Antigoddess

16 YOU CAN RUN

Leaves had already found their way back into the yard, blown in from the neighbors’ or fallen down from the last clinging bunches high up in the maple branches. It was only a scattering. Their dad wouldn’t make them rake again, but he’d be in the yard on his own next weekend, clearing out the last of them.

As Cassandra walked up the driveway, she tried to be unsurprised that the house was still her house. That she still remembered growing up in it, sliding down the banister and almost breaking her leg, and decorating sugar cookie reindeer with her mom, candy sprinkles spread out across the tabletop. It still felt like it was hers.

It’s mine, like Troy is mine. And I’m me, and I’m not me.

She walked through the door and the heat inside immediately made her nose run. By the time she got a tissue from the bathroom across from the den, her fingers tingled and the sting of thaw bit the tops of her ears. Across the hall, machine-gun fire issued from the TV. The backs of Andie and Henry’s heads sat above the brown suede of the couch while they watched a movie.

I saw you die. I was there on the wall when you fought Achilles.

The memory was completely clear. He’d fought so well, so bold and fast, that for an instant she’d thought her vision could be wrong and Hector would win. She’d hoped so, right until the moment he stumbled. Right until the moment Achilles’ spear thrust into his chest. Andromache had screamed then, and Cassandra had wanted to cover her eyes. No one should have to remember the sight of their husband trying frantically to get a spear out of his chest while someone else drove it farther in.

She shivered hard, and wet, brittle clothes rattled on her body. Andie turned on the couch and her mouth dropped open.

“Kill the TV.”

“What? What for?”

“Just do it.” Andie spun off the couch. “My god, Cassandra, what happened? Henry, call the police and your parents.” She pulled an afghan off of the hope chest and pulled Cassandra’s jacket off of her shoulders before wrapping her in it.

“Cassandra? Jesus, what happened?” Henry lifted her chin. The bruises, black as an inner tube, circled all around her throat. The fact that they were finger marks was unmistakable.

“Don’t call the police,” Cassandra whispered. “And don’t call Mom and Dad.”

“What do you mean, ‘don’t call’? Look at you! What the hell happened?”

“I got in a fight.”

“That’s not a fight, Cassandra; that’s someone trying to kill you. You have to report it. Do you know who it was?”

Someone did kill me. And someone brought me back.

“Where’s Aidan?” Andie asked. Concern and fear etched her features in equal parts.

Can they know, somehow? Can they sense it?

But no. They were just afraid and thinking the worst.

Cassandra closed her eyes.

“Could you please just make me some tea? With honey?”

“You should take some Tylenol or something too,” said Henry, and went to get it from the bathroom.

Cassandra followed Andie to the kitchen and pulled out a chair to sit. She listened to drawers and cabinets open and shut. The kitchen smelled like melted cheese and butter from the casserole they’d had for lunch.

“Where are Mom and Dad?”

“Grocery store and errands in town,” Henry replied. He ducked under Andie’s arm on his way to the sink to fill the teapot and Andie turned the wrong way and got honey on his shirt. It was ridiculous just how effectively they could get in each other’s way, how one innocent arm movement from Andie could manage to entangle her in Henry practically up to the shoulder.

It’s how they always were. The prince and the Amazon fell in love while wrestling and never really stopped.

At least until the gods had run their lives into the dirt and killed them. And now here they were: Henry her brother again, and Andie her friend. It felt unfair. They’d paid for it once already. It should have been enough for a hundred happy lives.

But that’s not how it works. Fate has its way. Fair or unfair doesn’t matter. Hector told me that once.

“Here. It’s pomegranate antioxidant something or other.” Andie set down a steaming mug of purplish tea. It smelled of bitter citrus and dark bits of leaves swirled near the bottom. The heat of the ceramic mug sank into Cassandra’s sluggish fingers.

Henry stared as she sipped. Andie briefly looked into the teapot like she might pour herself a cup, but then set it back on the stove to cool. Neither one of them seemed to know what to do. They waited quietly, watching but not really watching, in that way people have when they know you have something unpleasant to tell them.

I don’t have to tell them at all. Whatever happens next, I could leave them here. Leave them out of it.

Only she didn’t think she could. There were things at work, threads being pulled that wound around and around them. It was almost visible, thin as gossamer, draped over their heads when the light hit just right.

“What would you say if I told you we aren’t who we think we are?”

“What?” Henry asked. “Cassie, what happened to your neck? Who did that?”

Cassandra swallowed her tea and felt honey coat the bruises.

