Ungodly: A Novel (The Goddess War) (3 page)

“Tell me about your friend,” Cassandra said. “Something besides that he’s afraid of me.
Should
he be afraid of me?”

Calypso shrugged and brightened a little. “He’s a satyr. He doesn’t kill. But he does have appetites.”

“What kind of appetites?”

“He sleeps with lots of girls and doesn’t call them in the morning. Is that something you can forgive?”

Cassandra shrugged. “He sleeps with girls.”

“Lots of girls.”

She shrugged again. “So would Hermes if Athena wasn’t watching him all the time. And not just girls, but boys and probably congressmen.”

Calypso shook her head slowly. “But you’re going to kill Hermes, too. Aren’t you?”

Cassandra said nothing. She’d pushed the idea of killing Hermes into the back of her mind. Aside from Aidan, he was the only god she loved as well as hated.

It doesn’t matter. All gods must die. Whether I love them or not.

Loud, almost clanging footsteps snapped her out of her thoughts. Beside her, Calypso smiled and gestured for the figure in the doorway to come closer. After a second of staring at him, Cassandra did, too, with a slight nod of her head.
Come on. It’s safe. I won’t put my hands on you and turn you into mutton.
And she wouldn’t unless he gave her real cause. He was only a satyr. Not a god. Not even a nymph like Calypso. His death was probably so accelerated that he only had a few more years anyway.

As he hugged Calypso and kissed her cheek, Cassandra studied his body and every inch of exposed skin. All seemed healthy and California tan. His olive undertones made his brown T-shirt look green.

“David. This is Cassandra.”

Cassandra held her hand out, and watched him debate whether to touch her or to risk pissing her off by not touching her.

“It’s okay,” she said, and put her hand back on the bar.

“Sorry I’m late.” He gave no excuse as to why, and signaled to the bartender for a beer. “Should we get a table?”

They moved to the back, out of the shaft of sunlight and into the dusty yellow of the billiard lamp. David slid into a chair and tossed a small manila envelope onto the table. Calypso opened it and took out a stack of fake passports and driver’s licenses. The way she flipped through them so casually made Cassandra glance back to check the bartender. But he had his eyes where they should be, on the glasses he was washing. He knew what it meant when his patrons retreated to the back corner.

Calypso frowned.

“You made me twenty-seven.”

David shrugged. “The photos you sent looked twenty-seven. It’s a good age. You want them to last, don’t you?”

Calypso passed Cassandra hers.

“He made you twenty-one.”

“And that was a stretch.” David took a drink. “You look all of about fifteen.”

All of about fifteen. But she was almost seventeen. And could have killed him by caressing his cheek. She tucked the IDs into her pocket and looked David over, noting the faint lines around his mouth and the looseness of his skin. A burly patch of chest hair was visible at his collar, shot through with gray. Cassandra scrutinized his head. That black hair of his wasn’t quite so naturally black anymore. Poor David. He would be sleeping with and not calling fewer and fewer girls in the coming months.

“So. Ladies. Is that it? Because not that it isn’t a kick to see you, Cally, but…”

“No, that’s not it.” Cassandra interjected. “What have you heard of the other gods? And—don’t lie. And don’t make me ‘bad cop’ you either. I’d feel ridiculous.”

David paused. He looked sort of amused, but no less nervous.

“I’m just a satyr,” he said. “A lower being. Why would I know anything?”

Cassandra glanced at Calypso. As a nymph, she was half a lower being herself. And the farther down you were on the godly ladder, the closer you paid attention. Lowers minded the uppers, in case the uppers decided to cause trouble.

“What have you heard?” Cassandra asked again.

“What have
I
heard?” David snorted. “What have
you
heard?”

“I’ve heard that Artemis is dead,” Cassandra said. “Not by my hand. And Poseidon is dead. Not mine either. Aidan—” she swallowed. “Apollo is dead. Hera is dead. She was mine. Athena’s probably dead, too.” She couldn’t tell if any of it surprised or saddened David. He wore his masks well.

“Who do you want?” he asked.

“I want Aphrodite. And Ares, since he’ll probably be there anyway.”

David shook his head. “Not a chance. Those two took off so fast they left behind a dust trail. Nobody’s heard a thing from them. Besides, by all accounts, Aphrodite’s in pretty bad shape. She’ll probably die on her own. Save you the trouble.”

