Page 65 of Patron of Mercy

It would’ve been easy to admit that his death was inevitable. He’d had a good run, more than he deserved, and he’d spent his last weeks in the company of the god he loved. If he died now, at least he’d be guaranteed to see Thanatos one last time, when he took Lach to Elysium. Even knowing that was what awaited him, Lach chafed at the idea of giving up.

A long time ago, he’d have been able to shout Thanatos’s name and the god could’ve found him anywhere. Now, with the gods’ powers waning, it didn’t work like that.

Except that it had. With Mis. Thanatos had been able to take them back to that boat with a thought after the Styx concert. And why? Because Misericordia was his place. That small room below deck with Lach’s movies and pajamas was Thanatos’s as much as it’d ever been Lach’s. Lach wanted to fill that boat with the sound of Thanatos laughing, the sight of his smile, the warmth of his skin after sitting all morning in the sun.

And damn it all, Lach was his person. The gods weren’t weaker now because they were older; they were weaker because people didn’t believe in them as ardently as they had. Lach had never been much for praying, but if there was a single thing left in the world that he believed in, it was Thanatos.

He closed his eyes and tried to reach out. After all these thousands of years, it still felt ridiculous. Someone like him couldn’t hope he was strong enough or loud enough or important enough to catch the attention of a god, even one who loved him. But he shook off that doubt. He had to try anyway.

Thanatos, he thought as hard as he could, until the syllables throbbed in his aching head. What would he say? Help, I’ve been kidnapped by an archeologist and the Wonder Bread brigade? That wasn’t a prayer. Wasn’t belief or trust or anything of value.

He took a shaking breath, adrenaline and pain making his chest jump as he heard the movement of wheels across the uneven ground.Thanatos, I need you. I need your wisdom and your mercy and your help. Come find me. Don’t leave me here. Don’t let me leave again.

“Old friend,” Charles said, his voice low and his breath sweet as peppermint candies as he leaned over Lach’s face.

Thanatos, please.

“Tell me again how you won your immortality,” Charles continued.

Lach swallowed. His mouth was dry, his throat like sandpaper as it flexed. Finally, he opened his eyes. A smirk tilted his lips as he turned to look up at Charles. His pale white skin was wrinkled and sallow, marked with spots. But his eyes were lit with the same hunger and a desperation Lach recognized. He did not want to die.

“I killed a cow, because I was hungry.”

For a moment, a smile smoothed out the lines of Charles’s lips, and he nodded. “Kill the meat, inherit the power.” He paused a moment to lick his lips. “Will I have to eat you?”

“Father!” Martina sounded horrified. “He’s just a vessel. For Cronus. Not for—”

“Shut up, Marty,” Roger hissed.

For Cronus, she’d said. With a chuckle, Lach rolled his eyes. Martina couldn’t pick and choose the parts of this she wanted to support. It was all or nothing, and when someone was monstrous, it was foolish to think they weren’t a monster all the way through.

“Charles, I really think you ought to. Wouldn’t want to risk it not taking. I bet I would goamazinglywith a Sangiovese. But you should ask Cronus for a recommendation when he gets here. He’s pretty well versed in cannibalism.”

With knobbed hands, Charles braced himself on the edge of the rock. He pulled himself out of his chair, leaning his knees on the rock for stability. Roger offered him a knife, long and silver and sharp, that caught the moonlight and reflected it coldly. Charles couldn’t have help killing him. What if he made his troll of a son immortal on accident? It wasn’t a gift Charles would be willing to share.

“You won’t make it forever,” Lach warned. “Cronus will tear you apart.”

“We will set the world back on track. Together,” Charles said with the stubborn surety of the deluded.

He did not lift the knife so much as drag it across Lach’s chest. His hand shook, even as he positioned the knife above Lach’s heart. He didn’t stab, too weak to lift the blade on his own; he leaned his weight against the blade to push it in.

Lach’s mouth fell open. The air, despite the season and the hot springs nearby, felt cold in his lungs. His head fell back, and he looked up. He wouldn’t have his last sight be Charles, brow furrowed with the effort of murdering him. For one brilliant second, the stars twinkled brighter than ever, honey hued and perfect. And then everything went dark.

Living on a Prayer

He had the information they needed, and some part of him thought he should be pleased. Excited, even. Instead, all he could feel was a deep sense of foreboding.

Thanatos had never liked Cronus; he doubted that he’d like the scythe any better. Even if Hephaestus’s information did lead them to it, and that seemed likely, he wasn’t sure he wanted it.

They were almost there, almost done, and yet his heart was shouting that it would be a better idea to throw themselves on the mercy of Demeter. Admittedly, the goddess of the harvest wasn’t known for being merciful, but anyone was preferable to Cronus.

The feeling of wrongness in his gut wasn’t relieved by the note he found in their hotel room.Gone with Martina. Great, because Thanatos trusted Martina as much as he trusted his own people. Sure, she hadn’t given him any particular reason to be suspicious, and he knew he wasn’t being reasonable, but the concern prevailed.

Thanatos.

He turned toward the door, for a moment thinking Lach had returned. His relief soured a second later when there was no one there, and he realized Lach was praying. Lach was praying to him.

How dire did things have to be, for Lach to resort to that? The words were surprisingly traditional sounding, almost like Lach knew how to pray. The last part, though, sent a chill shivering down Thanatos’s spine.

---