Antigoddess

“That’s not what I’m saying.” His brows knit and his palms lay flat, trying to explain. “I know it needed to be done, believe me. But you used to be patient. Compassionate.”

Athena exhaled. “Back then I had the luxury.” She pressed her hands to the side of her head and wanted to squeeze, to reopen the stitches and scream. “But I know, I know. I came here to save her, to protect her, and instead I killed her in the first five minutes.” Her arms fell to her sides. His words hung around her neck like lead. “I had to, you know. ‘Make her remember, and she’ll be more.’ That’s what Demeter said. Unless I misinterpreted the riddle.” And maybe she had. The immediate battle was over, the adrenaline rush subsided, and she was so incredibly tired.

“At night I imagine feathers cutting through my insides,” she said softly. “I see them, making their way to the surface, tearing me up before they tear me open. When they come through it’s slow. They twist up and rise, like plants from soil.” She laughed a humorless laugh. “I’m going to die, Odysseus. And when I do I’m going to look like a monster. I suppose you think that’s fitting.”

He stepped closer and took her by the elbows. Heat flowed into her from him in a powerful, strange wave. This is what it feels like to want someone.

“Look at me,” he said, and pushed her hair back over her shoulder. “You’re not going to die. If there’s a way to survive, you’ll find it. You always do.”

“I thought the same thing about you not a day ago. But it might not be true anymore. So many things are different now.” Like us, standing here. With your hands on me. Like the feelings for you that I shouldn’t feel.

“You’re right. Things are different.”

“We’re still goddess and hero.”

“What if we’re not? Just that.” He smiled at her, his eyes soft.

“That’s what we are, always.” Her heart sped with curious hope. The urge to fall was utterly new and made her dizzy. He could catch her and hold her up. She knew he could.

If this is how Aphrodite feels every day, it’s no wonder she’s such an idiot.

“Always,” he said, and let go of her arms.

* * *

Cassandra’s head itched from the odd sensation of having one too many brains inside it, brushing against each other. Everything she remembered ordered and reordered, stacked and shuffled. It felt like her mind had grown longer and larger, that it stretched out behind her several thousand years.

The cloud of her breath puffed like steam from a train. The cold mist that had been falling for the last hour was slowly turning to sleet. It left icy trails in her hair. The only parts of her that felt warm were her neck and throat, which throbbed and ached underneath Athena’s handprint bruises. She swallowed.

It hurts worse than strep. Worse than when I had it for a week in third grade.

Third grade. In third grade, she’d already been thousands of years old. She just hadn’t remembered.

“Athena,” she croaked. Blaming her was easy. It was her handprints wrapped around her neck. She was the one who had asked her if she wanted to know, without giving warning about what that might mean. And she was the one who’d lured her brother Hector to his death.

Hector.

Hector.

Henry.

The knowledge forced its way through her ears, and she stopped short; the sounds of her shoes slapping the slushy sidewalk cut off sharply. Hector, Troy’s hero, was her brother, Henry. She could see him on the city wall, smiling as he pointed down into the market. She could see him throwing Lux’s Frisbee.

And Andie too. With long hair, twisted through with hand-dyed ribbon. She’d taught Cassandra to use a bow. Her name had been—

“Andromache.” Hector’s wife. Henry’s wife. Gross.

“Cassandra.” Aidan. Apollo. She remembered him too.

“Are you—?” he asked.

“Don’t ask if I’m all right. And don’t tell me you’re sorry.” Even if you are.

He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “I wouldn’t do that. It’s stupid. I just—never knew what to do. How do you make up for driving someone out of their mind?”

“Do I look the same as I did before? Didn’t it ever bother you?”

“You look more like her now,” he said. “And it did bother me. It bothered me every day.”

“Could’ve fooled me. Did fool me.”

The wet sweatshirt on his shoulders looked like it weighed a million pounds. Of course it wouldn’t, to a god. It wouldn’t even be uncomfortable. They didn’t feel the cold, or the heat. They didn’t feel. Cassandra looked up into the gray sky, let the sleet hit her cheeks and melt onto her lips. It didn’t taste of tears, just of cold, and she swallowed it down. The bruises made her wince but she didn’t care. The cold water felt good. It eased the nausea of having an extra lifetime crowd in behind her eyes.

“I’ve always loved you. I looked for you for so long. After what I did. After you died.”

“Was killed,” she corrected. “I didn’t just die. I was killed. They took me hostage and put an axe in me when I hit the Greek shore. Like a sacrifice.” The memory made her shiver. It was real, but far away, and so strange to remember her own death. “You cursed me. It was your fault Troy fell. More than the Greeks’. Even more than your stupid sister’s. You gave me prophecy and then made people think I was crazy.” She glared at him. He didn’t even look the same. Images of Apollo and Aidan danced over each other. The boy she loved and the god she hated. “And now you lied. You lied when you said you had no more secrets. You knew who I was the whole time! And never said anything. It’s sick.” Her throat tore every time she raised her voice, but she didn’t care. Her head felt like it might explode.

He grabbed her shoulders. “Please. What was I supposed to say?”

“It might’ve been hard in the beginning, but not now. After I knew what you were, then you could’ve told me the truth.” She hated him. Hated him for being what he was, for standing in front of her wearing the face she loved.

But I do love him. I love him even when I hate him. Even back then when he could do that to me. That’s the worst part. Worse than dying. Worse even than our walls crumbling.

“I know,” he said. “I know.”

“You don’t know anything. And I don’t want to be with you anymore.” She thought she wanted to see his face when she said it, that she wanted to see pain, but it only made her own hurt worse.

He turned away and put his hand on his head. For a second she thought he’d turn and leave.

“I can’t—leave you alone yet. I’m sorry. But Athena and Hermes are still here.”

That’s right. I need you. I need a god, to keep other gods from ruining our lives again. But even then a sliver inside her was glad. He’d been so much a part of her. For so many thousand years. Cutting him out so fast felt like it would tear half her chest away.

“We aren’t going to run from them anymore, are we?” she asked.

“I don’t think we’d make it if we tried.”

“So what do we do then? How do we keep my family safe? How do we keep them away from Andie and Henry?”

Aidan glanced up and she nodded. Yes. I know them too.

“Let me talk to Athena,” he said. “Find out exactly what she’s after. They want to make an ally of you. But I don’t know why, or against what.”

“We won’t have much time to choose sides,” she said, and suddenly knew it was true.

Aidan reached out hesitantly and touched her cheek. His hand was so warm and her heart thumped like it always had. She let it linger there for a moment, then brushed it away.

“Don’t. It’s not like that anymore.”

“I love you,” he said. “I made a mistake, a long time ago. It was a god’s mistake, so it was big. But I’m sorry. I’ve been sorry for thousands of years.”

He was sorry. But what did he know about time or consequences? How long could you hold a grudge when someone broke your life like an unwanted toy? Was a thousand years enough? Two?