No. Aphrodite would die screaming at her hands, and it wouldn’t be any trouble at all. Cassandra’s palms burned quietly, and she brushed them against the cool fabric of her jeans.

“He’s not lying,” Calypso said after a few seconds.

“I know,” Cassandra replied.

He was too afraid to lie. Nothing he would protect could hurt him worse than she could. Still, the idea that Aphrodite had gone to ground, out of her reach, made her stomach twist.

We’ll find them, someday. They can’t hide forever. Someone will have seen them.

“What about Hades?” she asked. God of the underworld. God of death. When she’d gone to the underworld looking for Aidan, Persephone said that Hades’ death would be a blight on the world. That he would die in a blast of virus and disease. An entire city would fall around him to some unspeakable plague. One last tribute, she’d called it. But not if Cassandra could help it. If she couldn’t have Aphrodite, then she’d settle for him.

Calypso and David stared.

“Hades?”

Cassandra nodded. The idea of him walking in a city somewhere, ticking down like a biological weapon, had been in the back of her mind since she’d returned from the underworld. More than once she’d dreamed of a man clothed in black, surrounded by thousands of corpses, blackened and bleeding from the eyes. The first time she woke in a panic, and flipped through every news channel she could find. But it hadn’t been a vision. Only a nightmare. It was harder and harder to tell the difference.

David laughed and drew his hand roughly over his chin.

“Cally, your friend has big balls for such a little girl.”

Calypso made a face. “Don’t be gross, David. Have you heard anything about Hades, or not?”

He sighed. “He’s not on this continent. He doesn’t like it. Except for Mexico, when the Aztecs were there, and then he came north for the frontier. That’s the last I heard of him here.”

Cassandra rolled her eyes. It didn’t matter if Hades wasn’t in the United States when David had just supplied them with passports.

“I can’t get you to Hades,” he said finally. “But if you’re after the god of death, why not try the real thing?”

“The real thing?”

Cassandra searched the whole of her mind all the way to Troy and back but couldn’t discern who he referenced.

“Thanatos?” Calypso asked, and David nodded.

“Thanatos. Death embodied. If you want Hades, he’ll know where to find him.”

“And?” Cassandra snapped. “Where is this … Thanatos?”

David finished his beer and stood. “You’re in luck. He loves Los Angeles.”

*   *   *

“Don’t you know how to do your hair? I thought all girls today would know at least how to do a fancy ponytail.”

Cassandra stared at her reflection in the hotel mirror. The girl who stared back had a face clean of makeup and slightly tanned shoulders from time spent under unfamiliar sun. Brown hair hung down to her elbows. It hadn’t been cut in months.

“I don’t want to do my hair. And I don’t want to wear this.” The dress Calypso had put her in stuck to her in every place that would make her self-conscious. It was black, but a shadow of gray patterning across her chest and down her hip suggested a leopard’s spots. They might have stripped it off of any wasted Hollywood socialite.

“We won’t get in if you don’t wear that.” Calypso stepped behind her and swept her hair back over her shoulders. Four quick twists and what felt like a dozen bobby pins threaded through Cassandra’s scalp made it almost presentable.

“I don’t like the idea of that, either.” She squirmed as Calypso applied makeup to her eyes and lips. “I don’t need this. You’d be enough. I could sneak by in your shadow.” Calypso wore light blue silk. Somehow it made her eyes greener and her skin more honeyed. She patted Cassandra’s cheek.

“This is the price to meet the god of death.”

Cassandra frowned. The price to meet the god of death was animal print. But she would bear it to get close to him, so he might get her closer to the other gods. Her heart hammered at the thought, and her hands hadn’t stopped itching all day. She’d had to watch herself to make certain she didn’t touch Calypso and accidentally add another line to her face.

“Come on. The cab will be here in a few minutes.” Calypso’s warm smile was almost infectious. But not quite. Not so very long ago, a night like this would have been thrilling. To hit the clubs in a strange town. Not so long ago, it would’ve been Cassandra in the mirror, trying to get Andie to put on at least a little eyeliner.

But I still wouldn’t have worn this stupid dress.

She glanced down at her chest.

Might’ve been fun to get Andie to wear it.

