Apollo finally came back to the present. He stood and declared to the whole crowd, both gods and mortals, “The competition has been suspended. Please adjourn to the main arena for the closing ceremonies.” Some of the mortals followed his directive, but others lingered to watch the divine drama. We were already visible to them as a customary part of the pageantry, and none of us had the presence of mind to change that.

“What did you see?” Persephone demanded of Apollo. “You tell me who is going to kill my son. I will have their ass locked in Tartarus before the closing ceremonies are over.”

“I don’t know,” said Apollo.

“If you’re trying to protect someone, I will find out,” Persephone threatened.

“I honestly don’t know,” said Apollo. “I just saw Adonis bleeding to death at Persephone’s Doom. I was there, and so were you and Calliope. None of us were holding any weapons, and that part of the vision didn’t last long enough for me to tell anything from the wound. There was so much blood, I couldn’t see the wound.”

“That part of the vision?” Persephone repeated. “That means there was more to it. What was the rest?”

“I saw the seasons changing in the meadow,” said Apollo. “Autumn, winter, spring.” He looked at Adonis with longing and heartbreak. “I saw a bereft lover looking for Adonis, but never finding him.”

“Apollo,” said Artemis, “Stop. I know what you’re doing, and you don’t have to do it anymore.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Apollo.

“I know exactly what you’re talking about,” said Artemis. “I guess next time I won’t be able to stop myself. Persephone,” she requested, “keep me in Hades until the summer’s over and Adonis is back home. If I’m not here while he is, the vision can’t come true.”

“I honestly didn’t see who killed him,” Apollo maintained, “and you know my visions always come true. We’ve tried to stop them before and it never works.”

“You are not going to Hades for the rest of the summer,” Athena told Artemis. “I just got you, and I’m not giving you up now.”

“Don’t get all possessive on me,” Artemis defended. “I’m through killing my brother’s faithless lovers, and if I have to spend the next six weeks in the Underworld to keep that resolution, that’s what I’m going to do.”

“Then I’m coming with you,” Athena protested.

“You have work here,” said Artemis.

“It’s just six weeks,” said Athena.

“Wait, what’s going on here?” Apollo asked.

“Athena and I are together now,” was Artemis’ matter-of-fact reply. “I was going to tell you tomorrow, after the Games were over.”

“It’s about freakin’ time,” said Persephone. “When you two used to ‘chaperone’ me before I married Hades, I was always like, ‘When are they going to do it already?’ If you two want to honeymoon at my palace, go for it. I’ll take you right now.”

“So,” Zeus interrupted. All of our attention was now on him. “My daughter and my creation; the two ‘virgin’ goddesses. How long has this been going on?”

“Forever, and a day,” said Artemis.

“Are your vows still intact?” Zeus asked the two of them.

“They’re both women,” said Hera. “You know that whatever they’ve done doesn’t count.”

“Whatever we’ve done is no one’s business but our own,” said Athena, stepping ahead of Artemis to shield her from Zeus.

“You made a vow before the gods,” said Zeus. “It could be argued that it is indeed the business of the Ruler of the Gods whether or not you’ve broken that vow.”

“Hera is right,” said Athena. “By the laws that you and she laid down for gods and mortals, only a man can take a woman’s virginity. By those laws, as long as Artemis and I only have each other, we will always be virgins. Besides, our vows were not made to you. They were sacred oaths made before the Fates. They’re unbreakable. Anyone, mortal or divine, can try as hard as they want to break such a vow, but the Fates will never allow it. So, no, my lord, our love and whether we’ve consummated it is not and never will be your business. The Fates and the Fates alone will hold us accountable for our vows, just as they will hold you accountable for every vow you’ve made.” I had never seen Athena so magnificent and resplendent. Goosebumps covered every inch of my skin.

“Are you questioning my authority?” Zeus demanded.

“I am reminding you that all authority has limits, even yours,” Athena replied, cool and resolute.

“Have you forgotten that it was my power that brought you into being?” Zeus rebuked her. “I am the creator of creators, ruler of rulers, god of gods. It was my power and mine alone that defeated my own creators and bound them in Tartarus for eternity.” I glanced at Hera and Demeter. Yep, they’d caught that, alright. “Hades rules the Underworld, and Poseidon the Seas, because I in my wisdom allowed it for the sake of peace among the gods,” Zeus continued. Persephone had most definitely caught that. “I granted them their realms, and I could take them away in a moment if I chose. The universe exists by my grace and would perish by my wrath. I am Zeus, Keeper of the Lightning Bolts. I am Zeus, Supreme High Ruler of the Gods. I am Zeus, Lord of the Skies and the Seas, Bringer of Sun and Rain, Giver of Fair Winds and Storms.”

Then, in the eyes and ears of every creature gathered at the Games, mortal and immortal alike, he proclaimed his doom.

“I AM ZEUS, LEADER OF THE FATES!”

“Holy hubris,” I heard Melpomene exclaim under her breath. “This cannot possibly end well.”

“Do not,” Zeus said to Athena, “presume to tell me the limits of my authority.”

“Then do not presume to exceed them,” Athena responded. “If you ever exceed the limits of your authority as it pertains to Artemis, I will avenge her. I have taken this woman,” Athena, quiet and unassailable, spoke the words that Hades had spoken when he’d claimed Persephone, and that every god since had said of his bride on his wedding day. “She is my own, and none may take her from me.”

“Athena,” said Zeus. “My perfect creation. In all your existence, you’ve brought me nothing but pride. I gave you the strength and wisdom of a man in the fair form of a woman. You’ve been the only one of my children to never cause me regret or grief. Which is why it hurts me so much to do what I must do now.”

A metal bolt flashed into Zeus’ hand. We all scrambled out of the line of fire and away from his target, knowing intervention would be futile. All but Artemis. She tried to step forward, but Athena anticipated her movement and pinned her back. Lightning shot from the bolt straight at Athena’s heart. Athena raised her shield, the shield Zeus had created along with Athena herself. The shield crackled and flashed as it absorbed the lightning. Athena gasped and struggled to stay on her feet, still pinning Artemis safely behind her back with her free arm. The bolt kept firing. Athena’s knees buckled. Sweat stuck her hair to the sides of her face. She panted for breath. But she still stood, and the bolt still fired. She collapsed against the nearest chair with Artemis under her. As Athena struggled, she taunted, “Is that all?” And the lightning kept coming at her.

The bolt ran out of lightning half a second before Athena fell to the ground, limp and unmoving. Artemis peeled herself out of the chair and knelt over her. “Take her away,” Zeus ordered. “Hera, come with me to the main arena. I’ll adjourn these Games myself. The rest of you are dismissed. Do as you please.”

