4 #2
“Don’t worry about holdin’ on, Callalie. He’s Morrigan’s favorite. He wouldn’t disgrace her by lettin’ you slip.”
“So, I don’t need to do anything?” I ask as Niall clambers up behind me, leaving a respectable distance between our bodies.
“Just enjoy the flight,” she assures me.
The crow stretches its wings and turns its back to our dwelling.
Niall makes an unsure sound as he tries to brace against the bird’s sides. “I need to hold onto your waist,” he says, panic in his tone.
“How will that help?”
The préachán’s talons crumble some of the more brittle stones under its monstrous feet.
“It just will!” he shouts.
“Fine.”
He grips my hips so hard I almost yelp. I’m about to toss his hands off when I realize the bird has taken flight. He lifted us so gently, I hadn’t so much as rocked.
I laugh as we soar over the white-washed Olympian houses with burnt orange clay tile roofs.
“How are you enjoying this?” Niall yells into my ear.
My heart soars with this incredible creature. “How are you not?”
I never thought I’d see one in my lifetime, let alone ride on one.
The Ancient One’s wings flap and he cuts through the air with precision. His eyes bounce from the ground to the horizon and back – keenly aware. We bank toward the faceted sea where the setting sun gilds us like it does the water we soar over.
It’s breathtaking. Majestic.
Without the pomp of Hermes’s bright screens and burning neon, Olympus in its natural form is stunning.
It was my sister’s favorite place in the world, the Olympian shore.
She often ate her lunch by the sea, claiming it helped clear her head.
When she came home, she brought grains of its sand with her.
Abuela would sweep it from her grout for days, griping playfully and begging Carina to leave some for the Greeks to enjoy.
We ease west and fly over an impressive line of marble temples scoring the sand, ensured safe from the surf even in the most tempestuous of storms, thanks to the god of the sea, Poseidon’s protection.
Cillian has been working on the latest addition, a temple dedicated to Athena, goddess of wisdom and war. While he’s been focused on every precise strike of his hammer and cut of his chisel, I’ve been worried Ares will take him from me out of spite in the middle of a meaningless day.
Abuela’s always quick to remind me that Cillian isn’t Carina.
He didn’t do what she did. His work honors the pantheon of the god Carina verbally eviscerated.
Maybe they’ll consider it an atonement, she once said hopefully.
I didn’t have the heart to rip that hope away.
But there’s no way Ares would find any amount of supplication sufficient for the offenses my sister and I made against him.
Day by day, with mortal sweat and dedication, Athena’s temple slowly rises as an island might over millennia. Patient in its evolution, unlike the domed isle the gods just added to the waters.
“That island wasn’t there this morning,” Niall vows, hands tightening on my waist as he leans forward to peek over my shoulders.
But there it is all the same, like Aisling promised, a testament to the power of the Greek pantheon. The only thing on the newly formed island’s hill is a temple. One so large it could shelter all the smaller sanctuaries of Olympus beneath its massive roof.
Morrigan said not to show fear when I saw Ares, but now that the moment is almost here, fear is all I feel. How can I possibly hide it?
Niall’s right finger taps my hip and he leans closer. “Cal, if we don’t make it home, I want you to know how sorry –”
I turn and lock eyes with him. “Don’t.”
There’s a tempest in his eyes as Ceann ársa veers over the sea. “I need to apologize.”
“None of it matters,” I tell him. “What was done, what wasn’t… None of it.”
Losing my sister showed me what truly matters in life, and it wasn’t anything Niall said or did then, or anything he can say or do now. What’s important doesn’t lurk behind us in our pasts or ahead of us in our futures, because no one can change the former and the latter’s a hollow wish.
Chest heaving with a sharper ache than the dull, constant grief I’ve learned to live with, I turn back around and focus on how the préachán’s breath swells and falls, instinctively keeping time with the waves beneath us.
On the horizon, the sun sets with a green flash a second before the island fully appears. As we descend to the sand, the ancient crow’s wings stir up a dusty cloud that billows like smoke as we’re urged off the creature’s back and onto the soil.
Niall’s feet strike the beach first. He turns and offers his hand to me. I take it to get down, choosing not to break the work Daedalus did on my prosthesis.
My senses sharpen. As do Niall’s.
The crow stalks a circle around us, cawing at something or someone we can’t see.
A few minutes pass and the préachán calms, nuzzling its face into my palm before moving to stare at me as if to say it will be watching. And that’s what it does. It circles above and waits, because that’s what its goddess ordered.
A male in tan linen pants and a matching button-up shirt strides across the space. “Callalie Ryan and Niall Kelly.” He grins wickedly. “I see Morrigan still has her flair for making a statement.”
Dust plumes float lazily between us and him. I can’t tell who he is until he waves a hand to clear the air.
“Hermes,” Niall greets pleasantly, though warily.
“Glad to see you got our invitation!” The breeze tousles his wavy, sand-colored hair. His every step is equal parts lithe and lazy. Unbothered, like the hint of a smirk lingering in the corner of his lips. His skin is bronze even in the wan light.
How resplendent he must be in the sun.
The messenger of the Greek pantheon studies me, eyes tracking downward to my prosthesis. “Morrigan is one of my favorites for a reason. She speaks volumes without uttering a single word.” He sighs appreciatively before glancing at Niall. “You’re the last guests to arrive. Shall we join the party?”
“Do we have a choice?” I ask.
For a long breath, Hermes watches the enormous crow circling menacingly above. Then his mischievous eyes slip to mine. “No.”
The sand is thin, which makes walking easier. Niall and I follow Hermes to the bottom of a myriad of stone steps that lead to a massive palace crouched at the top of the island’s single hill, a shining jewel in a crown’s gaudy center.
“I don’t like this,” Niall whispers.
Hermes hears him, no doubt, but doesn’t acknowledge it.
My eyes cut to him in a silent reply. Neither do I.
Sweeping staircases lead to landings, and we ultimately end our climb at a veranda so vast you can’t see across to its opposite side.
People cluster here and there in small groups, talking, sipping from champagne flutes, and sampling food proffered by a multitude of servants who energetically flit between them like Abuela’s bright quetzals.
The atmosphere is relaxed and easy. I mark the exits and the visible threats. The effort is fruitless when I realize Hermes was right. There’s no way off this island except for the préachán circling overhead.
Everyone here is a threat, even if they seem friendly. Because none of the gods are friends of mortals, and the Olympian people are fiercely devoted to their pantheon.
The people are finely dressed. Men are either in suits tailored to perfection or worn loosely, as is the current fashion in Olympus, while the women wear flowing gowns, chiton tunics and himation wraps, and sleeveless peplos garments to honor Greek tradition.
I recognize some faces from broadcasts I watched at Abuela’s before I tore out the screen.
Too soon, my name is whispered behind hands and people turn to watch Niall and me pass by.
Panels of ivory silk billow from where they hang between the palace’s columns. One swath brushes my arm as Hermes ushers us inside, past a lute player and the small crowd enjoying his sweet music.
The crackle of magic sparks in this place.
Like it’s a tinderbox and the divine might obliterate us all with just a flash of their power.
Lingering scents of lush fruit and honey permeate the air.
We pass tables laden with cups brimming with pale lilac liquid.
Ambrosia has a distinct, sweet smell. Perfumiers have tried and failed to replicate it.
How many gods are here?
Pantheons, Aisling had said.
Athena strides into the temple interior between two silk panels, her shoulders back and head held high.
She marches past us wearing a flowing cobalt dress beneath a scarred golden breast plate, her strategizing gray eyes sizing us up without a flicker of emotion.
Her cape is a curtain of long, dark hair, slick as oil.