“WHERE IS HE?” I shout as I stomp through the common room. Demeter, Athena and Hera look up from their card game with startled expressions. It’s hard to tell which is more shocking to them: my raising my voice or my allowing my feet to pound against the marble floor. “Where is he?” They know who I mean. They know what his son has done. Athena gestures toward the jasmine garden. My ankle wings flutter, ready to take me there, but I’ve no patience. The jolt of every step across the hard surface gives me a sense of release. I can understand now why mortals bash their fists against walls when angry.
Poseidon lounges on a bench that is shaded by a twining vine dotted with white flowers. Orseis, her frustration with the sea god apparently forgotten, sprawls on top of him locking her lips to his. Her little moans grate on my ears.
“My granddaughter is dead,” I shout at Poseidon. My wings beat hard against my helmet sending out metallic pings with every flap. He shifts Orseis aside as he swings his legs to a seated position. Keeping one grey-blue eye on me, he kisses Orseis, sliding a hand along her breast as he tells her to wait for him in his bedchamber. She smiles slyly at him and gives me a snide look before leaving the garden.
Poseidon does not stand. Instead, he stretches his arms out across the back of the bench. He gives every appearance of confident calm, but his eyes reveal the internal storm I’ve churned up.
“And what do you expect me to do?”
My fingers tense into a fist. The wings at my ankles stiffen. My lips tighten against my teeth so hard I cannot speak. The gravel of the walkway crunches as someone steps up behind me.
“I think he believes you should rein in your son,” Hera says, coming up beside me.
“This is ridiculous,” Poseidon says, pushing himself up from his seat. “I have said time and again not to mettle in mortal affairs. I cannot force my son to be moral. He is Ares’s man. I cannot stop him from murdering. We may be able to influence them, but we no longer guide mortals along like marble and onyx figures across the chess board of the world. I am sorry for your granddaughter, Hermes, but you and Hera need to learn to keep your noses out of the mortal realm unless your help is specifically requested.” He moves in closer to Hera, his words almost a whisper. “You should stop dragging Hermes into your battles, Hera. I know of your deal with Aphrodite and I can tell you I am not pleased.”
Poseidon’s final glance at me before he follows after Orseis no longer reminds me of waves that might bash a headland to pieces, but rather a melancholy fog filled with apology and regret.
“What deal, Hera?” I ask, my voice still ripe with scorn.
Hera refuses to meet my stare. Her normally statuesque posture shifts like a child in need of the toilet.
“What deal, Hera?” I ask more firmly.
From around the bend that leads to the rose garden come the sounds of giggling. I turn to look behind me, but Hera pulls on my arm, linking it with hers.
“Come, let’s talk inside,” she says looking over my shoulder.
I yank my arm away and spin around. My helmet wings flutter at the sudden movement. I am about to storm into the rose garden, but I don’t have to.
Around the bend, clinging to one another and giving each other teasing kisses, come Aphrodite and Ares. At the sight of them, a fist as large as a titan’s squeezes my heart. The couple pauses for a moment when they see me. I want the power of invisibility, I want to dissolve into a mist and never form again, I want them not to see the ache on my face or the droop of my wings.
“Hello, Hermes,” Ares says, his voice dripping with mock lust. Aphrodite laughs. A laugh that is both cruel and beautiful like the goddess herself.
I dip my head not wanting them – not wanting him – to see the tears brimming on my lower lids or the fiery embarrassment in my cheeks. Through wet lashes, I watch his leather boots as they step past me. Aphrodite’s golden-sandaled feet stop beside Hera.
“Thank you, Hera. It has been truly exquisite having Ares for myself.”
There is no hint of gratitude in her words. Only mocking venom.
When I hear the click of their shoes on the marble floor of the common room, my sorrowful shame morphs into outrage. Hera stops my insults before I get a chance to fling them at her.
“I can explain. I needed Medea to love—“
“Medea.” I spit the name like the foulest curse and thrill at the sight of Hera shrinking back. “You meddler. If not for Medea, if not for that woman’s pride, if not for her violent tendencies, the Argoa would not have had to stop in Portaceae. If not for the love you forced upon her, Jason and Odysseus would have reached Salemnos in time to save Polymele.”
“You don’t know that,” she says, but it’s clear from her meek tone, from her fidgeting hands that she does not believe her own words.
“You gave Ares to Aphrodite knowing how I feel for him.” I hear my voice falter, but I will not give into tears, not yet, not in front of Hera. “You allowed her to flaunt him in front of me. I know damn well I can’t have Ares, but you insist on driving the pain of that knowledge in with a sledgehammer. You of all the gods should know what it is like to see the one you love take up with another.”
My shouts have brought Demeter and Athena to the edge of the garden. I will not have an audience to my torture. I brush past Hera. She clutches at my wrist. “Please, Hermes. I—“
“Do not offer me apology because I will not accept it. Look at me, Hera.” I dare to grab her chin, telling myself to be gentle, forcing myself to resist the urge to slap her as I tilt her face up to gaze into mine. “Look at my face. Remember how the pain looks on it and remember I am no longer your ally.”
I lower my hand and brush past the goddesses. By the time I reach my bedchamber, my throat is so constricted with emotion I am left gasping for breath that comes in ragged sobs.