“Aglaea,” said Artemis, “let’s get her to your tent.”

Aglaea, Artemis, and Apollo took Athena to the medic headquarters. I followed. So did everyone else except for Aphrodite and the other children of Zeus. Most of my sisters left the tent when they realized we’d all come. Calliope, Erato, and Melpomene stayed.

With great care and precision, Hephaestus telekinetically lifted Athena onto the exam table. Aglaea and Artemis pried the shield out of Athena’s rigid fingers. Aglaea then ordered everyone to step back, and drew a curtain around the exam table. All of us, even Artemis, were banished to the other side of it. “As soon as I’m done examining her, she’s all yours,” Aglaea promised Artemis. “I just need some space and privacy for this part.”

“Of course,” Artemis agreed.

“So,” said Apollo, “you and Athena?”

“Yeah,” said Artemis.

“I guess that’s alright,” Apollo conceded.

“I guess I didn’t ask,” said Artemis.

“Fair enough,” said Apollo. “Now, about you wanting to spend the rest of the summer in Hades so you don’t kill my boyfriend?”

“Pack your stuff, and I’ll take you as soon as Athena comes to,” Persephone said. “We have a fantastic guest chamber that you won’t be able to leave even if you want to, and I guarantee you won’t want to.”

“Why do you want to kill Adonis?” asked Apollo.

“They always give me a reason eventually,” Artemis shrugged, avoiding eye contact with the prospective victim. “Old habits die hard.”

Apollo turned to Adonis. “I didn’t want to say this in front of Ares, but I wasn’t entirely candid about the vision. Aphrodite was there mourning you, too, and she was the one who kept going back to Persephone’s Doom praying for your return, not me.”

“I haven’t cheated on you,” Adonis protested with a wary glance at Artemis. “I love you, and I have no intention of going back to her. Maybe in the vision she’s remembering what we had and regretting the fact that she broke up with me.”

“Please stop talking,” said Persephone.

“I believe you,” said Apollo. I wanted so badly to smack some sense into him with my shepherd’s crook, but I restrained myself. “I’m afraid, though, that we might end up with a self-fulfilling prophecy. Aphrodite was named in the poem, and Ares heard it. It doesn’t matter whether you’re really a threat. Only whether Ares perceives you as one.”

“So you think it was Ares?” said Persephone.

“Again, I don’t know,” said Apollo. “The killer wasn’t in the vision, and I couldn’t get a good enough look at the wound to figure out how it was made. But I think Ares is a pretty good candidate.”

“But it could be anyone, then?” said Persephone.

“I suppose so,” said Apollo.

“New plan,” said Persephone. “Artemis stays here, and we go home tonight. Like, right now, from this tent, as soon as we know Athena’s okay.”

“Absolutely not!” Demeter protested. “It’s bad enough that I got you three months late. I will not lose you six weeks early.”

“Would you rather lose your grandson altogether?” Persephone argued. “If he dies, you will never see him again. I will, but he won’t remember me. He’ll just be another spirit in the Elysian Fields, and I’ll be the nice lady who comes around every now and then to see how he’s doing.”

“Do I get any say in this?” said Adonis.

“If you had enough sense to deserve a say in these plans,” said Persephone, “we wouldn’t be making them.”

“But I don’t want to go back to Hades,” said Adonis. “Sure, you belong there, but I don’t. My life is here.”

“Where have you been for the last hour?” Persephone demanded. “Your death is here! And I am trying to prevent it!”

“Persephone, so help me, if you go back to Hades tonight,” Demeter threatened.

“If I go back to Hades tonight, you will see me again next year at the Spring Equinox,” said Persephone. “You’re over a thousand years old. What’s a few months to you?”

“It’s the principle,” said Demeter. “You’ve already broken your rhythm once this year. You don’t come in spring, you don’t go in autumn, next year why bother coming at all? Why spend any time with your mother when you could be home guarding your son? Why let me have any order and consistency in my life? And if I can’t have it, why should the earth?”

“Oh, grow up,” said Persephone.

“Demeter,” said Apollo, “as much as I hate to say goodbye to Adonis so soon, I’d rather do that than say goodbye to him forever. I think Persephone’s right. They should go home before the prophecy has a chance to come true.”

“Weren’t you the one saying that your prophecies always come true no matter how you try to prevent them?” Demeter reminded him.

“Yes,” said Apollo, “but there’s a first time for everything.”

“And how do you know this’ll be enough?” said Adonis. “Maybe your vision wasn’t of this summer. For all you know, it could be a hundred summers from now. What am I supposed to do? Hide in Hades for eternity to keep from ending up in Hades for eternity?”

“You didn’t look any older than you do now,” said Apollo. “You’ve already aged a little since you first came here. It’s subtle, but I can tell. Can’t you?” he asked Persephone.

“Of course. I’m his mother,” she replied.

“But don’t different gods have different primes?” said Adonis.

“There’s some variation, but your maturity rate seems pretty average,” said Apollo. “And you’re a demigod. By next summer you’ll probably be a little taller and maybe have a full beard, and you’ll have faint crow’s feet by the summer after that. By the time you stop aging, a human who saw us together would think you were a good ten years older than me.”

Adonis was left to ponder these horrors in silence, since Apollo was interrupted by Aphrodite’s sudden appearance. “Is Athena alright?” she asked in breathless haste. “I’ve been so worried about her.”

“She’ll be fine,” Aglaea called from behind the curtain.

“Aphrodite,” said Apollo, “can I ask you something?”

“I haven’t been with him all week,” she said.

“I know,” said Apollo. “He told me. This is about the vision. I know you wouldn’t care now, but you will if we don’t save his life.”

“Well, okay then,” said the goddess with coquettish indifference. “Sure, I dumped him and everything, but I guess I don’t want him to die. What do you want to know?”

“Are you pregnant?”

Aphrodite was stunned; Adonis twenty times more so. Persephone was livid.

“Yes,” Aphrodite answered. She was quiet and solemn, a strange combination for her. “I mean, I think so. Probably. Most likely. I’ve been meaning to see Aglaea and ask her, but I’ve been so busy.”

“How? Many? Times?” Persephone yelled as she shook her bewildered son, who was evidently getting this news for the first time. “How many times have your dad and I talked to you about contraception spells? They are not hard. Any adolescent moron can pull them off. Obviously it’s too much to ask for you to keep it in your chiton, but if you have to go around boning every fertility goddess who looks your way, how hard is it to remember the damn contraception spell? Hint: it’s not. I don’t know if you’ve noticed your lack of siblings, but your dad and I have managed to go our entire marriage with a 100% success rate.”

