose and gnashed between teeth.

Cassandra’s knees buckled. She felt Calypso’s arms around her, catching her just short of hitting the cold dirt floor. And then she was back on her feet, and Thanatos held her by the shoulders.

“Open your eyes,” he shouted over the noise. Cassandra pried her eyes open. Megaera had become a true Fury again. Veined wings writhed underneath the chains. Strange bones stuck out at odd angles, and Cassandra heard one snap. Megaera would tear herself apart, getting free. But she would get free.

“Kill her!” Thanatos shouted.

“What?” Cassandra jerked. He wanted her to kill the Fury. To lay her hands on a tip of one wing, and watch the red eyes burst inside her skull. He wanted Megaera dead so she wouldn’t be on their trail, and so she couldn’t warn Hades that they were coming.

It would only take seconds, and the screeching would stop. They would all be able to think again. And breathe. Cassandra’s hands clenched into fists, but she felt no heat.

“You do it!” she shouted, but he shook his head.

“I’ll do it.” Calypso dashed to the shelf and took up the knife. In two quick strides she positioned herself behind Megaera and drove the knife through the base of her skull, up into the brain. She twisted the blade and sawed her head off. It happened so quickly. Cassandra hadn’t even thought to look away.

“Worthless gods of death,” Calypso said, and tossed the Fury’s head into a corner.

*   *   *

The bowl of blood sat heavily between Cassandra and Thanatos on his kitchen island. Blood filled the lower third, still and thick as a dark red soup. Cassandra wasn’t sure, but she thought she could smell it, as if it had already started to rot.

Calypso remained down below, annoyed with both of them for not acting sooner. She’d volunteered to bury the body, and occasionally Cassandra thought she heard the strike of the spade, or the thumping of the corpse as Calypso rolled it into its shallow grave.

“Are you sure this is going to work?” Cassandra asked.

Thanatos shrugged. “You know the old saying. ‘Find a Fury, drink its blood, all day long you’ll have good luck.’”

“That’s ‘find a penny, pick it up.’ And that blood better last more than a day, because I don’t want to summon another one of those things.”

Thanatos’ lips pressed together in a grim line. She got the feeling he was annoyed with her, too.

“Do we need to do anything to it? To prepare it?” she asked.

“Nope. Just drink it.”

“Am I going to have to watch?”

His dark eyes flashed.

“You’re the one who’s set on vengeance. You should have to be the one to do it,” he said. “You should want to do it.”

“What’s your problem? Are you seriously pissed that I didn’t kill the Fury in the basement? Because you’re the flipping god of death, so—”

“It’s not that you didn’t. It’s that you couldn’t.” He placed his hands on the counter on either side of the bowl. “You couldn’t.”

“Whatever this is”—she fluttered her fingers—“it doesn’t work the way I … It’s like my visions. It does what it wants.” But Cassandra could hear the lie in her own voice. The visions came from outside of her. From some other force that showed her what would be. When she killed gods, she drew their deaths right out of their centers. It was her will, like a sword.

Thanatos grabbed her hand.

“Whatever this is,” he said, “it comes from rage. From hate, and from pain.”

She waited for him to throw her hand back, but he didn’t. Instead his touch softened and he slid his cool fingers against her palm.

“And that makes it dangerous,” he said. “It makes it corrupt.”

“You’re the expert.” She curled her lip. “But this? It’s not about death. It’s about killing. And there’s a big goddamn difference.”

Thanatos’ eyes were sad. “Yes. There is.”

The door to the garage opened and closed. Calypso had finished the burial. Cassandra pulled her hand free before Calypso turned the corner into the kitchen.

“The blood is still in the bowl,” Calypso said, and flicked irritated beach-glass eyes in both their directions. She pushed sweaty strands of hair off her forehead. Her fingers left dark streaks of dirt and blood. “I’m going to use your shower,” she said, and left.

“We should probably have the blood out of the bowl by the time she gets out,” Cassandra said.

“She grows impatient,” said Thanatos. “She wants it over. She wants to be dead.” He went to his cupboards and pulled out a dark blue metallic sport cup. Roughly half the blood went into it, and then into the refrigerator. The other half he poured into a glass tumbler.

Cassandra swallowed. She fought the urge to look away or to ask for more sparkling water to calm her stomach.

“Bottoms up.” He swallowed the blood in one long gulp. It took forever to leave the glass. So much longer than it took to run out of the Fury’s wrist. When he finished, he looked even paler than when he started.

“Thanatos?”

He buckled, and Cassandra reached for him across the counter. But his weight was too much. It pulled her halfway up and over. Her elbow upended the mostly empty tumbler of blood and it leaked a large, dark dot onto the white countertop.

“I can’t hold you!” She jerked him hard to the right so she could clamber around the end. Thanatos convulsed. She held him, even though the blood coating his teeth made her want to retch.

“Are you all right?” she asked. “Should I do something?”

He didn’t answer, so she lowered him to the floor and went to the sink to wet a towel with cold water. By the time she pressed it to his forehead, the convulsions had mostly stopped.

