Aphrodite clutched the puppy tighter, and it squirmed. Any tighter and she’d break its little neck. But then she took a breath and stroked its soft, shiny fur, soothing it to sleep. It was a beautiful little dog. Perfect. Its fur matched her hair. In another life, she might’ve carried it around in a designer handbag.
“Poseidon is gone,” she said, swaying. “Drifted back into the sea. His blood flows, red and black streaming clouds, moving through the currents. It makes the sharks weep. His bones have dug into the sand, taken over by coral. A million fish carry his eternal flesh in their bellies.” She smiled. “But we kept his head.”
“You’re mad.”
“Don’t say that.”
“You killed Apollo. You killed our brother.”
“He killed Poseidon! He and wicked Hermes. Weak, vile boys tore him apart in the lake. Nasty girls put their hands on Mother.” Her thin fingers walked over the head of the puppy to tap its nose. “Turned her to stone.”
A glaze had taken over Aphrodite’s eyes, and she looked over Ares’ shoulder into the trees. With the dress clinging to her narrow hips and her long waves of blond hair, she looked fragile. But that was only a costume she wore. When she wanted to be, she was as warlike as he was. Aphrodite Areia, they called her. Her loveliness hid rage and bared teeth. How he’d always loved that.
“You killed Apollo,” he said. “But Athena and Hermes sent you scuttling for cover. And what about the prophetess? They say she can kill gods.”
“Ares.” Aphrodite frowned. “We mean so much to each other. You always fight with me. For me.”
“I haven’t seen you in centuries,” he said. “Not a word in a hundred-odd years. Not until you need me.” He swallowed. Her dress clung in just the right places. “I should turn around and find Athena. Tell her you’re still up to your old tricks.” Aphrodite parted her lips. Old tricks, indeed. “Maybe I should help her swat you like a fly.”
Aphrodite drew a long, silver knife from the fastenings of her dress.
“Don’t be hasty. You haven’t heard everything. You don’t know.” She held the tip of the knife out toward him, playful. Light from the moving current fluttered along the sharpened edge. “An offering.”
She fitted the blade beneath the puppy’s throat, and Ares held his breath. She would do it well. One long cut. The puppy wouldn’t yelp. The knife would be hidden back in the folds of her skirts before it even woke.
Ares imagined the blood racing down her dress to dye the river red. He saw the dog’s empty body carried away by the current.
“Does it please you?” she asked.
“From you? The gesture of sacrifice has no meaning.” But despite his words, it touched him. The beautiful little dog. The ceremonial knife. Just like old times. Ares leaped into the stream, blindingly fast, and twisted Aphrodite’s wrist. The knife fell to the water, silver sides shimmering like a fish, and the puppy slept on.
“It isn’t dog’s blood I want.”
“Mmm.” Aphrodite led him out of the shallows like a legend: the goddess, rising from the sea, borne on the waves. “And you would draw the blood yourself. Like always. Ares. Curse of men. Sacker of cities.”
“Names I haven’t been called for a long time,” he whispered. She was so close. The scent of her cloaked him in floral and vanilla, cinnamon and fruit. And underneath that, the sweeter, darker perfume of sickness and decay.
“Men will scream those names before we’re through,” she said into his ear, and pressed something into his hand. He looked down. A chunk of marbled granite, one edge smooth as a statue, the other ragged and cracked.
“Mother isn’t dead. They brought her back. Healed her. And they’ll do it for us, too, my love. We’ll be whole again. We’ll live forever.”
1
SAND THROUGH HER FINGERS
The desert never changed. The same sun-dried sand, hard packed beneath Athena’s feet, and the same herds of saguaros strung out across the horizon, were programmed on repeat. And maybe that’s really how it was. Maybe it was the same five tumbleweeds, rolling through on the wind to fall off the edge and show up again back at the start.
Athena swallowed. Nothing in her throat today besides smooth working muscles. No quills, no itchy edges of feathers cutting into her windpipe to make her cough blood. Not today. Maybe tomorrow.
She wiped sweat from her brow. It was high noon in the desert. She’d timed the trip badly; she should’ve left when she could meet Demeter in the fading light of evening. But there was nothing to be done about it now. Her boots already tread lightly on Demeter’s skin, stretched out for miles, half-sunk into the sand. At any minute, Demeter’s wrinkled, blinking eye could show up between her feet. If she wasn’t careful, she might step on it.