“Athena did that,” she said. “A goddess did that.”

“Like Aidan.” Andie pulled out the chair beside her and sat. “A god, like Aidan. Which one?”

“His sister.” Cassandra nodded. “You’d know that, though, if you were really you.” She winced. It was almost exactly what Athena had said.

“His sister? The one from the jungle?”

“No. It was Athena. And Hermes was there too.”

Andie looked at Henry; Cassandra waited until he’d sat down in the chair opposite and had Lux’s head on his knee.

“I’m not just Cassandra Weaver. You’re not just Andie Legendre. That’s why I’ve been seeing the things I have. They’ve been looking for us. Me mostly, but she’ll use you too.”

Andie tried not to look skeptical and failed. But Cassandra was patient.

“Listen. Your name used to be Andromache. His used to be Hector. Past lives, get it?” She stopped abruptly when her voice got too loud. Talking loud still felt like coughing up a crumpled ball of aluminum foil. They didn’t believe her, and why should they? The only way to make it real would be to strangle them and bring them back from the dead. And she wasn’t about to try that.

But Athena will. I have to get them away from here. Away from her.

“Andromache,” said Andie softly, trying it out in her mouth. “And Hector. From Troy.” She paused. “Wait. I totally saw that movie. And this guy is no Eric Bana.” She shoved Henry in the shoulder.

“This isn’t a joke. Look at my neck. They did this to wake me up. So I’d remember being the other Cassandra. So they could use me for something. They’ll do the same thing to you.”

They stared at the blackening fingerprints around her windpipe. “You remember being … the other Cassandra?” Henry asked.

She nodded. “And I remember you. When you were Hector. It’s true. I’m not crazy.”

“What—what are they going to use you for?” Andie asked.

“I don’t know. Aidan’s trying to find out.” She didn’t tell them what he’d done to her back in Troy. There was so much to tell.

And it doesn’t matter. Not in the middle of everything else. Not even when it feels like my heart’s stopped beating.

She took another sip of tea. It had cooled, or maybe her throat had gotten warmer. The purplish liquid swirled in the bottom of the mug; leaves and bits of flower floated and swayed in suspended patterns, like drifting seaweed. Cassandra watched as the pattern became less random, as the leaves strung together into shapes. An open, screaming mouth and long, drenched hair. She blinked and tried to unsee it, but couldn’t. It was like seeing the hidden shape in a Magic Eye puzzle, or catching the shape of Elvis in a grilled cheese sandwich. Once you saw it, it was all you could see.

“Is it cold?” Andie asked. “Do you want me to nuke it? Or make you more?”

Cassandra glanced up. When she looked into the mug again, the face was gone, blown apart.

“No, I—”

Water coated her eyes. Bubbles churned against her cheeks and her own hair found its way into her mouth and choked her. Someone was holding her under. Her lungs felt ready to bleed.

It’s not me. It’s someone else.

She took a deep breath and her lungs filled with air. She was safe, in the kitchen, her back firmly planted against the wood of the chair.

It’s just a vision. No different than any other.

But this was monstrous, seen through a blurry surface, like a windshield sheeted with rain. The air smelled of moss and wet rocks, of freezing saltwater. The only light seemed to be light reflected off of water; it danced over every surface and made her dizzy. They were in some kind of cave. Or a cove, in the cliffs.

She felt Andie and Henry’s hands on her arm and shoulder. They asked questions, but she didn’t understand them. Their voices were muffled and echoed. They might have been shouting through a cement wall.

In the center of the cave a hole of dark, greenish water rippled. Then the surface exploded and a girl was tossed out with a wave, thrown onto the stones. The sound of her slapping against the rock hurt Cassandra’s bones. The arms that threw her were just visible inside the retreating water: slimy and scaled and cut through with stiff seaweed. Wet rot blackened the tips of the fingers.

The girl hacking and vomiting water on the stones wore jeans and a sweater, clothes that didn’t belong to her. They were cheap and the sweater was too large. She pulled in deep breaths and kept her eyes on the rock. She seemed afraid, but not panicked. Water ran out of her thick mass of red hair as she tossed it back over her shoulder.

A foot clad in a slingback heel stepped before her and the vision opened up. Two women stood in the back of the cave, both dry and hideously beautiful. The one nearest had dark blond hair, cropped short. The second lingered behind and swayed on bare feet. Long yellow hair hung down her back. Dirt streaked across her fragile blue dress. She was young, and unbelievably beautiful, except for the bruises that marked her arms and legs.

