Sweet Legacy Page 16

  Gretchen wipes the handle off on her pants.

  Woven into the golden antlers are gems and mother-of-pearl inlays in the shapes of crescent moons. There must be two dozen in total.

  “No,” Gretchen says, staring at the dagger as if it might have an invisible “property of” label hiding somewhere. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “It looks like it comes from Hephaestus’s forge,” our mother says, stepping closer to examine the blade. “But as to the owner’s identity, I cannot hazard a guess.” When Gretchen and I stare at her, wide-eyed, she shrugs. “I have studied a lot of books on Greek mythology.”

  “I know whose it is.” Thane’s voice is low and hard.

  “You do?” I ask.

  He doesn’t look at me, keeps his eyes steady on Greer. “It belongs to an assassin sent by Artemis, the goddess of the hunt.”

  “Artemis?” I echo.

  Thane nods. “Apollo’s twin. She’s on Zeus’s side in this war. She’s been working actively against you for years.”

  “How do you know that?” I ask.

  Gretchen demands, her voice low and full of warning, “How do you know the dagger is hers?”

  “Because—” He swallows hard, his jaw muscles clenching like he has to force himself to speak the words. He reaches down and pulls up the leg of his jeans, revealing an ankle holster. Glinting in the sun is a dagger just like the one Cassandra pulled out of Greer’s chest. “It is standard issue.”

  Cassandra pronounces Greer stable enough to be moved, and Gretchen carries our sister back to the safe house, back to a magically protected, comfortable place to recover without worrying that monsters are going to break down the door at any moment. There was no way she was letting Thane touch her.

  Then, once Greer is settled into the unexpectedly soft bed, we gather around Thane in the living room—me, Gretchen, Cassandra, and little Sillus. I listen intently as he tells his story. We all do.

  “As a little boy, I was given into the service of Artemis,” he begins. “My parents were poor, and the goddess gave them great wealth in return for me.”

  I can’t remember him ever stringing this many words together at once, especially about his past. He never talks about his past. Mom and Dad would be in shock.

  “As part of my service to the goddess of the hunt,” he continues, “I trained as a warrior. As an assassin.”

  “Assassin?” I echo, my voice barely a whisper.

  He gives me a curt nod. “Even as a child. I was her star soldier. Could handle any blade with deadly precision.”

  He casually flips the dagger he pulled from his ankle holster into the air, letting the golden hilt spin several times in the gleaming sun before landing squarely back in his palm. He turns and, faster than my eye can follow, sends the blade speeding through the air. It is quivering, blade-first, in the narrow strip of wood between the window panes. A fraction of an inch to either side and it would have shattered the glass.

  “Could best anyone in her army,” he says, not sounding proud of his achievement, “even the teenagers.”

  “But you were only eight when we found you,” I say.

  An eight-year-old being trained as an assassin? Fighting other soldiers, even the ones way older than him? I can’t imagine what it must have been like, little boy Thane being taught to fight and kill. He’d seemed like such a fragile thing when he came into our family, small and hungry after living on the street. Had that been a sham? Was it all a setup?

  “One day, the goddess came to me with a mission.” His eyes cloud over. “It was a very special mission, one that would bring me glory and my parents even more wealth. If I failed, it would bring us death.”

  I gasp.

  Gretchen just glares at him.

  “For three weeks prior, she starved me. I was given two slices of bread and a glass of water each day.” The haunted look in his eyes says he remembers that time as if it were yesterday. “When I was ready, she sent me to the city. She arranged events so that I was found, so that our parents”—he looks at me—“would be the ones who adopted me.”

  “What was your mission?” Gretchen demands.

  Thane turns to her. “My mission was, and remains,” he says, his voice chilled, “to kill the sister of the Key Generation who possesses the far-roaming power of the gorgon Euryale.” He doesn’t look at me as he says, “To kill Grace.”

  Sillus gasps.

