Hermes glared at the Moirae, at Lachesis, and it almost seemed that she looked back. Even as her head lolled on her wrinkled, sunken neck, it almost seemed that she winked.
Above them, Achilles still fought the wall, trying in vain to climb it or tear it down. His impotent rage drowned out almost everything else.
(ON YOUR KNEES, MESSENGER.)
Atropos thundered between his ears, and Hermes’ knees hit the marble with a sharp crack. He hadn’t even felt his muscles give way.
“Get out of my head,” he whispered, and heard Andie’s footsteps as she ran to his side.
“Leave him alone!”
He wanted to drag her down, clamp his hand over her mouth, and provide what cover he could. He waited with held breath for her to hit the ground, too, or worse, to explode in a mist of pink. Instead, she smarted off, as insubordinate as ever.
“Can’t get into my head, can you!” she taunted. “And with your guardian hanging orangutan-style from the walls, maybe I’ll just shove a spear through your faces.” She ran to one of the standing lamps and yanked it from its socket. If any one of the Moirae got a hit in, even one who wasn’t much more than an emptying bag, they would take her head clean from her shoulders. Hermes couldn’t keep his eyes off her.
Under pressure, these mortals rose up. They became something more.
* * *
Henry ran through the house as fast as he could, back to the foyer where they’d started. He had to start at the beginning, or he’d lose his way. But he had to go fast, or he’d never beat Achilles to the fourth level. And if they both started climbing girders at the same time, he knew which way it would go.
He retraced their steps through two rooms and hallways, turning right at a vase painted with Chinese shar-peis, bred to be protectors of the Chinese royal family, Hephaestus said. He ran fast through a study with a bust of Homer, and took one quick left and another right down the hall. Sweat stood out on his forehead, but his legs felt fresh, springy and steady as a rubber tire. Remembering the way was easier than he’d thought. He’d paid attention to Hephaestus during the tour. In each room, he’d singled out a piece of art or furniture. The stories played out in Henry’s head as he went, laying an invisible thread through the house.
“Faster,” he said, and willed his legs to run.
* * *
Henry burst through the fourth-floor door before Andie had a chance to try out her lamp-spear on the Moirae. Hermes watched him start to climb, and almost whooped, but the weight of Atropos’ will sat on his shoulders like a stone, pressing him to his knees. Her words in his mind were law.
Andie shouted to Henry and switched her target. She launched the lamp at Achilles’ back and struck a clean blow, knocking him off the railing to land face down on the third-floor carpet.
“Hermes, get up!”
Andie grabbed books off the shelves and began to lob them at Achilles as hard as she could. He batted them away and screamed in fury as he watched Henry climb closer and closer to the shield.
“I can’t,” Hermes whispered. Was she mad? It was the Moirae that held him. His own gods who held him down.
“Yes you can! They’re dying. They’re nothing. Now get up and help me!”
Hermes shook his head. He didn’t know what was greater, the fear of them or the weight, but he couldn’t move. The thought of their eyes on him made him want to weep. Andie was wrong. In the face of the Moirae, all any god could do was obey.
Hephaestus knew it. He knew it, and I can’t blame him for that.
Something flew past Hermes’ ear. A book. Flung end over end like the blade of a hatchet. It struck the Moirae with a heavy thud and a flutter of paper.
“Look at that!” Andie hissed. “Look at them! They’re nothing now, Hermes! They’re monsters.” Her voice went low, menacing, and full of hate. “And they’re afraid. They’re more fucking afraid than all of us put together.”
He listened to her voice. Saw another book fly and heard it hit. Andie. Andromache. Her name meant “man of war,” and she earned every letter.
She fights my gods for me.
“They can’t hold you down anymore, Hermes,” she said. “They’re nothing.”
Hermes swallowed hard. Sweat ran down his nose and he hadn’t even started trying to rise yet. He breathed deep, and felt Andie’s strength in his own guts. He raised his head and looked into Atropos’ eyes. He saw the way they blazed at Andie’s words.
It’s true. They’re less. They’re not our gods anymore.