Those aren’t from fighting. It’s sickness. And she isn’t young. She just appears that way.

Her big blue eyes blinked, vacant and wild. Insane.

Aphrodite. And the other …

She saw a stone fist, heaviness in her limbs. A peacock feather.

Hera.

Hate streaked through Cassandra’s blood, hate that she hadn’t known she had. The vision jerked; it sped up and skipped ahead in a montage of torture. Something dark erupted from the greenish water and dragged the red-haired girl back down. Red clouds bloomed in the water and churned up flashes of pale bits, pieces of loose skin. Screams mingled sound with bubbles and spit.

Poseidon. And not Poseidon. At least, not the sea god I knew.

When he slammed the girl back onto the rocks, he rose out of the water to his waist. Sea plants shot through his skin, cracking it. Long, red cuts crossed his torso from kelp leaves working their way inside. His once handsome beard was infested with shells and creeping claws, and in the place of his right eye was a piece of bone-white coral, jutting from the socket. Where his blood oozed, it was oily and reddish black. The sea was polluted, and so was he.

Cassandra remembered the god he’d been, golden like the sand and strong. The waves on the rocks used to ring with his laughter. At least two Trojan girls a year came back from swimming giggling, with Poseidon’s babies growing in their bellies.

They’d run from him now. They’d run screaming.

Across the slippery sound of water, Hera’s voice rolled like thunder off every wall.

“We can bring the others. Is that what you want?”

The girl shivered and twitched on the stone.

“Talk, you stupid witch!” Aphrodite shrieked and threw a stone. It bounced off the girl’s shoulder and drew blood.

“Don’t, daughter. We don’t have to be cruel.” She held out her arm and Aphrodite ran to her and held her tight.

“She says nothing. She lets us die. Lets us burn and bleed and crack!”

Hera shushed her and stroked her hair. Aphrodite keened softly for a few moments, then quieted. “She’ll talk. She’ll talk because she knows we are their gods. The witches of Circe do not belong to Athena alone.”

The girl shivered. “You killed us.”

“I had to, little one. You took things from me and my family. Things we have looked a long time for.” She kissed Aphrodite’s brow and sent her away, back to hug herself in a corner. Hera stepped forward and knelt before the girl. She reached up and tucked wet strands behind the girl’s ear, almost tenderly. “Look. You see Aphrodite. Goddess of love and beauty. She’s dying, and dying cruelly. Losing her cheeks to clotted blood and her mind to madness. Because love is madness.” She wove her fingers into the girl’s hair and twisted, yanking it tight. “Love is madness. We kill for it like you do. I’ll kill you and every remaining witch to save Aphrodite and my blighted brother. Or I can spare you and kill somebody else.”

The girl breathed hard. She looked at Aphrodite and glanced back toward the green water. But she said nothing. Hera sighed and nodded to Poseidon.

Cassandra wanted to look away as he threw himself onto the rocks. He wrenched his jaw open and sank his teeth into the girl’s leg, his expression horrible and vacant, close to mindless as he tore her skin away and chewed. He would have bitten again had Hera not held up her hand.

The girl fell back, clutching the wet red hole above her knee. She trembled, her breath shallow and ragged. She’d go into shock soon, and then it would all be over.

“Go back for the others.”

“No.”

The girl spoke, her voice deep and sweet, softly accented with French. “No. Leave them alone!”

“I will and gladly. If you strike the bargain.”

The girl wept. She took several deep breaths before she spoke again. When she did, it was only a few words.

“Kincade. New York.”

Hera smiled. And snapped her neck.

The vision threw Cassandra back hard. The legs of her chair skidded across the hardwood of the kitchen.

“Cassie?” Henry jumped forward and held her steady. But that was no comfort. Hera, Aphrodite, and Poseidon had killed that girl. Even after she told them what they wanted.

They know where we are. They’re coming.

She swallowed and looked at Henry.

“We’ve got to get out of here.”

Athena was at the mirror when he came in, leaning close to the glass, using her fingernail to coax a small, blood-tinged feather out of her eye. It had been floating just below the lid for the last hour, making her eye water and sting. When Apollo came through the door, he didn’t bother to knock, and her reflection shot him a sour look. Then she went back to scraping her nail along her eye.

Hermes sat up quickly, but with more curiosity than alarm. Apollo couldn’t stand against them when they were all together.

Odysseus clicked the TV off and cleared his throat in the awkward silence. He bounced up off of the bed and extended his hand.

“Ody,” he said.

