“How do you want to die, Ares?” she asked. “Want me to take your head off, like Aidan and Hermes did to Poseidon? Or should I just poke twenty holes through your chest with a sharp stick?”
“Familiar threats,” said Ares.
“Yes. Only in the old days you’d have gone home and bitched to all of Olympus. Now Olympus is gone.”
“For the goddess of wisdom, the things you don’t know could fill a book.” Ares reached behind himself and pulled a short-bladed knife from his pocket. In the filtered light it looked dull, even less impressive than it already was. Ares shrugged. “It’s not much,” he said. “But anything bigger seems less than sporting.”
Athena almost laughed. She wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d pulled a gun. Ares had never cared about rules or fair play, or being sporting.
She let Ares advance, dodging the small knife a few times before dodging not quite enough. It sank into her shoulder, and she grabbed his hands and twisted his fingers loose. Then she yanked it out of her own shoulder.
“Got your knife.”
Ares grinned. “Got another one.” And true to his nature, the one he drew from his other pocket was bigger. They both struck, but she was faster. The tiny blade thrust up under his ribs and kept on going until her hand was buried to the first knuckle. He roared and stepped back to lean against a tree with his hands pressed to his stomach.
“A knife wound for a knife wound,” he said. “Enough for today.”
“What’s your hurry?”
“They didn’t send me to take care of you,” he said.
“They?” She thought a moment. “Of course. Aphrodite. Where is she? I have a girl who wants to boil her brains inside her head.”
Ares’ eyes went black as pitch. He lurched forward and knocked Athena sideways. She brought her knife down into his back, but not before his sank into the side of her knee. It cut through something taut, and all at once her leg went loose at the joint. She crumpled with a growl.
“That girl won’t get within a mile of Aphrodite,” he shouted, and looked wildly into the trees. “I wonder how far little brother managed to take them.”
“No, Ares—”
He bolted too fast. The tip of her knife sank into the ground inches behind him and left her sprawled on her stomach, chin coated with their sister’s blood.
“Ares!” Athena drew her good leg under her and rose with a grimace, dragging her useless one and forcing it to work. She braced it with her hand, wrapped around the knee.
“Don’t touch them!”
10
OUT OF THE PAST
The girl who saved them was not from Kincade. She was far too beautiful, for one, and for another, she wasn’t human. She had flawless beige skin and enough grace to make a jungle cat jealous. Braids of differing width and length fought their way through brown hair, and her eyes were flecked green and brown, sea glass and sand.
“They won’t find us here,” she said, the last of the song she’d sung to disorient the wolves still leaking out of her voice. “The beasts won’t follow. They’ll return to their master.”
Henry looked over his shoulder anyway. Whatever the girl had done, whatever spell she’d cast to conceal them, was gone. The air was clear. Only the scent of burnt sugar and salt remained. Her scent.
“What were they?” he asked. He sat in the snow with his dog on his lap. Even though Lux was a bag of broken bones, the girl hadn’t left him behind.
“Ares’ pests,” the girl answered.
“Pests?” Andie asked. “Those were more than pests.” She pressed a mitten into Henry’s good hand. “For your face,” she said, and he wiped his eyes. He hadn’t realized he was crying.
“No,” she said. “Not for that.” She pressed the mitten to his torn cheek. Then she shoved her fingers into Lux’s fur, and started to cry, too.
“Don’t weep yet,” the girl said. “Your dog will live. If we can get him to a good veterinarian fast enough.”
Henry clamped his hand over the largest of Lux’s cuts. He was warm, and a weak pulse fluttered under his fingers.
“Come on,” Andie shouted, and pulled the dog’s hindquarters into her arms.
“Let me,” said the girl. “I’m stronger.” She lifted him smoothly, without heaving or effort.
They ran for the cars, and the jostling shook Lux out of his stupor; by the time they got him into the backseat of the Mustang he was conscious again, and whining.