3
Niall trails behind me down the grassy hillside. He doesn’t speak until we stand before the portal. And when he does, I wish he had kept silent.
“We’re going to die.” His skin is sallow and he looks like he might be sick. He’s likely right, but it’s out of our hands now. Morrigan ordered us to go to Olympus.
She soars overhead, watching, daring one or both of us to run away from her. Niall tracks her movements and I wonder if he’s considering how far he could get before she killed him. A death from Morrigan would be far more merciful than one dealt by Ares.
Averting my stare from the portal to avoid my reflection, I think of the Greek city.
Niall curses under his breath at the goddess’s shrill screech at our backs.
Her relentless will pushes us into Olympus.
On the other side of the portal, the moody, wild richness of Morrigan’s realm bleeds into the bright, ostentatious city of the Greeks.
We don’t arrive in a temple, but step onto the cobbled stones of a dim alley. From the buzzing street beyond, neon light flares against the fading twilight. Green. Pink. Yellow. Blue.
Hermes is the messenger god of the Greeks, and he takes great pride in his work. He designed the telecasters and uses his power to push broadcasted information and news of mortal importance to anyone in the realm permitted to purchase them.
Some gods prefer to control the information flow in their realms. Most leave it to Hermes.
I move to the alley’s mouth and peer around for the ‘instructions’ awaiting us.
Advertisements flicker over telecasters for shops and merchants alike. The columned logo of The Parthenon Press, my sister’s former employer and singular Olympian news outlet, flashes onto the screen.
My sister loved being a newscaster. She loved the people she worked with and the mortals who appreciated their craft. She’d even met Hermes a few times and told me how intelligent and fair he seemed.
Another ad overtakes the image, and I look away from the distracting screens.
At the end of the alley there are well-established market stalls. My mouth waters as the scents of spiced meat rotating on spits, fragrant steaming bread, and citrus fruit wafts from them.
From behind a pile of refuse, something stirs. A raven hops forward and takes flight, banking left out of the alley.
I hurry to follow.
Niall catches up, and the bird leads us through a tangle of melodies and conversations pouring from homes and pubs, past vendor stalls and mouth-watering food, pressing forward through humid, summer air.
We leave the busy city center and push through a weighted gate to enter an older part of Olympus where uneven stone steps lead to a quaint, secluded home clinging to a rugged hillside.
The bird perches on the edge of a window box full of dead flowers and nods its glossy black head toward the house.
I shoulder the stuck door open. The raven flies beneath Niall’s arm as he coaxes the moonlight into the dusty space, swooping to land on a nearby table beside an oil lamp and a box of matches.
The red end flares to life when I drag it over the striking surface and warm light floods the room as I bring the fire to its wick.
I stare at the raven and wait for further instructions the creature doesn’t give before it flies through the window Niall opened.
He darts out of the way as the bird’s wings flap close to his face, the shutters rebounding off the home’s stone walls.
“Great!” he snaps, bracing the sill to yell outside.
“What do we do now?” He glances over his shoulder at me to see the answer that must be written on my face.
“We just… wait?” He straightens and barks a harried laugh as he rakes a hand over his head.
“For what, we don’t know. Death, more likely than not. ”
He paces and rants, mostly to himself since I purposefully tune him out.
Morrigan brought us here to stay. She’ll tell us when to leave.
Niall finally collapses in a wooden chair at the table, still venting about the unfairness of not knowing why we’re here. He’s like a hot kettle. Even when it’s removed from the fire, it weakly screams.
I take the lamp and make my way through the rooms of the home. Sweat steadily drips from my temples and carves paths to my jaw. My thigh throbs. I was in much better shape when my prosthesis was, too. As it degraded, so did my fitness and stamina.
Fragrant lamp oil sweetens the stale air. I drag my finger through the collected dust on one of the windowsills and place our only source of light down on it.
It’s been a long time since anyone stayed here, but this home is beautiful. The furniture is simple, but well-made. Elegant and understated. The rooms are far larger than I realized as we approached the house in the dark.
Does this dwelling belong to Morrigan, or did she lead us here because it’s abandoned?
I open the door to an adjacent bedroom and pull down the covers, dusting the sheets. I unfasten my pants and shuck them off, sitting on the bed’s edge.
Niall appears in the doorway, propping a shoulder against the frame. “What are you doing?”
