As I destroyed another minion, a bright flash appeared in the wide mall in front of the cathedral. In its wake stood Athena, Artemis, and Apollo in their shining armor. Grim faces assessed the battle. Athena’s statuesque form surveyed the scene with a critical eye. The sides of her raven hair were braided in two small war braids, beaded with bone, and pulled back behind her head.
She smiled at Presby burning and gestured for the others to follow her inside the building. Menai and Melinoe were there too, and they took up positions to guard the entrance, as Athena and her brother and sister disappeared inside.
I darted through the violence, dispatching any comers as I went. In the park, I edged close to one of the dark corners. Suddenly the windows in Presby blew out, sending a shower of glass onto those below. The force was so great, glass pinged the iron fence bars in front of me. A few shards sliced my forearm and shoulder, my scalp, too, as I ducked and dove behind a nearby tree.
Looked like Athena had discovered that Anesidora’s Jar was gone.
Seconds later the goddess stormed from the building, saying something to Menai. Menai notched two arrows and aimed into the melee. I looked for her target, wondering how she could make out anything in the chaos. She must have found it because she stilled, her gaze sharpening.
I followed her line of sight to where it rested on my father fighting Athena’s minions like a hero of old.
I shouldered my way to him, turning anything I touched into stone. But it wasn’t enough. I couldn’t outrun those arrows. They flew with divine precision through the melee and hit my father, one in each shoulder. The force sent him flying into the air, the arrows pinning him to a restaurant’s door.
I yelled his name, trying like mad to get to him. Somehow he heard me and went still. “Stay back!” He struggled, cursing and kicking at two minions who tried to approach him. Then he was swamped.
“Dad!”
I stabbed a minion who challenged me, sweeping him off his feet with a low roundhouse and then stabbing with all the anger and horror I felt. I’d cut through every damn one of them if I had to. Tears stung my eyes, desperation making me crazed. I darted forward only to be pulled back. I swung around with a frustrated growl, slicing with my blade. A hand grabbed my wrist. Kieran. Dear God. I’d almost stabbed her.
Heart pounding, I stayed there locked with her for a moment before stepping back. The arrows were torn from my father’s shoulders, then he was being led to the cathedral where Athena waited. Kieran and I moved into the shadows, in the corner by the fence, its trees and bushes giving us enough darkness to hide.
Athena’s voice carried, projecting over the square, as she grabbed my father’s chin. “Where is the jar?” she demanded.
“The jar doesn’t matter. The Hands aren’t inside.”
“Where are they?”
“The only one who knows that is dead,” my father answered.
Their voices dropped, and I could only pick up bits and pieces. They spoke about Josephine, her death. Sebastian’s name was mentioned. Athena thought that as her grandson, he might know the location of the Hands. Athena drew Melinoe aside, and I had to wonder if she was giving orders to the ghostly goddess to seek out Josephine’s soul, if she had one. Mel gave a sharp nod and took off, disappearing into thin air.
My father was taken into the cathedral, followed by the gods. Athena stopped on the steps, looking out over the square. Her head turned our way, and I got the feeling she knew exactly where I was.
“What now?” Kieran asked as Athena went into the cathedral.
“I need to get the Hands. Without them, I have nothing to bargain with when I get inside that church and, hopefully, get my father
“I’m coming with you,” she announced with a stubborn expression that reminded me of Bran. “I’m not running away with the rest of the children.” That thought obviously appalled her.
“He just wants you to be safe.”
“I’m safer with a sword in my hand and a foe to fight. I’ve been training since I could walk. My great- grandfather is a war god; I’m not running away like some coward. I’m coming with you. If you tell me no, I’ll follow you anyway.”
She was arrogant and demanding like her father too. “Suit yourself.”
Kieran and I snuck away from the square toward the river. Once we made it to the Riverwalk, we hightailed it along the waterfront, then to Canal, and finally to Charity Hospital. Josephine was dead, the Hands . . . who knew. My only options were to wait for Sebastian or to go back to Arnaud House for the journals I’d dropped in hopes I’d find a clue about the Hands within the pages.
The hospital was packed with the injured and the scared. We muscled our way inside, getting some strange looks because of our bloodied state. The waiting room was filled, but the kids were nowhere to be seen. I went to the front desk but found a nurse on my way, stopping her to ask about Crank. Then we were taking the stairs to the third floor to find her room.
The room was peaceful and quiet, such a sharp contrast to the chaos of where we’d just been and the things we had done to survive. Stepping into the room was like stepping onto another planet.
Crank looked so small in the bed. Her eyes were closed. The monitors beeped steadily. I picked up her chart, noticing the blood on my hands, the way it had filled in the creases and wrinkles and lines in my palm, and crept under my fingernails. . . .
“Ari,” Kieran whispered.
I jumped. Crank’s eyes were open. “Hey,” I said, immediately going to her side.
“Jeez. You look like shit,” she murmured in a sleepy voice. “Who’s that?”
“Bran’s daughter, Kieran. Has the doctor been in yet?”
She nodded and swallowed, the action taking some effort. “All’s well. Going to be A-OK.” She gave a limp thumbs-up. “The guys were here. They left a little while ago with the lady.”
“What lady?”
“The witch,” Crank answered, closing her eyes. “So pretty.”
“Where did they go? Did they say?”
She didn’t know.
“So the witch is bad?” Kieran asked, confused.
“I don’t know. I think it might be the drugs talking. The only witch that was here before was the River Witch, and
“All right,” Kieran said, obviously having no clue who I was talking about. “Now what?”
“Well, we can wait for Sebastian to show up or head back into the Quarter for Josephine’s journals. It’s a shot in the dark, but it’s the only thing I know of that might give us a clue on the Hands.”
“How about I round up some water or something? Then we can leave Sebastian a note, tell him where we went and to wait for us to get back.”
I slumped on the chair. “Okay.”
Kieran washed her hands and face in the sink in the small bathroom before leaving. When she was gone, I did the same, watching the blood swirl down the drain. It was even in my hair, staining the white red and black. Tiny spray patterns of blood stuck to my neck, my face, ears, and hands. I scrubbed my face, hands, forearms, and neck, before retying my hair and studying my reflection in the mirror. I looked bruised and drawn. After all I’d seen and done, I understood the solemn expression in my eyes. It was in my father’s eyes at times. In Bran’s. In Sebastian’s and Michel’s. “Haunted” might be the right word.
The witch’s words taunted me. I rinsed my mouth, spitting out blood from a cut inside my lip, and then blew my nose, trying to get out the fine mist of blood I’d inhaled during the battle. Tears stung my eyes. I pressed my cold hands against my eyelids and drew in a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Then I left the bathroom and sat down.
Kieran came back a few minutes later. She handed me a bag of chips and a bottled water. I devoured the chips and drank half the bottle. “I don’t suppose you speak French, do you?”