  I can only stare and blink.

  Gretchen launches herself at him before anyone can react. She has him on the floor, her palms tightening around his throat. His arms spread out, palm up. He’s not resisting her. If what he says about his training is true, he could probably pin Gretchen in a flash. He’s letting her choke him.

  “Do it,” he whispers. “I deserve it.”

  That stuns her. She doesn’t release his neck entirely, but she sits back on his chest.

  “Why didn’t you?” she asks. “Why did you abort your mission?”

  He shakes his head from side to side. “I—” He glances at me, and in that look I see everything I need to know. He loves me, unconditionally. He’s my brother, however that came to be, and he loves me. “I couldn’t.”

  “Couldn’t?” Gretchen echoes.

  He returns his attention to her. “I wouldn’t.”

  She releases his neck.

  “They know?” she asks. “Your keepers know you’re not their boy anymore?”

  Thane nods. “I told them.” He looks away. “Stupid. That’s why they sent another.”

  “Is that where you went?” I ask. “When you disappeared, you went to tell them you wouldn’t kill me?”

  He doesn’t nod. He doesn’t have to.

  “That’s who beat you up,” I say.

  “I shouldn’t have gone,” he says. “I thought if I told them about you, about how you are a good person and you only want the best for everyone, maybe they would change their minds about the whole operation. Instead, they planted a bomb.”

  “Bomb?” Gretchen growls. “The one that destroyed my loft?”

  The pieces fall into place.

  “You made the call,” I blurt. He doesn’t answer, but I know it’s what happened. “You saved our lives.”

  “Too bad you’re the one who put us in danger in the first place,” Gretchen says. “You should have told us sooner.”

  He winces in pain. “I know.”

  She climbs to her feet, knocking him in the ribs with her boot as she steps over him. Sillus runs over and kicks him in the thigh.

  I don’t know what to say. I don’t even know what to feel. The big brother I have looked up to for most of my life, who taught me how to knee a guy who got too handsy and who always made sure I got the biggest brownie on the plate, is suddenly a stranger. One of the people I trust the most, and he was the one I should have been afraid of.

  He’s still my brother, but he has also been my enemy. I feel like I don’t know him at all.

  Thane lies there for a moment before finally getting up. He looks defeated. I don’t know what to say. I want to tell him everything is okay, but is it? How can I tell?

  Greer coughs, sputtering breath into the air.

  I rush into the bedroom and sit at her side.

  “Hush, Greer,” I soothe. “We’re here. You’re okay.”

  Our mother sits at her other side, checking Greer’s pulse and smoothing fingertips over her forehead. She’s been watching over her ever since we got back to the safe house.

  Greer is still unconscious, though I’m sure that’s not surprising. I wonder how long she’ll be out. I wonder what death, even a brief one, will have cost her.

  I glance up as Thane steps into the doorway. He looks at Greer, and then, reassured that she’s okay, he turns and leaves.

  In that moment, I know everything is going to be okay. Whatever happened in the past, whatever secrets Thane kept from me my whole life, he is still my brother in every way that matters. He risked his own life to defy his mi
ssion. How can I hold him accountable for something he had no choice over in the first place? The important thing is that he’s made his choice now.

  He chose me.

  Leaving Greer’s side, I return to the other room to reassure my brother that everything is fine. “Hey, Thane, I—”

  He’s gone.

  CHAPTER 21

  GREER

  The smell is terrible, revolting, like decaying flesh and skunk and vomit all combined into one. It’s worse than the abyss, even worse than the trash bins behind Fisherman’s Wharf—and that’s saying a lot.

  At first my eyes won’t open, like they’re glued shut. Maybe I should be grateful for that. If the smell is this bad, I can only imagine what it looks like—and I’d rather not.

  Instead, I try to move. My chest explodes with a white hot pain.

  I collapse back down, struggling to keep my breathing even and to maintain consciousness. The last thing I want is to hyperventilate and pass out here, wherever here is.