“Don’t be so hard on him,” said Apollo. “Sometimes when you’re young and the girl is unbelievable, a contraception spell is the last thing on your mind.”

“Yeah, and the baby grew up to have me, the end,” Aglaea called. “That’s all we need to know.”

“Are you okay?” Calliope whispered to me.

“I’m fine. Why?” I whispered back.

“All those uses of the word ‘hard’ in a conversation about contraception spells, and I haven’t had to tell you to stop giggling once,” Calliope replied.

Aglaea came out from behind the curtain. “Athena’s going to be fine,” she said. “I’m not too worried. She’ll need someone to stay with her overnight.”

“I will,” said Artemis. “Do you need help teleporting her to her quarters?”

“You can help me hold her,” said Aglaea.

“I’ll come with you,” said Psyche.

The four of them left.

“I might as well start supervising take-down,” said Hephaestus. “Eros, can you watch your sister?”

“Sure,” Eros happily agreed. The three of them left, too.

“Why don’t the rest of us meet up at Helicon?” Calliope suggested. “We can discuss plans there.”

“There’s nothing to discuss,” said Persephone. “Adonis and I are going home tonight.”

“Then let’s go to Helicon so we can give you a proper goodbye,” Calliope persisted.

“No one is saying goodbye because no one is leaving,” said Demeter.

“Well, I’m going to Helicon,” Calliope stated, “and I know you three are eventually, and anyone else here who wants to join us can.”

Calliope disappeared. Persephone grabbed Adonis and followed. Demeter and Aphrodite went after them. That left me, Erato, Melpomene, and Apollo.

“You two can go home if you want,” said Apollo, “but, Thalia, I’d really like it if you came with me.”

Oh, come on, really?

“No,” I groaned, leaving the rest of my request unspoken, as had he. “I know what you’re thinking. Don’t ask me. Please.”

“Just for some moral support,” he begged. Oh, I understood exactly what kind of support he wanted, and I couldn’t believe he was asking me for it. “Thalia, please. You’re the only one who can…be you.”

“Damn right,” I said.

“What’s going on?” asked Erato.

“Whatever it is, I’m thinking I don’t want any part in it,” said Mel.

“You and me both,” Erato agreed. Together, they went home to Parnassus.

“Are you out of your mind?” I asked Apollo once we were alone.

“If there’s any chance at all that my vision can be changed, it’s with you,” said Apollo.

“But we don’t know that,” I said, “and I would really like to avoid challenging the Fates.” Twice in one week.

“Listen,” said Apollo, “I’ve never told anyone this because I wanted to protect you, but you need to know. I have seen a vision change, one time and one time only. It was a few years ago. I saw a vision of Epione and my grandchildren at Asclepius’ funeral pyre. I couldn’t tell when it was going to happen. I kept the vision to myself because I didn’t anyone to end up bringing it to pass in an effort to prevent it. That’s happened often enough.

“Later that year, at Cronia, I mentioned off-hand how much I wished I could’ve been with my son and his family instead of spending the whole day on Olympus. You replied, ‘There’s always next year,’ and spun this random but realistic story about what their Cronia celebration would be like the following year.

“Asclepius was executed and resurrected before the next Cronia. The scene in my vision never happened. His body was never burned, and I don’t know if Epione or any of their children even know he was dead. I didn’t think anything of your story until the day you brought Echo to me and asked me to save her. I’m still not a hundred percent sure you’re responsible, but that’s the only time in my entire life that my prophecy didn’t come true.”

“I’m not sure at all that I was in any way responsible,” I said. “I’ll come, I’ll listen, I’ll say whatever you want me to say, but I can’t make any promises, and I do not want you to get your hopes up.”

“Good enough,” said Apollo.

“Not good enough,” I said. “I want your word that you won’t blame me if Adonis dies.”

“You have it. Let’s go.”

So there we all were at Helicon, in our old dining hall. Calliope had taken charge of the meeting and sent everyone to their corners. “I just don’t think acting in haste is going to help anything,” she was saying. “We all need to cool off before we make any decisions.”

“What decisions do you have to make here, Calliope?” Demeter argued.

“Whether to continue hosting the three of you as guests in my house,” she warned.

“This seems pretty simple to me,” said Persephone. “We leave now, my son doesn’t die.”

“You don’t think the Fates could conjure some means of keeping you here?” said Demeter.

“What, like my insane mother turning the weather cycle over to Eris?” said Persephone.

“I can’t help it. When I’m in distress, the cycle becomes irregular. That’s just nature,” Demeter defended.

“So the weather’s a little crazy,” said Aphrodite, “Just go, and come back next spring. It’ll be too late for the prophecy by then.”

“I don’t want to leave,” said Adonis. “If I go back to Hades, Mom and Dad might never let me come back here.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Persephone. “I’ll be coming back to Olympus next spring. You can come with me then.”

“In other words, I’ll never have a life apart from my parents?” said Adonis.

‘Why do you want to get away from us so badly?” asked Persephone. “All we’ve ever done is take care of you.”

“Why did you want to get away from your mom?” he asked.

“Because she lived on Olympus and the man I loved lived in Hades,” said Persephone. “I found a way to keep both of them in my life.”

“I’m sorry I’m not frigid enough to go six months a year without love,” said Adonis.

“I have never struck you in your life, but you’re pushing me in that direction right now,” Persephone warned.

“Wait, you don’t expect him to come and go with you every year, do you?” Aphrodite cried.

“Seems like a good plan to me,” said Persephone.

“But he’s right,” said Aphrodite. “We can’t do that. Maybe you and Hades can go half the year without each other, but Adonis and I are creatures of passion. I could never live with that arrangement.”

“Give me a break,” said Persephone. “You’ve never spent six months with the same lover.”

“And anyway, you broke up with him,” said Apollo. “Right?”

“Yes, but I changed my mind. I want him back now.”

“He said he can’t go six months without love,” said Apollo, “not six months without you.”

“Bitch, I’m pregnant!” Aphrodite snapped. “Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

“Since when does it mean anything to you?” said Apollo. “Out of all your babies, you’ve only kept Eros, and that was just because your husband made you even though he knew he probably wasn’t the father.”

“Well, maybe I want this one,” Aphrodite protested. “With Eros, I found out having a baby isn’t so bad if the father mostly raises it.”

“I guess I’d be good with a kid,” Adonis pondered.

