Jade
Saltwater soaks through my clothes, pools in the hollow of my collarbone, and drips from my hair into my eyes. The deck is hard and cold underneath me, my hands shaking where they press against the wood.
Get up. Stop kneeling like you’re waiting to be executed.
But all I can do is stare at the bag that swallowed my storm, and at the man who’s standing on water like it’s solid ground.
“Who are you?” The question scrapes out of my throat, even though it’s a stupid question that will probably get me killed.
His lip curls. “You don’t know.”
I shake my head, the movement causing more saltwater to land in my eyes.
“Tempest chose a champion who doesn’t recognize the gods of her own domain.” He rolls his eyes—literally rolls his eyes. “Magnificent. Truly.”
“She didn’t exactly leave an instruction manual.” I huff, since apparently we’re bickering like teenagers in the high school cafeteria now. “It was more of a ‘touch your forehead during a silver lightning storm and then disappear forever’ kind of situation.”
His eyes narrow, and for a second I think he’s going to kill me for that, which would honestly be pretty on brand for the day I’m having.
Instead, he steps onto the boat, and the deck doesn’t creak under him, as if he’s made of air.
“I am Aeolus.” He holds up the leather bag, and the storm inside it screams and writhes. “And I just saved your miserable lives from your own incompetence.”
Aeolus.
Wait. I know that name. He was in The Odyssey, and I know the name from a musical my high school arts teacher made us listen to a few times while we painted—the epic one about Odysseus’s adventures, which was literally called Epic.
Aeolus’s name sparks ones of the songs to play in my head.
Great wind god Aeolus…
“You’re the wind god,” I say, proud of myself for actually knowing something useful around here for a change. “From The Odyssey. You gave Odysseus a bag, his crew opened it, and they were lost at sea for years.”
“Yes. That’s what I am now. A character in a dead man’s poem.
A footnote in mortal history,” he says with contempt, and he turns the bag over in his hands, the storm inside howling again.
“I was ancient before Homer learned to speak. I held the winds in my fist when your species was figuring out fire. But yes—the wind god from The Odyssey. That’s me. ”
Logan’s frozen near the railing, his eyes tracking between Aeolus and me with the calculating look that means he already has seventeen different contingency plans.
Callie’s gripping a rope, her hair plastered to her face.
Evie’s collapsed against the back mast. Kieran stands next to her with his hand on his blade, like that’s going to help against a god.
Finally, Logan cuts through the silence, calm and measured, like he’s having a normal conversation and not standing in front of an ancient deity who could and possibly will destroy us with a thought.
“You know Tempest,” he says, as if that’s the biggest problem we have right now.
Aeolus’s attention shifts to Logan, and his eyes sharpen.
“I knew her,” he says, the words heavy and loaded. “Her storms fed my winds. Her thunder was born from my breath. We were...”
He trails off, and the water around the boat shivers.
“Close,” he finishes. “We were close.”
Close.
Centuries of drama are packed into that single word.
“Then she used my winds for her storms and gave me nothing in return. She made promises she had no intention of keeping. She wore my devotion like a crown and discarded it when it no longer suited her purposes.” His hurricane eyes lock onto mine, swirling with so much anger that I can practically see the hate inside of them.
“I’ve spent centuries avoiding anything connected to her. ”
I should probably keep my mouth shut. After all, he’s a god. I’m a half-trained witch who proved his point about lack of control by nearly drowning everyone I care about, who was gifted magic by a goddess who’s apparently his mortal—well, immortal—enemy.
Unfortunately for me, my brain-to-mouth filter is garbage, especially while I’m standing in front of possible death disguised as a seven-foot weather system with a grudge.
“So, what now?” The words come out before I can stop them. “You kill us? Add us to your list of ‘things connected to Tempest that pissed you off?’”
“I considered letting the Lost Islands swallow your bones,” he says with zero shame. “Tempest’s champion, destroyed by her lack of control, in waters her goddess couldn’t bother to protect.”
