Ungodly: A Novel (The Goddess War) (12 page)

Andie flipped through the first few pages and then put the pillow back on her face.

“Can you summarize?”

“I ran across Hephaestus in Germany during the Industrial Revolution. He was there making deals, touring factories. We ate white asparagus. We drank questionable German wine. I never saw him again after that one night. But I remember his name. Alexander Derby.”

Henry picked up the papers and leafed through them. What he held was essentially a comprehensive family history of the Derbys, from Alexander to Alexander Derby the second and third, to Alistair Derby the first through the third, and so on. They were titans of metallurgy. They built bridges, instituted innovations in the smelting process.

“So you’re saying that all of these guys … are Hephaestus?” Henry asked.

“No. Not all of them. That’s the interesting part. He’s fashioned himself a sort of family. But every generation or so, one Derby shows up who outshines the rest. He comes out of nowhere, a heretofore unmentioned relation, and dominates the industry for ten, sometimes twenty years before disappearing. Those Derbys in particular. They’re Hephaestus.”

“And you know which Derby he is now?” Andie asked.

Hermes nodded. “Rather cosmically, he’s come back around to Alexander. And he lives in a very big, very old house, just a few hours from here. Come on.” Hermes clapped his hands and jumped up.

Andie dropped the pillow and regarded him with eyes as large as one of Athena’s owls’.

“You want us to go now? Are you nuts?” She took a deep breath and made to push off of the sofa. “Okay.”

“No.” Hermes put his hand up. Of course they shouldn’t go now. They shouldn’t go at all. Who knew what Hephaestus might have waiting for them, especially if he’d heard about their part in his mother’s death. Who knew what state he was in, grappling with a death of his own. Just because they’d met as friends a couple hundred years ago didn’t mean they would do it again. Hephaestus might not even be sane anymore.

Hermes shut his eyes. How stupid of him, to rush in. How typical.

“I’ll go myself first,” he said. “I just meant, get up and get out, because I’m leaving as soon as I eat the rest of the Chinese and pizza.”

“Are you sure?” Henry asked. “I could go at least. I’m not hungover.”

“No. It’s not that. I have to be sure it’s safe first. And I’ll hurry, so you’re not left unwatched here long.”

*   *   *

Henry did his best to pay attention during History. It wasn’t easy. It never was, but just coming off a vacation made it worse. Everyone in the room fidgeted, discreetly texting photos and tales of wild spring breaks. Henry’s phone had buzzed in his pocket no less than ten times in that period alone. He finally took it out on the eleventh and read a text from Jen Thomsen, a friend of Ariel’s.

What was with you leaving Ariel’s with Andie?

Henry texted back.

She needed a ride home.

His phone buzzed again.

Oh. So you 2 not dating? Good.

And again, before he could reply.

I knew you weren’t. She’s in tenth and you know.

Henry frowned.

You know what?

A delay this time, and then,

Well she’s not exactly hot and Ariels totally into you.

The urge to tell her what he really thought, that Andie was more beautiful than Ariel and all her friends put together, wrestled with the urge to tell her to shove it. Instead, he shut his phone off and tried to pay attention to Mr. Fisher. Strangely enough, Mr. Fisher was lecturing on the Industrial Revolution, and mentioned the Derby family at length. It took all Henry’s remaining restraint not to raise his hand and say,
Yeah. And they’re also Hephaestus.

When the bell finally rang, he walked to his locker and scanned the halls for Andie. Two days had passed since Hermes left. He should’ve been back by now. They should have gone with him. If anything happened to Hermes, they would be stuck in Kincade, rudderless.

But that was stupid. If something could take out Hermes, who was faster than a cheetah and still strong, what the hell did he think he would be able to do about it?

But maybe I could, if I really had that shield.

The idea had crept into his head more than once since Demeter suggested it. Half the time it sounded ridiculous, as if one weapon could suddenly make him the equal of Achilles. He’d seen Achilles fight. He’d seen the inhuman strength Achilles had, and how fast he moved.

But Henry couldn’t deny that he wished it would. He wondered what it would feel like to have that kind of strength. That kind of confidence. To be able to stand against Achilles and not be afraid. To be able to win.

“Henry.”

