Page 56 of Invoking Ruin

Dead?

I turn around in a slow circle to keep her from seeing my face as the unease slowly bleeds out of me, replaced with a terrible sense of calm. Hera is dead. My tormentor, my would-be assassin from birth is no more.

All children of Zeus who did not have Hera as a mother—and some who did—had cause to fear Hera, but the jealous, bitter goddess had always had a special place in her heart for making me suffer. Even before I was born, she had my mother killed, and my father carried me in his thigh.

Somehow, it was only the start.

She employed Atê in my suffering more than once.

My eyes land on the blackened trees again. “What happened to them?”

Atê pauses, frowning at the orchard like it’s only a mild blight on the landscape. “I’m not entirely sure. This place has been abandoned for centuries. My guess is Zeus hurled down lightning bolts and destroyed them. The Golden Apples must have offended him, somehow. Mother will be pleased when she finds out she has the only one left in the world.”

I’m sure she will be. Eris is the type to enjoy having an advantage over others, and the only Golden Apple in the world is bragging rights, if nothing else.

“And where is Zeus?”

“Also dead, though that was much more recent.”

The world reels again. I swallow, trying to keep the roil of pain and confusion off my face. This time, she’s watching me as she draws the comb over Pegasus’ flank in slow, even strokes.

“I thought gods couldn’t die,” I finally think to say. My voice is rough, and she frowns at me. Fuck. She’s seen how deeply I’m struck. I’m meant to keep this a secret, to make her suffer, to make her the one on strings.

Sandro has no reason to mourn Zeus’ death, but all I can hear are the last words he said to me, over and over in the back of my head.

It’s a bad time to have a personal crisis. Atê is incredibly observant of people’s flaws and weak points, especially mine.

After a moment, she finishes grooming the horse and puts the brush away. “Gods used to be beyond the reach of death,” she tells me with a shrug. “That hasn’t been true for seven hundred years, now.”

Seven hundred years ago—my memory that far back is clear enough. There was a war between the gods, the one that ended with both sides in a stalemate and millions of mortals dead of violence and plague.

Eris had been cast into Tartarus for starting it. I remember her trial.

I don’t remember anything about gods dying.

Perhaps I should have spent five more minutes with Nemesis and asked for the highlights of what I’d missed while I was away. If I had, I wouldn’t be quite so confused facing down Atê. It’s hard to gain the upper hand when I don’t have enough information.

Atê comes over to me, sliding her hand down my arm. Sparks trail in the wake of her touch. “Come. We can wash and get comfortable.”

She leads me across the garden, her hips swaying, mesmerizing me.

Her dress had torn during her fight with Eris, the leaving a slit in the skirt and showing a considerable amount of leg with each and every step.

She’s all danger and bad decisions. Too bad I’ve always liked both.

The pavilion she leads me to is open on all sides, like all the rest. When we step inside, though, the faint breeze halts, as though we’re encased in solid walls. The sun climbing above us is a little dimmer as well. The strange nature of the buildings is no surprise. This whole garden is a piece of magic, but it still gives me pause.

What’s far more disarming is what the pavilion contains. The space is expansive, and a large bed in the center is expected, something Hera probably enjoyed when she was alive. Her bed is now empty, tempting me, as all I want to do is lie down and sleep for a week. Maybe that would ease the pounding in my skull that’s only amplified since Lethe pulled her damn river out of me.

But it’s every other surface in the place truly drawing my attention. Every table, dresser, and sofa I can see is covered in trinkets, weapons, and other precious items.

In one corner, I spy what has to be the Sword of Damocles. In another, Athena’s Shield is resting on a cushion.

More and more items jump out at me as I look around. Pan’s flute. A chest on the floor filled with silver obols—likely stolen from Charon. The fucking golden fleece.

Atê has been busy. A life of crime clearly suits her. Meanwhile, I’ve been stumbling around thinking I’m nothing more than a mortal man.

The table on the center of the room is the one meant for display. There, resting on a plinth, is an unassuming black knife. It doesn’t glint, even with the sun shining directly on it. Instead it only grows darker the longer I watch it, absorbing the light.

---