My lungs tighten, as if he’s already drowned us.
“But that would be too kind. Too quick.” His lips curve into a smile that doesn’t reach his swirling eyes. “She’d never know what happened to you, and she’d spend eternity wondering.”
“So... what?” I cross my arms impatiently. “You’re going to torture us instead?”
“Nothing so crude.” He turns the bag over in his hands again, and the howling inside gets louder. “I’m going to help you.”
I wait for the punchline, but Aeolus simply watches us, waiting for our reactions.
Kieran flips his freshly sharpened blade between his fingers, a lazy rotation that catches the light before his grip closes around the hilt again.
“And what will your help cost us?” he asks.
“It will cost you nothing.” Aeolus’s eyes gleam, clearly enjoying this. “I’m helping you because stepping in to save Tempest’s champion sends a very clear message.”
“What message?” I ask.
“That I don’t believe you can do it yourself.” His smile sharpens. “That I had to clean up her mess because her precious chosen one couldn’t handle her own power. That I’m better at protecting what’s hers than she is.”
The sinking feeling in my chest twists into anger.
Because he’s not helping us to be kind.
He’s helping us to make a point.
“That’s petty,” I say before I can stop myself.
“Yes.” Aeolus tilts his head and smirks. “Magnificently, gloriously, vindictively petty. Does that bother you?”
Yes. Being used as a pawn in an ancient grudge match between gods bothers me a lot.
But it also bothers me that I almost killed my boyfriend and friends twenty minutes ago, that our compass is dead, one of our masts is broken, the stars can’t decide which constellations they want to be, and that we’ll run out of food and water if we can’t find land soon.
“No. It doesn’t bother me,” I lie, forcing myself to my feet. “Help us however you want. We’re ready.”
Surprise flickers across Aeolus’s face. “Practical,” he says slowly. “I didn’t expect that from one of Tempest’s chosen. They’re usually all passion with no sense.”
“I guess I’m full of surprises,” I say, wrapping my arms around myself as I suddenly realize how cold I am.
He studies me for a long moment.
Then, he holds out the bag.
“This contains your storm—every wind you summoned, and every gust, gale, and bolt of lightning.” He bounces it in his palm, like it’s a trinket to be played with. “I’ve also added every other wind that blows across these waters… minus the one that will carry you to the Pillars of Hercules.”
Callie releases the rope she was holding, positioning herself closer to the group. “So, what’s the catch?” she asks.
“The catch is simple.” Aeolus’s eyes sweep across all of us, wind following in their path. “Don’t open the bag.”
I blink, making sure I heard him right. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.” His smile returns, sharp and unpleasant.
“Of course, Odysseus’s crew thought the same thing.
‘Don’t open the bag,’ their captain told them.
Simple instruction. Easy to follow. For nine days they sailed, getting closer and closer to home, until they were almost there and curiosity got the best of them. ”
Evie wipes her hands on her pants, as if her palms still burn where the magic exited to create her heat shield.
“They thought it was treasure,” she explains, quiet and sure.
“They thought Odysseus was hoarding gold while they did all the work. So, they opened it while he slept, and all the winds escaped at once.”
“The storm blew them back out to sea.” Aeolus nods at her approvingly. “They wandered for years after that. Odysseus was the only one who survived and made it home.”
“So why would we open it?” I ask.
“Because you’re mortal.” Aeolus shrugs. “Because you’re tired, frightened, and curious.
Because someone will convince themselves they need ‘just a little wind’ to adjust the sails, or they’ll hear something inside and wonder what it is, or they’ll forget, or they’ll doubt, or they’ll make the same mistake every mortal makes—believing they know better than the gods. ”
His eyes lock onto mine.
“And because you, Tempest’s champion, will feel the storm calling to you, begging to be released,” Aeolus says, his gaze sweeping across Kieran with his blade, Evie with the remnants of her star charts, Callie with her sharp eyes, and Logan with his perfect control.