He turned and saw Max and Matt Bauer. He nodded, mostly toward Matt. Max’s comments about Andie’s rack at the party had almost earned him a punch in the face.

“What’s going on?” Henry asked.

“Nothing, man,” Max said, and leaned against the lockers. “What’s going on with you? Ariel’s pretty pissed about you leaving.”

“Ariel’s not my girlfriend. Let her be pissed. I don’t care.”

“I know, right? And what’s she got to be pissed about anyway? You just left with Big Andie.”

“Stop calling her that. You’re not going to make it stick.”

Max and Matt laughed, oblivious to his darkening expression.

“Wanna bet? There she is. Hey, Big Andie!” He waved to her, and Henry turned. The look on Andie’s face was carefully balanced. Only someone who knew her like Henry did could tell that Max’s jibe had gotten to her.

Come over here and pound him. Come on. I’ll help.

But she didn’t. She nodded their way and turned to go.

“Oh, come on, Big Andie!” Max shouted. “Come hang with the rest of us guys!”

Henry slammed his locker shut. He didn’t call her name, and he didn’t think. He just jogged after her and spun her around. And kissed her.

After an initial gasp, the hall around them went silent, but Henry didn’t care. He wasn’t aware of anything but the warmth of her lips, and the increasing rate of his heartbeat. When he pulled away, he braced himself for anything. Yelling. Glaring. Her fist to his face. What he got instead was her arm slipped around his neck. She pulled him back and kissed him again.

“We’re not them,” she said quietly. “Not Hector. Not Andromache.”

“We’re not. We’re us.” He smiled, and they walked down the hall together. Ariel and Max be damned.

*   *   *

Buffalo, New York. Hermes took a breath and savored the smell of Lake Erie before blowing it out again. The city was still ugly from snowmelt. And around every corner was the whisper of decline. It was a city that knew what it used to be. A city that wept rust. A city that Hephaestus would like.

Last fall, Athena and Odysseus had passed through on their way to Kincade. Strange how close they’d come to another one of their brothers. He wondered what it meant, that Athena hadn’t detected him so nearby. He wondered if Hephaestus had known they were there.

Hermes had traveled north from Kincade in style, hiring a private car and driver, but he’d left them at the edge of the city (the backseat littered with an odd juxtaposition of caviar jars and fast-food bags, champagne bottles and Mello Yello) and walked into town on foot. He’d wasted no time and gone directly to Alexander Derby’s last known address. And he’d waited there on and off for the last two days. Watching and listening to the people who came and went.

Almost no one came and went. Only one man and one woman in two days, both of whom returned with groceries and packages wrapped in brown paper. He’d stood in the shadows for two days watching housekeepers.

And not one time has my god-dar gone off. Not even a blip. And no movement from any of the million windows, either.

He looked up to the top floors, which rose well above the trees. The place looked less like a home than a museum. Several stories of gray-brown brick and white window moldings. It took up an entire corner of a city block.

And all that’s rattling around in there is one god and two housekeepers?

Or maybe no god at all. Maybe he’d come too late, and Hephaestus was already dead. He’d hoped to watch the house and see a well-dressed gentleman walk down the front steps with a silver-handled cane and a bad limp. He’d hoped they would catch each other’s eye and smile. They’d have a drink, and share some food. Talk about old times. And then he’d forge Henry a new shield, a better shield than that flimsy Frisbee Achilles toted around. And Hermes would go home.

Just once, couldn’t it be that easy?

There was only one way to find out. The soles of Hermes’ shoes seemed loud as he crossed the street. He had his hand raised in a fist to knock before he remembered that he was the god of thieves, and broke in.

He stepped into the foyer, feet soft on the marble floor. The interior looked like any other massively expensive house might. High ceilings, walls painted robin’s egg blue, and a striped silk chaise. He moved farther in and sniffed the air. A light scent of iron lingered in the rooms, and his pulse quickened with hope.

As he passed by open doorways he noted the rich furnishings: Chinese vases, long oak dining tables, a study full of books and bronze busts. But his mind galloped ahead to Hephaestus. His old friend. The god that Zeus had deemed the most sturdy. The most reasonable.

He can’t possibly be that pissed about Hera. She kicked him off Olympus because she was ashamed of his shriveled foot.