“Aidan. I remember you. You used to be trouble.”

He smiled. “Still am.”

Behind them, Athena let something drop loudly against the countertop. The feather had come out; she rolled it between her fingers, staining them red before rinsing the lot of it down the drain. Odysseus raised a brow in her direction. She arched hers back, but her expression softened. Apollo looked like walking shit. His clothes hung on him in a wet bundle.

“I’ve come to find out what the fuck’s going on,” he said.

“Might’ve been a better question to ask before you attacked me.” Athena turned from the mirror and rested her hip on the counter. She’d changed into a different t-shirt and sort of wished she hadn’t. She should have worn the blood like a badge.

“Don’t waste your time,” said Hermes. “He’s gone Rambo on us. Break bottles first and ask questions later.”

“I was only trying to protect her.”

“And look how well that turned out.” Hermes lay back on his propped-up pillows.

It was enough. Anyone could see that Apollo was beat. Athena pushed away from the counter and walked toward him.

“We’re trying to protect her too,” she said gently.

“You killed her.”

“She was dead already. She still is. She’s been dying for as long as we have. Her fate is tied to ours.” She clenched her teeth. No matter how she tried, she couldn’t seem to be anything but harsh with him.

Apollo straightened. When he did, he almost looked like a god again, instead of a post–garage band sack of rags. “Why is this happening? What’s killing you?” Athena shrugged. Those were stupid questions to ask. “I heard about Artemis,” he said. “Cassandra had a vision of her, hunted down in her jungle. Something was running her to the ground. Was it true? Is she dead?”

“Maybe not yet. But that’s the end result. The means are different for all of us. Have Hermes tell you about Demeter.” Apollo’s eyes fell, and she restrained the urge to place a hand on his shoulder. Denial was strong, and so was panic. His actions weren’t so unforgivable. Hearing about Artemis couldn’t have been easy. Athena thought of her, just for an instant. Skin as pale as the moon, hair that always looked silver no matter what color it really was. She’d hunted everything in the forest. Now she was the prey.

Why does it have to be so cruel? So humiliating?

In her mind she saw a flash of a green leaf, dripping with dark blood. She smelled carrion breath.

Is that my vision, or Cassandra’s?

“So what do you want?” Apollo looked from Athena to Hermes and back again. “Do you want to save yourselves somehow? Do you think Cassandra can stop whatever is happening to you?”

“To us,” Hermes said. “And why isn’t it happening to you, exactly?”

“I don’t know.”

“I hate to burst your bubble,” Odysseus interjected, “but it probably is. There’s no good reason for you to have escaped. You probably are dying in some way that hasn’t shown symptoms yet. I mean, face it, mate, aside from your questionable decision to reenter high school, you’re no different than any of them. You’re not separate.”

Apollo shrugged. “I don’t care. Dying or not dying. I just want to know what you want from Cassandra. She can’t be harmed.”

“But she can’t be left out,” Athena warned. “Demeter said that she could be the key to everything. That she’ll become more than just a prophetess.”

“How the hell would Demeter know?”

“Let’s just say she kept her ear to the ground,” said Hermes, and looked at Athena meaningfully before dissolving into giggles. The little asshole was always being inappropriate. But she had to cough harshly to stop from laughing herself.

Keeping her voice even, Athena told Apollo everything they knew. She told him how they’d found Demeter, stretched across the desert. She told him about the Nereid, and what it had shown her. She told them what they’d learned at The Three Sisters, and what Hera had done. As an afterthought, she told him about Aphrodite’s asylum escapee. When she finished, he walked around the room thoughtfully and sat down on top of the cheap plastic-wood table next to the TV.

“Hera, Poseidon, and Aphrodite. That’s who we’re fighting?”

Athena exhaled. “I like it when you say ‘we.’ I don’t want us on opposite sides, brother.”

Apollo narrowed his eyes.

“I haven’t made any promises yet.”

Athena clenched her jaw. She’d shown her olive branch too early. “Well, you’d better make some. Because if Hera gets her hands on Cassandra, you can bet she won’t survive it. I might have killed her to bring her back, but Hera will use her, then kill her, and let her stay dead.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Take her word for it,” Hermes said, his voice low. “She’s gone insane. She was cold as ice when she murdered Circe’s coven.”

Apollo hung his head and stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Well, that’s a shame. Since no one’s ever been able to hold Hera back when she gets a hair across her ass. No one except maybe Zeus.”

“Yes,” said Hermes. “Where is good old Dad when you need him?”