“Now the question remains—who’s going to take the bag? ”
Before any of us have a chance, Evie steps forward. “I understand the importance of not tampering with unknown magical artifacts,” she says. “I know the mythology, and I know the consequences. I’m the one who should take it.”
Aeolus studies her for a long moment, and I hold my breath, worried he might say no.
Finally, he nods in approval and places the bag in her hands.
Her fingers close around the leather, and her shoulders straighten, as if purpose is settling into her bones.
“Guard it well,” Aeolus says. “Your journey depends on it.”
“I will.”
He nods once, his eyes landing on me again. “When you see Tempest, tell her that Aeolus saved her champion when she couldn’t bother to show up herself. Tell her I cleaned up her mess. Tell her I hope it chokes her.”
With that, he floats off the boat and onto the ocean.
Then he’s walking away, each step sending ripples across the mirror-still surface, and the clouds swallow him piece by piece until there’s nothing left but the wind that will bring us to the Pillars of Hercules and the water stretching in every direction.
The ship creaks as new wind catches our remaining sails, and then we’re moving, slow and steady, like we’re being pulled by an invisible hand.
“It’s interesting, isn’t it?” Callie breaks the silence, the gentleness in her tone worse than cruelty. “That Tempest’s champion needed a wind god to clean up her mess.”
Don’t react. Don’t react. Don’t react.
“Callie.” Logan cuts her off with a single word.
“I’m just observing.” She shrugs, pushing off from the railing.
“And I’ll admit that after what Aeolus said, I suppose Circe was right that Jade was chosen by a cosmic goddess.
” Her eyes find mine, and the sympathy in them is worse than mockery.
“But a god ripped the storm out of her like he was pulling a weed. And he looked at her like...”
She trails off, since we all know how he looked at me.
“Maybe the lightning isn’t a gift,” she continues, low and menacing.
“Maybe it’s a curse. After all...” She tilts her head, studying me in a way that makes electricity crackle at my fingertips.
“Curses and blessings are often similar from the outside. Look at Ambrogio, for instance. Blessed with strength and immortality, cursed with bloodlust and the loss of his soul. Is there actually a difference at all? Or are they one and the same, dressed in different packages?”
Her words hit like a fist to my ribs, although one of them stands out far more than the rest.
Curse.
Maybe my magic is a curse.
After being unable to save Oliver at the Crown, after watching the hellhounds kill my friends, and after almost drowning us at sea, haven’t I wondered the same thing?
Logan steps forward, positioning himself between Callie and me. “That’s enough,” he says, his jaw tight, his hands clenched at his sides. “This isn’t the time.”
“When is the time, Logan?” Callie’s eyes flash with anger. “When she loses control again and kills one of us? When the next storm doesn’t have a convenient god to shut it down?”
Nobody argues.
Because she’s right. And I hate that she’s right.
Dozens of people watched me pull lightning from the sky to kill the hellhounds, and half of them looked at me the way Aeolus did—like I was a problem wearing a person’s face.
I nearly drowned my own friends with a storm I couldn’t stop.
And the god who just saved us didn’t do it out of kindness.
He did it to humiliate the goddess who chose me, because apparently even the gods think T picked wrong.
The electricity under my skin buzzes, and I shove it down so hard my vision spots.
“I’m going below deck,” I say, not recognizing my own voice.
“Jade.” Logan reaches for me. “She didn’t mean it like—”
“Don’t.” It comes out sharper than I intend, since I have absolutely no interest in hearing him defend Callie’s vile words. “Just... don’t. I can’t do this right now.”
I push past Logan, past Evie with her bag of winds, past Kieran with his sharpened blade, and past Callie with her perfect hair and terrible truths.
Before heading down, I glance up at the stars, just in time to see them rearrange themselves in new constellations.
Curse, the word echoes in my mind as I head to the room I share with Logan, pull the covers over my head, and try not to think about how much I wish Callie was wrong, even though I have a sinking feeling she’s right.