27 #2
It’ll be different with these people because I’ve had time to get to know them. Maybe not well, but well enough. I’m not sure I can just pretend they’re enemies now that they’ve become friends.
Then again, maybe survival instinct will supersede all thought.
Not that I’ll make it to the games without a champion. I haven’t even cleared the first hurdle, which means it’s pointless to worry about all the ones that come after.
We stay at the pool until the sun slides westward and the shadows crawl to the east. Then we trail away to our homes, hoping we’ll hear the sound of Hermes’s horn soon.
After my second shower of the day as I leave the bathing room wearing a towel and my necklace, damp feathers in my clean-smelling hair, August meets me in the steamy doorway.
“If there is a feast, do you think it’ll be at the temple or the palaestras?”
I don’t even have to think about it. “The temple.”
He tilts his head, pressing the pile of clothes he’s carrying to his chest. “You sound very sure about that.”
I try to smile. “Ares is going to want everyone to watch me crawl to him.”
“Please tell me you will,” he begs.
I reach up and pull his face toward mine, then kiss his cheek and walk past him to get dressed.
August wears loose linen pants and a white tee shirt. His feet are bare, his posture relaxed. As is his usual stance in the evening, he’s staring out the window, pensive.
He doesn’t know that my blood is boiling.
I’m sick of worrying. Sick of cowering. If these are my last nights, I want them to overflow from the joy I pour into them.
My spine against the door frame, I twist toward him. “You know, you broke the heart of every girl in the realms today.”
His brows lift as he ticks his head back, a playful smirk on his lips. “Is that so?”
“Mm hmm. They all secretly thought the kisses you toss out were for them.”
He laughs, and the sound is effervescent. “Aster has done that since he was just toddling around. Aliver does it, too.”
Smiling, I glance back outside to the gold and orange sunset that cuts the facets of rolling waves into fire opals. They tumble to the shore where they break and drag over the sand.
“I want to thank you for the song, August,” I say offhandedly.
He turns to me.
“You kept Carina’s words alive.” He’d even used some of her clever phrases in it.
I look up at him as he stares at the temple, like he’s trying to will that horn to sound. Gulls scream as they fly past.
I swipe a damp palm over my stomach. Akira’s dress is made of delicate layers of fabric that gather in three knots down the middle of my body, creating a lovely shape.
The front hem barely strikes my shin, but in the back, a small train trails behind me.
My wavy hair drifts in the same sea breeze that runs its fingers through August’s.
Warm sunlight slips over his skin, illuminating him like that’s its sole purpose.
A familiar coo comes from the direction of my oikos. My head swivels, pulse jumping.
Perched on the windowsill is a male resplendent quetzal like the ones that made their home in Abuela’s too-dry garden.
Verdant feathers cover its head, spread across its chest, and spill down its back in the shape of the collared necklace I wear, with longer green feathers streaming from its tail.
Its belly is a stark contrast – the plumage there is bright red.
It flies over the water and lands on August’s shutter. It begins to sing, inching closer and closer.
August and I exchange awed smiles.
I extend my hand like Abuela does when they sometimes allow her to hold them. The bird comes to me, its feet gripping my finger like a branch. I draw it to me and run my other finger down the back of its soft head.
“It’s incredible,” August breathes. “Beautiful. I’ve seen your feathers, but not the creature who gave them to you.”
The horn’s abrupt blast frightens the quetzal away. It flaps wildly, then swoops back to my oikos, where it perches again.
How did it get here?
We climb the staircases to the temple, not knowing what to expect, given the way the trial ended, but when we crest the hill, we hear the music that usually spills from the hilltop during feasts.
The delicious scents of freshly prepared food drift out to meet us.
The swaths of unmarred pale fabric wave us inside.
A single table graces the middle of the sanctum, a bone-white cloth draped over its face. Crowned with matching candles burning amid clusters of colorless flowers, four chairs sit empty around it.
“I wonder which table is ours,” August drawls sarcastically, studying the rest of the room.