The name of the club was Haze Park. On the drive from the hotel, Cassandra tried to track the streets, but lost the thread after four turns. Every inch of Los Angeles looked the same to her, especially at night. It was all so dry and spare compared with back home. She never thought she would miss the mud and gray slop of a Kincade spring. By now the whole yard would be wet. Lux would roll around in the melt puddles and come out smelling awful. Their mom would shriek and chase him off of the furniture until Henry caught him and threw him into the tub.

The cab pulled up to the curb, past a long line of people waiting behind ropes. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell Calypso they could just wait with everyone else, that they’d never cut to the front of the line. That it only happened in movies. But the second Calypso stuck a leg out the door, the bouncer motioned with his fingers for them to come ahead.

“How do people not hate you?” Cassandra asked, careful to avoid eye contact with anyone waiting.

Calypso shrugged.

“Some do,” she said. “Athena did.”

“Well, you hated her, too.”

Calypso stopped short inside the door, and Cassandra surveyed the interior: blues and blacks and silvers. Loud music and gyrating bodies. All very good-looking gyrating bodies.

“I didn’t hate her,” Calypso said. “I don’t hate anyone.”

“Not even Achilles?”

Calypso looked at her carefully. “I’m not made for vengeance. Not everyone is like you and Athena.”

Hearing their names grouped together made Cassandra’s hackles rise, but she swallowed and turned away. Calypso hadn’t meant anything by it, and besides, they had work to do. Thanatos, god of death, was there somewhere. According to Satyr David, he’d been at Haze Park every Saturday night for the last two months. Satyr David also said they’d know him when they saw him.

Cassandra squinted, barely able to see a thing around the obstruction of so many already tall girls stacked up by four-inch heels. The blue lighting didn’t help much, either.

“Do you think your friend told him we were coming?” she asked.

“I don’t think so,” Calypso replied, and Cassandra figured she was right. David hadn’t given the impression that he was on close terms with Thanatos, or that they even spoke. The Satyr was a pigeon. He watched and he ferried messages.

They threaded their way through the crowd, trying to catch a glimpse of whatever Death looked like. Was he a hunched-over man at the bar dragging an oxygen tank? Someone with clothing covering most of his skin to hide sores and rot? It was unlikely that either one would get into a club like Haze Park, no matter how much money he had.

Then again, maybe he paid to be kept in the back.

“Calypso. Check the doors and”—Cassandra gestured to the second level—“those funky beaded curtains. Find the VIPs.” She was tempted to let Calypso do everything. No one would try to stop her; all she’d have to do was bat an eyelash. She touched the nymph’s arm. “I’ll go up to the left.” Calypso nodded, and Cassandra watched her head toward the back of the club. She took a breath and glanced down. The dress still clung, and the skin of her chest and shoulder shimmered. Body glitter. She brushed at it irritably, but Calypso hadn’t snuck it on. It had rubbed off of someone else.

“Fine,” she muttered. She scanned the length of the bar, part searching, part considering whether to try her fake ID for some liquid courage. She had no idea what she’d order. She didn’t even feel like drinking. But having something in her clammy palms to stop her fidgeting seemed like a good idea. A few more feet and she’d reach the stairway that twisted up along the wall. It led to beaded curtains and a balcony overlooking the main level.

Maybe it’s just the bathroom. But there is the balcony …

It would give her a much better vantage point at least. Cassandra gripped the banister, careful to keep her ankles straight in the delicately heeled shoes.

The second she stood against the rail and looked down on the main level, she felt better. The whole place was too close for comfort. Even there, above it all, the sound was a constant cloak. She couldn’t hear anything except the music, the beat, and the closest shouts. Certainly not the rattling whisper of the beaded curtain when Death walked through it.

But she felt him, like the cool of a breeze without any wind. A still kind of cold, like a lake that didn’t ripple.

“You don’t—” she shouted, and stopped.
You don’t want to touch me,
is what she’d meant to say.
You don’t want to touch me, because I don’t want you to crumble like a pillar of wet sugar before you tell me anything.
She hadn’t needed to speak. Her arms and hands felt about as threatening as wet rags.

The being who stood before her was no eighty-year-old on oxygen. He was no cloaked monster covered in leprous sores. Instead, Death was beautiful, if a bit extreme. His hair was black. His eyes were black. His skin was pale white. Or maybe that was just a trick of the blue lights. If it wasn’t for the green tones of his shirt, he might’ve been made out of newsprint.