“Wait,” said Odysseus. “That’s a bloody good question. Where is Zeus? You’ve said that Hera is dealing in some serious strength, right? What if he’s giving her some extra juice?”

The three gods looked at one another. They were Zeus’ children. One of them, Athena, was his favorite child. But not even that made her really special. Certainly not indispensible. Zeus had fathered almost too many children to count. He had made her; he could make another one of her just as easily. Their minds circled the idea warily before turning their backs on it.

“No. Zeus is gone.”

“Maybe Hera—”

“No,” Athena barked, and winced. When she spoke again, her eyes were soft. “Even if he is still alive, he’s chosen not to interfere. I’m sure he sees all this as Fated, and if there was ever anything he was afraid to fuck around with, it was that. He was always concerned with keeping the balance between us and them. Besides, he never took sides between me and Hera.”

Apollo ran his hand roughly across his face. “I don’t think we should fight. I think we should run.”

“Interesting idea,” said Hermes. “And I’m totally open to it. But with the world ending, I don’t know where you suggest we run to.”

Athena crossed her hands over her chest. They couldn’t run. And even if they could, they still had a stake in this. They still had some responsibility. Hera had killed dozens. She’d kill more while hunting them if they ran, Athena was sure. Apollo was willing to forget everything he was for Cassandra. He had shed his godhood, tossed it away like it was nothing, to live like a mortal with her. He’d have to be watched. If they didn’t keep him close, he’d break all the rules.

Odysseus caught her eye, and she looked away. Once upon a time, she’d broken plenty of rules for him, and she was in no mood to feel like a hypocrite.

A knock at the door made all four of them snap to attention. An uneasy expression rippled through the room. They weren’t expecting anyone. The knock came again, louder and more insistent. None of them made a move, and Athena watched curiously as the handle turned and the door swung open.

“You don’t lock the door?” Cassandra asked.

“There isn’t much point,” Hermes explained, relaxing. “Anything strong enough to hurt us could just take the door off its hinges.”

“I guess.” She stood framed in the open doorway. Silvery sleet fell onto the sidewalk, turning more and more to ice as the sun sank lower. Behind her, Henry’s black Mustang idled in the parking lot with Andie and Henry inside.

Cassandra swallowed. When she spoke her voice came out a dry crackle, and the handprints on her neck stood out like a neon sign.

I hope they do. She stared at Athena. I hope the handprints look like yours. That if you turn your palms over they’ll be stained the same black as my bruises.

“Come in,” Odysseus said. “Close the door. You’re not the only one who feels the cold, you know.”

Cassandra stepped through and shook moisture from her hands and jacket. Odysseus helped her brush off. In the chaos of the deadfall, she hadn’t really looked at him.

“You’re human,” she said, and another piece of the puzzle clicked into place. “You’re the boy I saw in my dream. Being attacked by the Cyclops.” The dream came back for an instant, the smell of cold and caves and blood, the wry curl of his lip, and the Cyclops falling on him. Looking closer, she saw fading red punctures down the back of his neck.

“Here.” He twisted to give her a better view, and she felt her cheeks flush. He was good-looking in the daylight. In a rough-around-the-edges, shaggy-haired sort of way. “It goes most of the way down in the back.”

“I thought you were dead.”

He chuckled. “That makes two of us.”

“What are you doing here?” Athena stepped forward, and Cassandra regarded her coldly. She seemed less crazy than Aphrodite and less powerful than Hera. Her left eye was red and watery and someone had sewn the flap of her scalp back in place. She could just barely see the stitching of black thread behind her hairline.

Aidan stood apart, saying nothing. He didn’t greet her or try to protect her. Beside the others, the similarities in their faces were more apparent.

He looks so inhuman. I can’t believe I didn’t notice before.

She thought of Aphrodite’s shrieks, of Poseidon tearing the girl apart. She thought of Hera, snapping her neck. Three gods. Three monsters.

Athena can’t stand against that. And Hermes looks about ready to fall over, he’s so skinny.

This is the losing team.

“I had a vision,” she said. Aidan’s arm twitched, to comfort her maybe, or just to touch her shoulder, but in the end he stayed still.

“What did you see?” Athena asked. Eagerness lit her eyes. It was like watching all the hackles rise on a hunting dog. The possibility of an advantage had crept into the room. They looked so hopeful, Cassandra almost wanted to lie and give better news.

“I saw a red-haired girl. Hera and Poseidon were torturing her. And before they killed her, she told them exactly where to find us.”