I’m going to lay down and if sleep finds me, I’ll sink into it like I plan to dive into this plush mattress. “Going to bed.”
He shakes his head. “How can you possibly sleep at a time like this?”
I pull my thigh from my prosthesis and sheath, sighing at the relief, ignoring him. I will rest because I’m tired. I’m gods damned tired to the marrow, and it has nothing to do with Olympus, or Ares, or even my leg.
Worry and fear have worn me thin, like the sock I jerk off my foot.
If I’m going to die, I’m taking Morrigan’s advice. I’ll spend my last breaths making sure Ares can’t enjoy it. And I’ll pray I’m as brave as my sister when she provoked his anger.
Knowing Carina, she was probably wearing a self-satisfied smirk, feet propped on her desk and sipping her favorite papaya and pineapple drink when he came for her.
I’ll wear one to match when he comes for me.
Until then, I’m going to sleep.
With the soft hues of dawn come caws and commotion.
I peer through the open bedroom door to find Niall batting Morrigan’s raven away from his head as it soars into the kitchen.
If he strikes that bird, she’ll make him pay for the blow tenfold.
I’m about to sit up in bed and remind him of as much when there’s a stiff knock at the door.
The raven escapes through the open window and Niall softly curses, jerking the shutters closed behind it.
“Who is it?” he demands.
“The goddess Morrigan sent me,” a soft, craggy male voice answers.
From the bed I claimed, I watch as a withered man with a long, gray beard enters the house with the assistance of an ornate wooden cane, carrying a leather satchel. His plum robes are richly embroidered.
He spots me immediately and pushes his glasses up higher onto his nose. “Miss Callalie Ryan, I presume.”
With a nod, I pick up my prosthesis and search the blankets for the sheath I tossed in them last night so it wouldn’t get dusty. And for my pants. I grab them and stop when the man grouses.
“Leave the leg and those off. Put shorts on, if you like,” he instructs, pausing outside the bedroom door. “I need to see what I’m working with in order to make repairs.”
Repairs?
“I need a minute,” I tell him. He pulls the door closed and I grab my bag and riffle for a pair of shorts, dragging them on as quickly as I can. “You can come in.”
The door opens and the gentleman enters.
Morrigan said she’d send a craftsman, not a repairman. “I thought you were going to replace it.”
He drags a chair closer to the bed. “Indeed, but that’ll take some time. I have many customers ahead of you, all promised a portion of my work and time. I told Morrigan I would do what I could with what you have in the meantime.”
“Good luck,” I mutter, handing the leg over to him.
Niall pretends to be busy in the kitchen, though he occasionally peeks into the room. I almost ask my visitor to slam the door.
The craftsman isn’t bothered by his intrusion in the least. He hums as he stretches the ankle joint and hisses when the knee screeches in his ear.
He examines every inch of the unfortunate appendage, and then his bushy gray eyebrows rise when he finally lays it on his lap.
“Frankly, I’m not sure how you’re still walking with this.
It’s dated, damaged, and the hinge is all but worn away. How old is it?”
I shrug. “I don’t know.”
He harrumphs, patting the prosthesis. “Well, when did you lose your leg?”
“About a year ago. But this wasn’t made for me. I inherited it.”
“Inherited it…” He waits, watching me like he’s expecting a punch line I don’t have.
I bristle. Not everyone has coin to spare.
He of all people should know that, despite the ample living he likely earns in this luxurious city.
“It fit me well enough, so I used it. I’m not sure how long the soldier who wore it before me had it, or if it was made for her. She might have made do with it, too.”
He looks away for a second. I wonder if he’ll throw his hands up and leave, Morrigan’s request be damned.
But I need his help. Desperately. I swallow my pride. “All we had at home was a little cooking oil for lubrication. Do you have anything better? Something thicker might buy some time.”
He heaves a sigh. “It’ll take far more than grease, girl.”
I offer a brilliant, teasing smile. “You could always move me up your client list.”
He scoffs and hands the prosthesis back to me before dragging his bag up onto his lap. “You wouldn’t say that if you knew who was ahead of you.”
Morrigan either has a good relationship with him or holds some power over him. Maybe he owes her a favor. Whatever the reason is, he works for the goddess and is undoubtedly famous.
“What’s your name?” I ask, wondering if I’ll recognize it. It’s been a year since I watched any telecasts.
“People call me Daedalus.”
Does that mean Daedalus isn’t his name?