“You are a kid,” Persephone yelled.

“You don’t have to get back with Aphrodite to help raise your baby,” said Apollo. “I’d be there for you. I’ve had actual experience as an involved parent,” he said with a slight sneer at Aphrodite.

“Well, he’ll have all winter to think about it,” said Persephone.

“Stop!” Adonis shouted. “Just, stop. Everyone. Please.” All parts of him came together at that moment, crashed into each other, and shattered into a thousand pieces that scattered and mingled. The child, the young man, the alpha male, the flirty femme, all were crushed and broken. “This is my life. Or maybe my death. I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore. I’m so over just being someone’s son, and I’m so not ready to be anyone’s father. I love Apollo, and I love Aphrodite, and I can’t say I’ll love either one of them or anyone else forever. I don’t want to die, but I have no idea what I want to do with my life. I just know I want to live my life, not the life someone else, anyone else, has in mind for me.”

“May I make a suggestion?” Calliope offered.

“Go ahead,” said Adonis. “You’re the only one who hasn’t.”

“Go home with your mom and wait out the summer,” she said. “You don’t have to live with your parents. Hades is a big place. Maybe you could get set up at one of the lakes or on one of the river banks or something. But if you want to try to escape the prophecy, staying in Hades is your best bet. Spend as much time as you can by yourself. Figure out who you are when you’re not trying to please a parent or impress a lover. Come back next spring when your baby is born. Hopefully by then you’ll be able to make a solid decision on whether you want to be involved with Aphrodite or anyone else or no one else. But whatever you decide on that matter, you are going to have a child, and you should do whatever you can to help your child grow up.

“And so should you,” she said to Persephone. “You haven’t helped Adonis grow up. You’ve helped him stay a child. Protect him, support him, of course, but you need to let him grow up and live his own life. When he gets overwhelmed and wants to come back and be mama’s baby again, you need to make him grow up and live his own life.”

“Excuse me? Who do you think you are?” said Persephone.

“I think I’m the person who’s been giving you lodging off Olympus,” said Calliope. “I’ve decided that’s over. I have my own family to protect, and if Adonis can’t go one summer without ticking off the wrong gods, I don’t want us involved. Whatever you decide, all three of you are moving out of the Museum tomorrow.”

“Calliope, you can’t send them back to Olympus if he stays,” said Apollo.

“I can and I am,” said Calliope.

“But-”

“No.”

“But he-”

“No.”

Had he been particularly stupid, Apollo could’ve pulled rank as Governor of the Muses. To his credit, he did the sensible thing and kept his trap shut. Calliope can be pretty hard to resist when she’s in Ultimate Big Sister mode.

“Now,” said Calliope, “I’m going home. I’ll come back tomorrow evening and help you close up shop. Between now and then, I’ll leave you alone to make your decisions about where you’re going from here.”

“I guess you all have a lot to talk about,” Apollo said with some reluctance. “I’ll be back tomorrow with Calliope; sooner if you want. Thalia, anything you want to say before we go?”

“Good luck,” I said to Adonis. “And if I don’t see you tomorrow, which I probably won’t, I’ll see you next spring.” Yes, it was a tepid, half-hearted wish. It was all I could muster. I no longer wanted him dead, especially since he was probably leaving anyway, but I couldn’t honestly say that I wished him any happiness. I’m only superhuman. “Oh, and when you get home, tell my kids I said hi. Our kids,” I put an arm around Apollo. “The seven kids that Apollo and I had together after we totally had sex.”

“I will,” said Adonis. “You two should visit them more often. And…maybe you could visit me during the winter? All of you? Any of you?”

“We’ll see,” I said.

“Of course,” said Apollo.

“I can’t,” said Aphrodite.

“If you lose the baby there, I can take care of it, I guess,” said Adonis.

“It would go to the Realm of the Dead and grow up there,” said Aphrodite. “But that’s not the point. I’m permabanned from Hades. I don’t know why. I didn’t even find out until a couple years ago.”

“What happened?” I asked, truly curious.

“There was this one priestess that I especially liked. I lent her one of my compacts for a big event she was working. Then the stupid creature died, and my compact was buried with her. I wanted it back. I’d never had any reason to teleport into Hades before, but I’d always assumed I could as one of the Twelve. It turned out I was wrong. I couldn’t get in.

“I used Hermes to ask Hades about it, and Hades said I was banned. He didn’t know why. Hades hadn’t banned me, and he couldn’t find out who did. He said the spell would be pretty hard to undo, so he wasn’t going to put himself through the trouble just for me to get some makeup back. Sure, I didn’t need one more compact, but it was the principle of the thing. So I sent Psyche down there after it.”

“Psyche?” I repeated. “Squishy little butterfly Psyche?”

“Yeah. It was while she and Eros were engaged. She was bending over backwards trying to get into my good graces. I figured this would be a nice little daughter-in-law initiation for her. Charon formally invited her, Hermes took her, she got Persephone to retrieve the compact for her, and she brought it back to me. She’s turned out to be a pretty decent daughter-in-law after all.”

“How did I not know this happened?” I said in bemusement.

“Why would she tell you?” Aphrodite shrugged. “You two aren’t that close. Anyway,” she said to Adonis, “the point is, unless one of your parents lifts the ban, I will never be able to visit you in Hades.”

“Mom, can you?” he asked.

“I could if I wanted to, but I think some time apart is going to be good for you,” said Persephone. “You’ll be fine on your own for awhile.”

“You can’t lift a ban, can you?” he frowned.

“I probably could,” she defended. “I am the Iron Queen of Hades, and don’t you forget it.”

“But you’re second generation,” he reasoned. “Is this one of those things that Dad can do and you can’t because he’s a child of the Titans?”

“Okay, fine, I don’t know,” said Persephone. “I’ve never tried. Never had the motivation. It takes some pretty strong magic to ban a god from anywhere, especially from Hades. Everyone tends to end up there sooner or later. It’s like gravity. And I’m sorry, but I’m not going to try.”

“So this is our last night together?” Adonis said to Aphrodite.

“Yeah,” she said. “If you are going tomorrow.”

“I think I probably am.”

“I’ll make this simple,” said Persephone. “You’re spending the night here,” she said to Adonis, “and you,” she said to Aphrodite, “are not. You can say your last goodbyes tomorrow.”

“Come on,” Apollo said to me. “Let’s go home.”

So we did.

When we got home, Apollo and I said an uncomfortable goodnight and went our separate ways. Thankfully, none of my sisters waylaid me for a report, so I went straight to my room to get ready for bed. I took my time. The truth is, I was dreading sleep. I was starting to expect nighttime visits from the Fates after days like this one.