  “Is this really her?” a young female voice whispers.

  An older woman says, “Couldn’t be.”

  “Looks like her,” another says. This one sounds as old as great-grandmother Morgenthal. Something slimy pokes at my foot. “She has the mark.”

  “And the fangs.”

  I trace my tongue over my teeth and discover that, yes, my fangs are showing. Maybe they’re reacting to the stench.

  “Sorry,” I say, my voice a harsh whisper.

  Shrieks pierce my eardrums and I force my eyes open to see what terror is approaching. At the rate my week is going, it’s probably a giant flesh-eating tadpole or something.

  No, just a trio of human-looking women, ranging in age from a teenager to an octogenarian. Their eyes are shut, but I get the distinct impression that they are shrieking at me. Like I’m the scary thing here.

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath, trying to quell the nausea and pain that keep washing over me. When I open my eyes, the old woman has moved closer and is shoving her hand toward my face. Cupped in the palm of her hand is an eyeball.

  I can’t stop the scream.

  Three women and one eyeball. Oh my heavens, I know who they are. The Fates.

  This can’t be good.

  “What’s going on?” I demand, trying to control my panic. Looking around, I add, “Where am I?”

  “She doesn’t know,” the young one on the left says to the other two.

  “You tell her,” the middle one says.

  The old one on the right says, “Yes, you.”

  “I’m not telling her,” the first one argues.

  “Tell me what?” I ask.

  “That you’re in Hades,” the middle one admits. Then she slaps a hand over her mouth when she realizes she just told me the thing they didn’t want to tell me.

  “Hades?” I frown. “That’s not possible.”

  All three of them glance down at my chest. I’m about to feel insulted—there’s a sharp barb on the tip of my tongue about it being rude to stare—when I look down. They’re not looking at my breasts. They’re looking at the ragged gash in my chest, right next to my sternum.

  “Oh,” I say.

  It comes back to me in a flash. The vision. The alley. The knife.

  “No. This can’t be happening.”

  But it is. I’m dead because I dived in front of a blade heading for Grace. And it’s not like if I could go back in time I would do anything differently. If I hadn’t stepped between her and the dagger, she would be the one waking up in Hades. That is not a trade I’m willing to make. If I have to die, doing so in the process of saving Grace’s life is a pretty honorable way to go. I have to say I’m quite proud of myself.

  I am not, however, thrilled to find out this is where I’m ending up. I would prefer somewhere warmer, with more sun and maybe a beach.

  I sit up and look around, relieved that the white hot ache in my chest is fading. I would hate to think I’m spending the rest of eternity living with the stinging pain—well, not living with it, precisely.

  “So this is Hades?” I ask, recalling my mythology lessons on the ancient Greek afterlife. “Where is the ferryman? Cerberus? The lord of the underworld himself?”

  The trio shrugs nervously.

  “What?” I ask.

  “You aren’t going to meet them,” the middle one says.

  “Not yet, anyway,” the young one adds.

  “We were sent to give you a message,” the old one explains, “to take back.”

  “To take back?” I repeat. “I thought there was no going back from Hades.”

  The first woman shrugs. “There are always exceptions.”

  “What’s the message?” I ask.

  The old one steps closer, holding the eyeball close to my face. I try not to shudder in disgust. “Fight not alone.”

  “Fight not a—what?” That makes no sense. “What does that mean?”

  They shrug again and shake their heads.

  “We weren’t told.”

  “We’re just the messengers.”

  “We give the message.”

  “Well, who sent you?” I ask, hoping maybe that will be a clue.

  “That is not part of her message.”

  As if that’s an answer. “Her?”

  “Hush, youngling,” the old one snaps at the first one. “You share more than we are meant to. We cannot interfere in these matters.”

  The middle one explains, “We are only supposed to deliver the message.”

  “Before,” the first one adds, nodding.