Hermes swallowed. She had done that. But she was still his mother.

The sound of footsteps made him freeze, then zip down another hallway. But it was only the woman. He heard her humming in what he assumed was the kitchen. He listened to cabinets and drawers open and close, and sniffed the air again. No iron this time, but chicken with sage and butter. Enough for an extra guest? He glanced at his emaciated stomach. Maybe enough for one extra guest, but never enough for him.

Have to hurry. It would be rude to interrupt his lunch.

He darted into the hall and up a set of stairs, following the faint hint of metal in his nose. The farther he got into the house, the less it looked like a house. Rooms grew larger and hallways shorter. They doubled back on themselves. Twice he found himself in the same hallway and three times in the same room. And everything seemed to skirt the outside edges. There didn’t seem to be anything in the center. The architecture was clever; you wouldn’t even notice if you weren’t already suspicious and paying too much attention. But all the rooms and stairways he’d been through left a rather large square empty in the middle of the building. Sweat broke out on his forehead. He was close to lost.

There has to be a way to the center. And what will I find when I get there?

Images of all kinds flashed through his head. He imagined ten bellows, an entire smelting operation. A wide, gray, empty room, and at the center a contorted, withered corpse that was unrecognizable as anything resembling a god or human. And then he opened a door on his right, and stumbled through.

The space was massive, walls covered with books and paintings. Great chandeliers lit it, casting a yellowed parchment color across the marble floor. Hermes leaned against a railing three floors up and looked down on it. Above him were another four floors.

“Hermes.”

Hephaestus sat in a leather wingback chair, his lap covered with a blanket. Behind him, a fireplace roughly the size of a Chevy sedan blasted heat through the space.

“Hephaestus?”

His friend smiled. “What took you so long? Is the messenger of the gods slowing down? I felt you come in twenty minutes ago. And I felt you lurking outside my walls for two days before that.”

Hermes leapt over the rail and dropped to the floor, in too big a hurry to bother with stairs or a ladder.

“All that time you knew I was here, and you didn’t come out to welcome me?” Hermes tried to smile. But the longer Hephaestus stayed in that chair, the more his apprehension grew. The other god looked all of about twenty-five except for his strange widow’s peak hairline, but he sat at an odd angle, one shoulder jutted up much higher than the other. Hermes’ eyes flickered to his legs, hidden under the blanket. “You look like a cartoon villain in that chair.”

Hephaestus reached to the side and gripped a long silver crutch that attached to his elbow and shoulder, then pushed to the other side and attached its mate. When he stood, Hermes saw the extent of the damage. His spine had twisted cruelly. The joints in his hands bulged, warping the finger bones. He could barely hold his arm braces, but he kicked aside the blanket. His legs were encased in bands of metal.

“Get that look off your face,” Hephaestus said gruffly. “Watch.” He stepped forward, and the mechanisms on his leg whirred. Despite his contorted form, the motion seemed effortless.

“You’re … Iron Man.”

“Ha!” Hephaestus grinned. “Tony Stark gets no credit. These are my own design.”

“You look good, old friend,” Hermes said. “All things considered.”

“All things considered, we both do. Both of us still handsome, from the neck up.”

A faint knock sounded and the young woman Hermes had seen leaving and returning entered, pushing a cart of silver platters. She parked it beside a dark dining table in the north end of the room.

Hephaestus walked to the table, leg braces whirring. The combination of movements with the metal arm crutches gave the impression of an ungainly silver spider. A very strong ungainly silver spider.

“Stay for lunch?” Hephaestus asked. The woman, who really wasn’t much more than a girl on closer inspection, lifted silver covers to reveal a platter of six roasted chickens and two more of white asparagus bathed in hollandaise. “I sent them out for it specially. For old times’ sake.”

“Next you’ll tell me you’ve got some of that odd German wine.”

Hephaestus’ eyes widened in horror. “Let’s try a nice New York white this time. Marie, two bottles of the Chateau Frank Riesling.”

Over the course of the meal, Hermes tried not to stuff himself, but it was difficult. He also tried not to drink too much, which was even more difficult. The Riesling paired well with the food, and being inside the grand house brought back memories of their time spent in Hephaestus’ fine German hotel.