I laid awake in bed, trying to think of anything but what had just happened, and thus thinking of nothing but what had just happened. I wondered if there were any possibility at all that Adonis could avoid the fate in my dream and Apollo’s vision. I wondered why the Fates had put me through the turmoil of the last test. So Artemis hadn’t killed Adonis and probably wouldn’t. What now? Was his death still inevitable? What if he did make it safely back to Hades tomorrow? If he avoided this death, would the Fates weave yet another one for him? And would I, again, be called upon to avert it with my blessing? Was that going to be my job from now on? Forget theater. Forget comedy. Forget art. Why do any of that when I could be employed full time keeping an utterly useless demigod alive?

The more I thought about it, the more strongly I felt that Adonis really was as useless a creature as anyone could imagine. Did anyone even know what kind of deity he was? I couldn’t think of any special power he’d ever exhibited. A beauty god? That couldn’t be it. I was pretty sure he couldn’t change his or anyone else’s cosmetic appearance. A love god? That would explain his bizarre connection with Aphrodite. But both Aphrodite and Eros had always had a perverse need to meddle in other people’s love lives, not just enhance their own. If collecting a harem made one a love god, Ares might as well claim the title. Same with the possibility that Adonis was a sex god. Aphrodite has a conniption if any of us go too long without getting some. I’d never known Adonis to care about anyone else’s sex life unless it pertained to his.

I thought about Athena’s theory, that Adonis had some kind of ability to provoke obsession. I could kind of see that. Apollo, Aphrodite, Persephone, Demeter, even Ares, were all unnaturally obsessed with him in their own way. But what kind of power was that? What was its end? He wasn’t using it for his own agenda in every case. In some cases, he didn’t even want it. And why would it work on some people, but not on others? Artemis and Athena’s hypothetical immunity was logical since they were immune to Aphrodite’s power, too. But apparently I was also immune to Adonis’ hypothetical power, because I wasn’t the least bit obsessed with him. That didn’t add up.

After a few hours of such contemplation, sleep conquered my resistance. Resistance which turned out to be unwarranted anyway, since the Fates never came. I don’t think I ever got into a deep enough sleep to have a dream. After more hours of this light, virtually useless sleep, an obvious realization startled me wide awake.

Adonis was an idiot.

Aphrodite was an idiot.

Apollo was an idiot.

I got my helmet.

PHYSICIAN’S NOTES

ATTENDING PHYSICIAN: Aglaea

PATIENT: Athena

This is my second confirmed case of a full-blood god struck by a lightning bolt. Patient exhibited signs of full paralysis while being moved to the clinic. Removing an object from her hand proved difficult, as her fingers appeared rigid. However, observation of the muscles and tendons in her hand and arm indicated that the patient did, in fact, have a range of movement and was mimicking rigidity. Further examination showed an absence of the paralyses of the internal organs observed in my first such patient. Heart rate and pulse were elevated. This, however, could easily have been a symptom of emotional stress and/or excitation, and not the effect of the lightning bolt.

I observed the patient for several minutes, monitoring vital signs. They returned to normal as the patient relaxed. A blood analysis showed no injury to the muscles, nervous system, or internal organs. I performed several reflex tests. Patient exhibited no reflex responses, but elevated pulse and twitching temples indicate she may have been suppressing her reflexes.

Further testing consistently showed no damage to the patient. There was no indication that she had suffered anything more than emotional stress and mild exertion.

Upon concluding my examination, I determined that the patient was unhurt had recovered well enough to be discharged. Patient was exhibiting some slight movement and making attempts at speech. I discharged her in the care of her partner, Artemis, leaving Artemis with the instructions to observe the patient through the night and summon me in the event of any medical problem. Patient has an appointment for an evaluation tomorrow morning.

“I want to tell you the story of how I made my vow,” said Artemis.

“I’ve always thought there was more to it than the story everyone tells,” said Athena. “Since it happened over a year before I was created, all I’ve had to go on are a few eyewitness accounts and a lot of gossip. I’ve always wanted to hear your perspective, but I figured if you wanted me to, you’d volunteer it.”

“Yeah,” said Artemis. She looked lost, unsure where or how to start. I knew storytelling wasn’t exactly in her skill set, so I decided to stick around and lend her a little Muse power. I focused my will on her. You can do this, I thought toward her, knowing she couldn’t hear my blessing but hoping she could feel it. Once upon a time…

“Okay, um, you know all the basic timeline stuff,” Artemis began. “Apollo and I were a year old when we were taken to Zeus’ court, but we were still children. Preadolescents. About eight or nine for mortals.” Athena silently nodded. “By the next year we’d grown some, but still abnormally slow. We were barely entering adolescence. Like twelve or thirteen, I guess? Both of us were tall and lanky and not all that developed or filled out. Apollo liked growing his hair out just past his shoulders, and I liked cropping mine to the same length. I would’ve gone shorter and he would’ve gone longer if we thought we could get away with it. But we got picked on enough as it was, especially with me preferring men’s chitons and Apollo discovering eyeliner. Anyway, my point is, we looked pretty much identical.”

“You were hunting already, weren’t you?” Athena recalled.

“Yes, and I loved it. I’d made my first bow when we were on the run with Mom. Apollo had made one too. He was as deadly as I was, and he’d hunt for our food and he’d fight off monsters, but it was the protecting and providing that he cared about. The thrill of the hunt was lost on him. So he didn’t hunt much after we were taken to Olympus. He started getting into science and musical theater. In retrospect, we should’ve saved ourselves some effort and just painted targets between our eyes.”

“I wish I’d been around then,” said Athena.

“I wish you had, too,” said Artemis. “It would’ve been nice to grow up with someone who didn’t care that I wore boys’ clothes all the time and was constantly covered in dirt and bracken. Or that my brother was a pedantic know-it-all who was always stealing the makeup and hair crap that Persephone kept pawning off on me.”

“The more I think about it, Apollo becoming an expert boxer makes so much sense,” Athena commented.

Artemis sighed with a sad smile. “He didn’t wear the glam rock look out of our quarters that often. Definitely not when he knew Ares was home. But that didn’t stop people from constantly harassing both of us, and everyone’s favorite taunt was asking either of us which twin we were. Half the time they were just being jerks. Half the time they really didn’t know.

