Hunted

Chapter 23

I should be confident of what’s to come, but somehow that confidence has fled. With Atticus here and Flidais too, and the theoretical aid of Herne—I’m not sure if he’s coming back—we ought to be a bit more evenly matched. But nothing went the way I expected it to the last time we tried to ambush the Olympians. I am strategically ill equipped to deal with them. Unless I land a powerful blow to the head with Scáthmhaide, I don’t have a way of taking them out. My knives will only annoy them, and they are so very annoyed with us as it is.

Atticus claims that I fight better when I’m angry, and if that’s true, I’m sure he’s right about the effect but not the cause. When I fight, I am occupied not only with the exertion but with the manner in which I win—a distinction that Atticus believes pointless. In battle there is no moral high ground, he says, only high ground that puts either you or your enemy at a disadvantage, depending on who occupies it. I privately disagree. People can lose—or die—with dignity. If I could give them that, I would. But I admit that I cease to care if my own dignity is wounded first. With anger comes a remarkable clarity of purpose, a stillness from which many paths to victory lie in front of me. Some paths are much less dignified than others, and the distance to travel much shorter. I need only choose one and take the first step. But I do not have that clarity of purpose yet with the Olympians, for I think they have some just cause to be incensed with us. Though messing with the dryads on Olympus was ultimately a successful stratagem—it gave us the time to complete my binding to the earth—I always knew we would have to pay a price for it.

Perhaps my insecurity stems from the knowledge that for the majority of this journey I have been watched and judged from afar by beings who, if my current run of luck holds true, may prove to be my adversaries someday. Or it could come from the fact that Oberon and I nearly lost our lives the last time—in almost no time at all.

My experience thus far has shown that battles in martial-arts and action movies always last longer than the real thing—especially when there are gods involved in the real thing. When you’re watching in the theater with your salted popcorn and high-fructose corn syrup, the battles linger and slow-motion sequences pay exquisite attention to killing blows and masks of rage, a celebration of violent death intended for people like me who (until recently) customarily do nothing more violent than buy butchered meat at the grocery store. Once the movie hero and villain finally have their showdown, they discover that they’re evenly matched and there is time for a long, beautiful silhouette sequence in front of a dawning sun as the soundtrack composer mashes down some organ keys and a boys’ choir sings whole notes until they drop dead from hypoxia. What makes such shots exceedingly silly is the weeks or months of preparation it takes the actors to rehearse the battle so that they don’t accidentally kill each other. If they wanted to truly go at it, they wouldn’t need to rehearse. Like all true battles on the individual level, it would be ugly and anguished and over before the cinematographer could focus. I have learned that our emotions and adrenal glands won’t have it any other way.

I heard the goddesses approach before I saw them, and that saved me from further worry. I had to clear my mind for combat as best I could. The rolling tumble of hooves announced their arrival at the edge of the clearing, where Flidais had left her chariot.

Oberon said. Holding Scáthmhaide in my left hand and a knife in my right, I cast invisibility on myself and camouflage on Oberon. I also activated the strength and speed bindings worked into the silver and iron knotwork on my staff.

Lie down, Oberon, and their shots should sail high. Don’t attack unless they draw near.

he replied.