Like moons, eleven circular tables orbit the ivory one, all ensconced in the rainbow of colors claimed by the pantheons with mortals in the games.
Koda sits with Anansi at a table wholly decorated in vibrant red to honor the African pantheon. Trickster Anansi’s too-curious stare fixes on my necklace. Ogun isn’t with him. He claimed he needed time to consider August, but Anansi raises his brows and glass to me in challenge.
If I tell him what I know, he will bring Ogun for August.
The golden table of the Egyptian pantheon teems with Isis and Taeniset, Thoth and Yuuki.
The Greek’s is draped in regal blue, and Athena is seated with Elias. They lean in to speak privately as their eyes comb the competition.
Marima and Niall are with Brigid at the Celtic’s midnight table, but Morrigan is absent. I wonder where she is, and why she smiled when she spirited my brother out of the arena. I’ve never seen her do that before today. I’m not sure I ever want to witness it again.
Stoic Hazi and Erra sit together at the royal purple Mesopotamian table.
I’ve never seen Erra before. Outfitted in loose pants, the war deity has light brown skin and an impressive gray beard that stretches to the middle of his taut stomach.
Thick gold bands cuff his wrists and every inch of the outside of his ears are pierced with hoops to match.
For a breath, Hazi’s eyes flick to Tae. When he sees she’s busy, he shifts in his seat and stares blankly ahead.
Also sitting alone are Kallik and Nanook of the Inuit pantheon. Their table is set in a sable tone reminiscent of rich soil. The two males are as still as a winter sea. Furs adorn their shoulders, and their shirts, pants, and boots are trimmed in it.
Kanaloa and Pele sit with Ulani and Sura at the Polynesian’s umber and orange table. The mortals’ necks are draped in fuchsia flower leis. Ulani’s attention drifts to his wife, who sits within arm’s reach with glowing Amaterasu.
The goddess honors Susanoo this evening. Her tablecloth’s hem washes and wanes like the tides he commands. There are two empty seats at their table: one for him, and one for Akira.
Beside them are Change’e and Peng in pale pink; he in a suit and her in a lovely silk gown, layered in delicate lace. A living cherry blossom tree sprouts from the center of the Chinese pantheon’s table.
In lavender, Veronia sits beside the Slavic goddess of the hunt, Devana, whose hair is a wild tangle with leaves and twigs caught in it.
A bow is strung across her body, leather guarding her forearms. Wen is seated next to three-headed Triglav, who glowers like he wants to slaughter us all and be done with these games, his mortal included.
The Slavic table bears the pale purple shade of the fragrant stems gathered in the generous centerpiece bouquet.
The last table is reserved for the steely Norse gods, mighty Freyja and stormy Njord, conniving Torsten and gloomy Nickolai. All are in silver and gray. All look miserable.
Hermes’s winged sandals carry him to us. “So nice of you two to deign to join us.”
August stands a little straighter. “We came as soon as we heard the horn.”
The messenger scoffs. “Next you’ll tell me you only heard it once.”
But we had only heard it once. I look at August, who gives a small shrug of his shoulder. Then I look at Anansi, who beams a smile. Did he weave his little web over our oikos to block the horn’s call? Or over the temple itself?
“Do be seated,” Hermes invites, gesturing to the center table. It’s not a request.
August pulls out my chair and pushes it in as I sit. He drags his over, staying so close that when he takes his seat, my left thigh presses against his right. He threads his fingers through mine and leans in to whisper, “We can win.”
I squeeze his hand three times.
Ares emerges from the shadows. Dressed in dark blue armor with his blood-red cape flowing behind him, he leads a small army of sapphire-clad servers. Their platters are heavy with the plates they carry, silver domes preserving the warmth and moisture.
The god of war’s eyes fasten on mine. His stare is predatory.
My temper flares.
As if August senses it, he leans over to pluck one of the fragrant flowers from the arrangement in the middle of the table and twists it between his thumb and finger. It’s a white lily.
“Put that down!” I hiss.
His brows meet. “The flower?”
I nod. “It’s bad luck.”