“Something to drink,” he said. “Something strong.”

She ran to the bar and poured a large snifter of brandy.

“Date-rape brandy to the rescue,” she said, and pulled his head into her lap so he could drink.

“I would never—” He sipped. “—roofie anyone. Don’t be insulting or I’ll barf Fury blood all over your skirt.”

“I was kidding.” She brushed her fingers across his forehead. “And you should have warned me about the seizure.”

“I’ve never had a reaction like that before.”

“Was it because she was dying? I noticed her eyes. All the vessels looked like they’d burst.”

“No,” he said. “It wasn’t the death, but who put it there. Another god. Atropos. I could taste her corruption.” Cassandra pressed the brandy to his lips again. “She’s the one. The Moirae of death. She’s the source.”

The source. Cassandra sucked in breath.

“What do you mean?” she asked. “Do you mean she’s the source of the gods’ deaths?”

“Yes,” Thanatos said. “It all stems from Atropos. And trickles down.”

“Do the other gods know?” She was fairly sure Athena didn’t.

“I’m not sure. Maybe some suspect.”

“Does that mean they’ll survive? If they kill her? They won’t be dying anymore?”

He blinked at her slowly. The panic in her voice had been hard to miss.

“Yes,” he said. “But don’t worry. They’ll never be able to kill her.”

11

THE INDUSTRIALIST

A Shield of Hector to replace the lost Shield of Achilles. It wasn’t exactly an easy task, but certainly more attainable than finding the real thing. Hermes sat impatiently in front of his laptop. He’d been searching and printing for the last thirty minutes, ever since he got off the phone with Andie, Henry, and the take-out guys from Stanley’s Wok and Napoli Pizza.

Damn slow Internet.

Everything except his own fingers and mind seemed slow at the moment. He tapped his toes and looked at the growing pile of paper, then at the wall clock. What the hell was taking Andie and Henry so long? Henry lived three streets away, for Pete’s sake.

Someone pulled into the driveway and killed the engine.

Damn it. Not pizza. Delivery guys never turn their cars off.

“Andie!” he said when she walked in. “What took you so long? And why do you look so pale?”

“I went to a party last night.” She waved her hand to keep him from asking more. “Why are you talking so fast? What’s happening?”

“Not until Henry gets here. And at least one of the take-out guys. I ordered a couple of garlic chickens and a Mediterranean special. And the left half of the Stanley’s Wok menu, as usual.”

She made a face.

“No food.” She sat down hard on the sofa and put her hand over her eyes. It was, he surmised, what the mortals called a hangover. Great. She’d be irritable, uncomfortable, and mostly useless for hours. A fine way mortals had of ruining the day after a good party.

Two more cars rolled into the driveway. One was particularly loud. Henry’s Mustang. He came into the house laden with boxes and bags.

“Hey.” Henry nodded. “You wanna go pay them? From the looks of it you owe them hundreds of dollars.”

“They’ve got my credit cards. I just have to tip the drivers.”

“Don’t worry about that. I took care of it.”

“Thanks.”

Henry shrugged. “You’re always feeding us, so.” He walked through to the kitchen and started assembling an eclectic plate of egg rolls, sweet-and-sour pork, and two slices of garlic chicken pizza.

“I take it you didn’t go to the party with Andie last night.” Hermes stuffed a slice of Mediterranean into his mouth. Olives and feta cheese popped on his tongue.

“I did. I just didn’t drink as much.”

“Hmm.” Hermes chewed thoughtfully. “Normally I would find the blush that’s creeping up your neck absolutely fascinating. But we’ve got things.” He jerked his head toward the living room, where Andie waited with a pillow over her face.

“Don’t tell me,” she said, her voice muffled and miserable. “You have a lead on the Shield of Achilles.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. We were never going to find that thing.”

She pulled the pillow off her face.

“What do you mean? Then what are we going to do?”

“We’re going to make our own.” Hermes sat and explained his plan to forge a new shield. A new set of weapons, given by the gods. And all they needed to do was find Hephaestus, the godly blacksmith, and make him do it.

“Hephaestus?” Henry frowned. “You mean Hera’s other son? The one she made all by herself in competition with Zeus? When he created Athena on his own and hatched her fully formed from his head?”

“And he was Aphrodite’s husband!” Andie added.

Hermes sighed. The mortals had been studying. How unfortunate.

“He’s a good god,” Hermes assured them. “I promise. He’s not going to be thrilled about what happened to his mother, but he’ll understand. As for the marriage, it was crap. Aphrodite was plastered all over Ares every time Hephaestus turned his back.”

“This is your only idea?” Andie asked.

“It’s
the
only idea.”

Henry and Andie exchanged a doubtful look.

“Even if we can convince him to do it,” Henry said, “which isn’t likely, how is finding Hephaestus any easier than finding the shield?”

“Ha! That’s the beauty.” Hermes went to his laptop and grabbed the stack of papers. He’d already been through it with a highlighter to pull out the pertinent information. “Here. Look at this. I know who he is. Or at least, who he was.”