“So I didn’t think much of it when Zeus asked me that day. By then I’d learn to block it out whenever he made one of his stupid little digs at us. I’d been out hunting all that afternoon. Apollo was locked up in our quarters working on some new experiment. I would’ve teleported straight there, but I didn’t have that much power yet. I couldn’t teleport to different places on Olympus, and if I wanted to leave, I had to go from one of the palace exits to one of the temples or sacred places. That day I’d used the back way as usual, right off the housing rings.

“So, yeah, I’d just come back from hunting, and I was climbing the stairs to our ring. Zeus caught me alone in one of the corridors. He greeted me. I acknowledged him and hoped that would be the end of it. Apollo and I tried to avoid being alone with either of Their Majesties if at all possible. We knew Hera would hurt us if she could, and Zeus would…being alone with him was just so creepy. I tried to hurry across the corridor to the next flight of stairs.

“But no such luck,” Artemis continued, her eyes beginning to glaze and her voice adopting a strange, detached monotone. “Zeus asked me which twin I was. I said, ‘Artemis, my lord,’ and tried to get back on my way.”

In a barely audible voice, Artemis went on, “Then he said, ‘Prove it.'”

“Oh, Fates! Artemis,” Athena floundered, not sure whether to reach for Artemis or her sword.

“I was in shock. I didn’t know what to do. I said, ‘What?’ And he said, ‘I don’t believe you. Take off your chiton and prove it.’ His eyes – you know that sickening look he gets when he thinks he’s being so charming and clever and funny? I panicked. I tried to run. He yelled ‘Don’t you run from your father,’ and before I’d taken two steps, I was on the ground, paralyzed.”

“He used a lightning bolt on a child?” Athena was outraged. I suspected that, as the Goddess of Battle Strategy, she knew exactly how such an attack would affect its victim.

“That he did,” said Artemis. “Then he suspended me, telekinetically, and my chiton came off. All I was wearing was my bow and quiver. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t blink. And he was just looking. And, I don’t know, circling. And getting closer. And closer.

“I have never been able to decide whether I’m grateful Hera showed up.

“She came behind him, picked up his lightning bolt, and bashed him in the head with it. He lost his hold on me. I crashed to the ground. I was still paralyzed. They got into a long shouting match that ended with Hera ordering Zeus out of her sight and Zeus, for whatever reason, complying. He’d probably gotten bored already.

“Hera threw my chiton on top of me. I don’t know why I dared to hope that was the end of it. She ripped my quiver off my back and hurled it down the corridor. The arrows scattered everywhere. Then she ripped off my bow. She raised her arms over her head and held the pose for a second. In case you haven’t noticed, Hera’s kind of a drama queen.

“I don’t even remember what it felt like when she broke my bow on my back. I just remember the fear and the helplessness.

“And I remember her screaming that I was a whore like my mother, and stuff about animal sex, stuff I’d never heard of, and how she – Hera, not my mother – must be some kind of freak for just wanting to do it in her own body. And a bunch of stuff about what I probably would’ve done for her husband if she hadn’t interrupted me. And how if it weren’t for perverted whores like me and my mother, Zeus would be content with her. This went on for a very long time. At least, I think it was a long time. I don’t know. It felt like it.

“Finally, I got some movement back. I grabbed my chiton, wrenched my broken bow out of Hera’s hands, and sprinted away, putting my chiton back on while I ran. I knew there was no place I could go where Hera wouldn’t find me, so I headed for a place where an audience might keep her in check: the throne room.

“That was smart,” said Athena. I could tell there was a lot more she wanted to say, and that most of it wouldn’t be particularly gentle or non-terrifying.

“It was. I ran to the middle of the throne room. Hera was just a couple yards behind me. Crossing the threshold restored her decorum and stateliness like a mind control spell.

“For some reason, Zeus had retreated to the throne room, too. He was seated on his throne. He looked at me like he was so shocked to see me like this. He was all like, ‘Artemis! What happened, Princess?’ I just stared at him like, what in Tartarus? Then he asked, ‘Who did this to you?’

“I wanted more than anything to say, ‘Both of you, you psychos.’ But I was so scared. And he had a whole stash of lightning bolts next to his throne. And I still had to live with Hera. So I said, ‘Your wife Hera, the lady of the white arms.'”

Athena looked puzzled for a few seconds. Then she solved the puzzle. I didn’t. “So when she-”

“I haven’t told you a thing about it,” said Artemis. “Let’s be very clear on that. But, yeah, Hera got it right away, too. She didn’t say anything. She just stood there, glaring, and adjusted her robe.

“Zeus said, ‘Come here, princess, come sit on Daddy’s lap.’ Now Hebe and Ilithyia were glaring at me, too. They’d never accepted me as a sister. I’d never asked them to. I would’ve been happy to let either one of them go in my place, but I didn’t feel like I had any choice. So I went and sat on Zeus’ lap. I was tensed, ready to leap off the mountain if I had to.

“Zeus asked me if there was anything he could do to make it better. I asked for the Cyclops to make me a new bow, an unbreakable one made of gold. He said it was done, and asked if there was anything else. I said ‘Swear I can wear men’s clothes whenever I want.’ He said, ‘You’d look so much prettier in a dress, but if you say so. I swear. Is there anything else I can do? You know I just want you to be happy.’ I got a little bolder. I said, ‘Make me the Goddess of Archery and the Hunt. Swear that my arrows will always hit their mark.’ He granted it. The courtiers all thought we had such a sweet little father-daughter scene going on. Zeus was soaking it up. He was like, ‘Anything else?’ I told him I wanted to lead a band of hunters, all female, all virgins. He granted that, and, once again, asked me if there was anything else he could give me. It was all a stupid game to him.

“I looked him in the eye and said, ‘Just one more thing.’ He said, ‘Name it, and it’s yours.’ The court was dying to see what I would ask for. I think they were expecting me to say a chariot full of candy or some stupid childish thing like that.

“I said, ‘Swear to me that I can stay a virgin forever, that no man will ever have me.’

“He was quiet. Hera said, ‘You told her she could have whatever she wanted.’ Zeus said, ‘So I did. I swear it.’ I told him to say the whole thing. He did. He swore a divine oath that I could remain a virgin forever, and that no man would ever have me. I knew – in my mind, anyway – that even if he wanted to, no matter how hard he tried, the Fates would never allow him to break that oath.

“Then he hugged me, which was as horribly creepy as it sounds, and said, ‘Who needs Hera when other goddesses give me daughters like this?’ It was the best thing he could’ve done to make every woman in his family hate me, which I’m sure was the point. That and reminding me that swearing to a technicality didn’t stop him from being the person he is.

