Antigoddess

She took a deep breath and looked up helplessly.

“A building just blew up somewhere.”

8 THE ISLAND OF CIRCE, REDUX

“Ay caramba.”

The scene in the room hadn’t paused when the door opened. It was a jumble of caressing, and giggling, and soft sighs. The scent of amber incense wafted up, cloying and strong.

“Shut up, Hermes.” At the sound of Athena’s voice, Odysseus’ eyes fluttered open; his brow creased as he tried to focus.

This is just like it was before.

The scene from thousands of years ago and the room she looked into now. Odysseus had been marooned on Circe’s island after the Trojan War. His men had been transformed into pigs and beasts, and he’d been taken as Circe’s plaything. He’d lingered there for a year in Circe’s bed, while Athena labored to send him home.

And here you are again. Tangled up in a ball of witches.

Athena and Hermes stood in the doorway as Celine snapped her fingers at the girls, telling them to grab their things, quickly, quickly. This evoked whines of protest, but the look in Celine’s eyes silenced the noise. All three left in a flurry of bare legs and perfumes that made Athena’s nose crinkle as they passed. Before she left, the blonde ran a lingering hand across Odysseus’ chest while he lay dazed in the center of the bed. Celine looked at Athena, for a moment seeming like she was going to explain. Then she ducked her head solemnly and quit the room, closing the door behind her.

Hermes walked quickly to the bed and peered down into Odysseus’ face. He narrowed his eyes and scrutinized him, his mouth dropped open comically. Athena stayed where she was, near the door. She hadn’t known what to expect, but it certainly hadn’t been this. To have the reincarnated body of her favorite hero lying before her had jolted her brain to a catatonic stillness. She felt almost peaceful. Shocked but peaceful.

“It’s really him,” Hermes said. “Younger. Better haircut. But it’s him. Wily Odysseus.” He bent and pushed the boy’s head with a stiff forefinger. “Something sure as hell took a good bite off him.”

Athena took a deep breath and walked to the bed and looked down on his face. Two thousand years had passed since she’d seen him last.

Odysseus. I thought your story was told. That you’d live and die on Ithaca, quietly, with your loyal Penelope.

Odysseus lifted his hand to his forehead and grimaced like a man fighting a cheap whiskey hangover.

“Hey,” Hermes said sharply. He snapped his fingers before Odysseus’ face, then looked at Athena. “They were like freaking Dracula’s wives. I think they put the whammy on him. What should we do? Cold shower?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Odysseus replied. “But if you could hand me my shirt, that’d be nice.”

“He’s British,” Hermes observed while he bent to retrieve the rumpled cloth from the floor. “That’s interesting.”

“Not as interesting as what he’s doing here.” Athena glanced around at the silk pillows. “Didn’t you get enough of this two thousand years ago?”

Odysseus sat up wearily and caught the shirt Hermes threw. When he slid into it, Athena could see the halting protests of his torn back muscles, but he didn’t wince or moan. His fingers stayed steady as he buttoned it up and stared at her. There was nothing in his expression, but she expected that. He never gave away anything that he didn’t want to.

“Enough for a lifetime. But this isn’t the same lifetime, now is it?”

The same lifetime. Not by a long shot. In the old days, he’d been a king. A leader of the Greeks during the Trojan War. He’d fought alongside Agamemnon and Achilles. He’d helped them break down Troy’s walls. Cassandra’s walls.

And now we find you here. At the same time we seek her.

Odysseus rolled the sleeves of his black shirt up to the elbows. When he stood, he was as tall as he had been then, tall enough to look into her eyes. “In any case, I was looking for you.” He stepped closer; the movement was intimate and challenging. “Athena.”

“You know who I am.”

His brows knit and he smirked. “You knew who I was.”

“Hello?” Hermes waved his hand. “Anybody know who I am?”

Odysseus looked over his shoulder. “Messenger. Nice to see you again. You’re looking a bit thin. You given up meat or something?” He looked at Athena and jerked his head back toward Hermes. “Why couldn’t you send him for me like you did before? Would have been nice to have a winged escort. Might’ve kept the fucking Cyclops off my neck.”

“He can’t fly anymore,” she replied, and ignored Hermes’ offended glare. “And I think I’ve seen you home safely often enough.”

“Right, right, right. You fought Poseidon so I could make it back to Ithaca after the war, and I’m supposed to be eternally grateful. Never mind that it took ten bloody years to get the job done, and that everyone I was traveling with died—”

Athena laughed. The sound cut through the air, surprising everyone.

“You can’t blame me if you keep pissing off Poseidon. Though you might just come in handy. Perhaps I could feed you to him as a distraction.”

You’re still so much the same. Clever. Balanced on a razor’s edge. They gave Achilles all the credit for the war in Troy. Manslayer, they called him. Sacker of cities. But it was you who thought of the Trojan Horse. Hollowing out that wooden steed to sneak Greeks inside the city. Without you, Achilles was nothing.

“Enough of this.” Hermes’ voice was deep and impatient, and uncharacteristically godlike. “There are questions to be answered and work to be done, and since when do I have to remind you of that?” He arched his brow at Athena. “Banter with your favorite hero later, when we’re not knee-deep in throw pillows and body glitter in the middle of a brothel bedroom. When we’re not fighting for our lives.”

Odysseus smiled. “I see he’s still dramatic.”

“Shut up.” Hermes crossed his arms. “Why were you looking for us?”

Odysseus’ eyes flickered from him to Athena. “For protection,” he replied. “Why else would you seek out a goddess?”

“We’ve got our own problems,” said Hermes. “Sister’s suggestion wasn’t half bad. Maybe we should use you as a distraction. Throw Poseidon off our scent for a while.”

“Counterproductive, mate.” Odysseus turned and walked to a Louis XV–style chair in the corner of the room. It was covered in garish red velvet to match the walls. Everything in the room was a shade of red. It was supposed to be seductive. Instead it evoked claustrophobic thoughts of blood and being swallowed whole. He picked up a green-and-black canvas pack from the seat and slung it over his good shoulder, then looked back at Hermes with a grin. “If Poseidon and his little harem get hold of me, you all”—he gestured to them with a tilt of his chin—“are dead.”

“What are you talking about?” Athena asked.

“Listen. I know that Hermes isn’t on some wonky diet. His body’s eating his flesh away. He’s dying. All the gods are dying. I also know that Poseidon and his lady friends have a plan to keep that from happening, and it involves gathering weapons and eating the two of you. And then maybe sinking the whole world under the fucking waves or some bollocks.”

“How do you know that?” Hermes asked.

“Never mind how I know that. The important thing is, I know what they’re after, and they know that I know. Figured that out when that insectian Cyclops popped out of the dark like a frakking jack-in-the-box.” He flexed his injured shoulder and grimaced.

Athena looked at her brother. When the door had opened, she’d prayed for an ally. Instead she found an