  “Before what?” I ask.

  The light around me suddenly brightens.

  “Before this.”

  “Befo—?”

  As one, the three women snap their fingers. The air around me crackles with energy.

  I glance down and see my skin glowing, brighter and brighter. My entire body has turned into a fluorescent bulb. I look radioactive.

  “Wha—?”

  Suddenly I feel like I’m being pulled in every direction at once. My body struggles to stay together in one piece. My legs go in one direction, my arms another. Everything starts swirling, like a funhouse mirror in the middle of a tornado.

  Then the smelly world around me fades away and I’m hurtling through space.

  When I wake for real, I’m relieved to inhale a breath of air that only smells like dust and greasy Chinese food. I never thought I’d appreciate the disgusting smells of the city, but in comparison they’re like designer perfume.

  Hades is not a marketable scent.

  “She’s waking up,” a woman’s voice says.

  “Greer!”

  Grace’s cheer brings me back into the world—into the real world. I hold my hand up before my face and am relieved to see the glow is gone. My skin is back to normal. I’m back to normal. Back to life. Is that what the Fates meant?

  The group standing over me here looks a lot better than the trio in Hades.

  “How do you feel?” Grace asks, dropping down next to me on the bed.

  I scan the room and find I’m back in the safe house. I suppress a shudder at the knowledge that I’m lying on that ratty, stained coverlet in the bedroom. After dying and going to Hades, the thought of dirt and bedbugs should be the least of my worries.

  “I feel . . .” I try to sit up, bracing myself for the pain—I took a knife to the chest, after all—but I’m surprised to find none. “Great, actually.”

  The bed bounces as Sillus jumps up by my feet.

  “Welcome,” he says with a toothy grin. “Huntress come back.”

  How I got to Hades isn’t much of a mystery. I took that blade that was meant for Grace, and I went to the underworld. That shouldn’t be any more surprising than the idea that I’m a descendant of Medusa who fights monsters and is trying to defeat the Olympians who want her dead. Mythology is now something entirely normal in my life.

  How I got back to the realm of the living is less clear.

  “Wha
t happened?” I ask. “How am I still alive?”

  “Gretchen saved you,” Grace says. “She brought you back from the dead.”

  “With Cassandra’s help,” Gretchen adds.

  I shift my attention to the third woman at my bedside.

  She gives me a little wave.

  Cassandra is our mother—our biological mother, anyway. Grace found her, apparently. There is no question that we are genetically related. We have the same natural hair color, the same silver-gray eyes, and the same high cheekbones. It’s funny how I never before realized how little I resemble my adopted parents. I should have discovered my adoption much sooner.

  “Where did you go?” Grace asks, her voice whisper soft. “Were you . . . aware of anything?”

  I look into her eyes, so full of hope and wonder. So curious. I would be, too.

  As much as I want to hold this inside, to keep this very private thing to myself, something makes me want to tell them. I think the trip to Hades was not as accidental as it seemed at the time. I was supposed to die; I was supposed to get that advice from the Fates. And now I’m supposed to share that with my sisters.

  “I went to Hades,” I say bluntly.

  “Really?” Grace gasps.

  Gretchen asks, “What was it like?”

  “It was . . .” I close my eyes, remembering, but the memory is too raw, too real, and I have to open them again. “Awful. It smelled like a garbage dump.”

  “Oh.” Grace sounds disappointed. Like I was going to say it was full of puppies and smelled like cotton candy. Not quite.

  “I was in more of an antechamber,” I explain, hoping to make her feel better. “I didn’t see Hades proper or anything.”

  She visibly relaxes.

  “Were you alone?” Cassandra asks.

  I flick my gray gaze to hers. “No, I wasn’t.”

  I take a deep breath. Despite all the crazy, unbelievable things we’ve all seen, this is one step beyond. My visit to the underworld and advice from the human-looking personifications of destiny is another level of mythology.