“As soon as he let me go, I ran away like a bat out of Tartarus. I reported to the Cyclops for my new bow and quiver. They were ready. I ran to the edge of the castle plateau and leaped off the mountain. I was strong and athletic even then, and I nailed my landing, so I wasn’t hurt. I landed near a river. I followed it until I came to a forest teeming with wild game. I claimed the river bank for my camp and the forest for my hunting ground. I spent the next week running around the forest shooting as many arrows into as many oak trees as I possibly could.” Zeus’ sacred tree. Yeah, Artemis has no aptitude for the theatrical.

“What was Apollo doing while all of this was going on?” asked Athena.

“The first day, he got his own magic bow and asked Zeus to make him God of Archery,” she laughed. “He wanted to join me on my shooting spree. I wanted to be alone. I tried to hide my bruises and scars, but Apollo saw them anyway. Then we both discovered our healing powers and were named God and Goddess of Healing. Apollo was distracted again by inventing healing potions. I had a different idea. I figured if I had the power to heal, I must also have the power to destroy.

“So I went on a killing spree. I went to every city where Zeus had a temple. Anyone who beat a child, any man who looked at a girl the wrong way, dead. I got some with my arrows, some with instant plague, but they all died pretty quickly. I named myself the Protector of Maidens. I expected Apollo to try to stop me, but he ended up joining me. He said boys needed a divine protector, too.”

“You’ve never talked about that killing spree,” said Athena. “I’ve heard rumors, of course, but I never knew what triggered it, and I never did figure out what stopped it.”

“You promise not to tell a soul, living or dead?” said Artemis.

“I promise.”

“Mom found us. She begged us to stop, and said that if things were that bad at Olympus, she’d either take us away or come live at the Court so she could protect us. We knew neither one of those options would keep her safe from Zeus or Hera, so we cooled off and convinced her that things were fine and we were just working off some adolescent rebellion. Mom went back into hiding, we were welcomed back to Olympus, and that was the last time we saw her.

“The next time I was mostly alone with Hera, she said, ‘People are asking why I beat you. I’ve told them it’s none of their business.’ I said, ‘I’ll keep your secret if you keep mine.’ She agreed. Neither of us have broken that agreement.

“I’m sure it’s obvious to you that this incident wasn’t a striking departure of character for anyone involved. And, like I said, swearing to a technicality didn’t turn Zeus into a different person. Nothing about living with him really changed. But he did swear that oath, and, in spite of the fear I’ve lived with every day, every moment, since then, the Fates have never let him break it.

“And things did get a little better. Later that year, we met the Muses, so Apollo finally had some friends. I started my band of virgin huntresses. Persephone decided I wasn’t too lame to hang out with once I got closer to her age. Thalia introduced me and Apollo to her then-boyfriend Hephaestus, who hadn’t gotten around to telling her that he was the son of Hera yet, so we had a secret weapon supplier.

“And then I met you,” Artemis said. Those five words were so simple, but anyone could see that, to Artemis, they meant the lighthouse in a hurricane. The first cool wind at the end of a long, oppressive summer. The happily ever after. “And even though I was so messed up that it would take me hundreds of years too long to figure it out,” she went on, “I fell in love with you.

“One moment of epiphany can’t heal a lifetime of pain. I’ve committed to healing, but it’s going to be a lot of work, and it’s going to take a long time. Maybe a few more centuries. Maybe eternity. I don’t know how much of myself I’ll ever be able to give anyone. But whatever that is, I want to give it to you, Athena. Because I love you.” There was a moment of silence, with Artemis tensed in anxious uncertainty, and Athena maintaining the same restrained caution she had throughout most of Artemis’ story. “You can talk now,” Artemis coaxed. “Please say something.”

“I don’t know what to say,” said Athena, “except that I love you, too. Not like a sister, and not like a friend. Part of me wants to take you in my arms right now and not let go for a hundred years. The wiser part can see how much you’ve been hurt, and wants to give you the freedom to take things as slowly as you need to. For now it’s enough to hear you say you’re in love with me and to say it back to you. I love you. Artemis, I’ve loved you for so long.”

Artemis reached a timid, unsteady hand toward Athena’s face. Athena’s lips parted and she trembled with anticipation. With a shaky confidence, Artemis pulled Athena toward her, and the two virgin goddesses shared a slow, gentle, chaste, passionate, tearful, and overwhelmingly happy first kiss.

No way the Fates were telling me I didn’t do that.

“Athena?” Artemis said once she finally had her face back.

“Yes?”

“The story I told you — you understand that it was in absolute confidence, right?”

“Of course!” Athena affirmed. “It must have taken so much courage for you to share it with me, and I’m so grateful you did. I’d never think of telling anyone else.”

“Thanks,” said Artemis, “especially Apollo. Please don’t tell him. I did everything I could to protect him from that part of growing up on Olympus. The fact that it happened to me, not him, is one of my few consolations about those years. Besides, if he knew, you know he’d do something stupid.”

“I understand,” said Athena, “completely. And, honey, you know I’m the Goddess of Wisdom and Strategy, and I’m not going to do anything that’ll put us in danger.”

“Yes, and I love that about you.”

“But I’m going to be watching and planning for my moment,” said Athena. “I don’t care if it takes a hundred years or a thousand years, but when that moment comes, I swear by the Fates, I will make Zeus pay. For everything.”

Artemis kissed her again. When they parted, she said, “I know you will.”

Okay. I did not see that coming.

I went a little way into the forest, took off my helmet, and teleported to the Muse pavilion. There was no event going on just then so none of my sisters were there. Apollo was. I wasn’t sure whether or not I was happy to see him, or whether or not I was happy to see him alone.

“Hey,” he greeted me with a smile of equal uncertainty.

“Hey,” I half-waved back, sitting down in my customized chair. “Where’s Adonis?” I asked.

“He’s supposed to meet me here in a little while,” he said. “He wanted to spend some time alone with Persephone.”

“That’s nice,” I replied. Yeah. With Persephone. That’s where the little two-timer was.

Apollo broke the ensuing silence by laughing, “What’s that look?”

“What look?” I was completely unaware of any look.

“I don’t know. You’re looking at me funny, like you heard some bad news about me that I haven’t heard yet.”

I wanted to put off the inevitable as long as possible, so I quickly scanned my brain for something to say besides, Oh, nothing, your boyfriend never actually broke up with his girlfriend, that’s all. “I had a dream about you the other night,” was the first alternative that came to mind.

“Please tell me it wasn’t one of those kinds of dreams,” he teased.

“No! No, definitely not. Um, actually, it was about Marsyas.”

“Oh,” said Apollo, his levity gone.

“You know, back then I didn’t really understand why you did what you did, but now I think I do,” I said. “I didn’t see what he was threatening. You recognized it right away, though, didn’t you?”

Instantly, he went on the defensive. His transformed demeanor startled me. “That never happened to me, do you understand?” he said emphatically.

“Of course,” I nodded.

“No one ever touched me. Not even when I was growing up on Olympus. Sure, Ares made extremely graphic threats every time he saw me, and Zeus would look,” he said, unable to completely suppress a slight shudder, “but that was as far as it ever went. Do you understand that?”

“I understand,” I assured him.

“Just ogling and taunting. That was the worst that was ever done to me. And maybe some accidental groping here and there, but I was never…that never happened to me. I want to be very sure we’re clear on that.”

“Clear as crystal.”

“I’m sorry, I’ve probably said too much.”

“Maybe you said something you needed to say,” I tried to comfort him. “You know, if you ever need to talk about anything, I’m good at sitting quietly and pretending to listen while I’m plotting stuff.”

“No, I already said more than I needed to,” Apollo insisted. “And do me a favor, don’t repeat any of this conversation to anyone. Especially not Artemis. The stuff when we were growing up — she knew about Ares, but Zeus would only do it when she wasn’t around. I never told her because I was afraid she’d get hurt trying to punish him. At least he never did it to her. I always tried to draw his attention away from her whenever I could. Knowing it wasn’t happening to her was a small consolation. But, really, promise you won’t say anything. Forget we had this conversation. Please.”

“I will.”

I’d try, anyway. But I couldn’t help thinking that maybe Athena had the right idea.

Adonis did come. As soon as he did, I left. I’d have to see him the next night at the big Muse showdown, so I could certainly wait until then.

At the final Muse competition, we had a full crowd on the pavilion. Zeus and Hera were both in attendance. Their seating arrangements weren’t as extremely separated as they had been at the last Games. This year they consented to both being on the actual pavilion. Their thrones were, however, situated at opposite ends thereof.

Aphrodite was there with Ares as her escort. She didn’t acknowledge Adonis when they entered. She and Adonis were seated on opposite side of us, anyway. Seating arrangements are always tedious things among the Olympians. You have to give due honor to everyone’s rank, satisfy everyone’s ego, and make sure no one’s sitting next to whoever they’re not speaking to at the moment.

For this event, everyone was arranged around the nine front and center seats, each of which bore the name of a Muse. Calliope was our right bookend. To her right were Artemis, Athena, Eris, Ares, Aphrodite, Aglaea, Dionysus, Hermes, and Zeus. Urania, who sat next to me, was the left bookend. To her left were Apollo, Adonis, Demeter, Persephone, Hephaestus, and Hera.

Why, you may ask, were Aglaea and Hephaestus not sitting together? Aphrodite had pitched a fit about wanting to sit with her BFF, and Hera wanted her son on her side of the pavilion since Ares and Eris were on Zeus’ side. Hebe and Ilithyia were sitting out the Games as usual. Hephaestus and Aglaea, being the non-confrontational types that they are, decided it wasn’t worth the effort to challenge either Aphrodite or Hera. Eros and Psyche had the row behind us to themselves, so they had offered to take Euphrosyne during the competition.

It was almost curtain time. Eris was the only one who hadn’t shown up. I nearly dared to hope that she wouldn’t.

No such luck. Not only did Eris come, she was holding Apollo’s bow and arrow. “I found these, but I don’t know whose they are,” she declared. “First I thought they were yours,” she said to Eros, “but I stabbed someone with the arrow and he didn’t fall in love or anything, he just laid down and screamed. Then I thought they might be yours,” she said to Apollo, “but they couldn’t be, because you’re sitting with him,” she motioned to Adonis. “Then I thought they might be yours,” she said to Artemis, “but they couldn’t be, because you’re grounded. I guess they aren’t anybody’s, so I’ll keep them.”

“Sis was always the brains of the family,” Ares beamed.

“Hello,” said Hephaestus.

“‘Sup?” Ares waved back to him.

“Eris, I think those are mine,” said Apollo. “Can I see them?”

“I just told you, they can’t be yours,” said Eris. “My logic was excellent. Wasn’t it, Mom?”

“Just hand him his weapons, please,” Hera said with the resignation of a mother who’s given up on the possibility of a relaxing, enjoyable evening. “Carefully.”

“First I want to make sure they’re his,” Eris protested, clutching the bow and arrow to her chest. “Were you at Persephone’s Doom today?”

“No, but that doesn’t mean my bow wasn’t,” said Apollo, holding out his hand.

“I didn’t think you were,” said Eris. She turned to Artemis. “Were you at Persephone’s Doom today?”

“I was a lot of places in my hunting grounds today,” Artemis answered.

“Did you take this bow and arrow with you?” Eris persisted.

“I didn’t shoot anything,” said Artemis.

“But did you have this bow and arrow with you?”

“I didn’t shoot anything,” Artemis repeated.

“I know what happened,” Eris concluded, quite delighted with herself. “You,” she said to Apollo, “lent these to your boyfriend, and he forgot to bring them back.” She awarded the bow and arrow to Apollo.

“Yes,” said Apollo, once the bow was safely slung on his shoulder and the arrow was under his seat. He must have gathered from Artemis’ answers that she had taken the bow and arrow. I doubted he had any suspicion whatsoever as to the reason. He probably figured she was going stir-crazy and just wanted to hunt. “Next time you go hunting, please don’t leave my bow lying around,” Apollo gently admonished Adonis. “In fact, Hephaestus, can you make him his own bow and quiver? It’s on me.”

“Sure.” Hephaestus snapped up a slip of paper and a quill, made a note, stuck it in his pocket, and muttered something about how much he loved taking work orders on his own time.

“You don’t have to do that,” Femdonis played along. “I promise it won’t happen again. In the meantime, punish me however you see fit.” Apollo blushed at the implication. I gagged.

“Can we all sit down and watch the show now, please?” Calliope brought the crowd to order.

“Yes, let’s,” said Apollo.

“Eris, sit down,” Hera commanded, seeing her daughter had no intention of heeding Calliope’s direction.

“I don’t want to sit down yet,” said Eris.

“Zeus, make her sit down and be quiet,” Hera said, looking straight ahead at the stage rather than at Zeus.

“She’s not hurting anything, are you, Princess?” Zeus replied with indulgent laughter.

“She’s holding up the show. You make her sit down.”

“Eris,” said Zeus, “your mom wants you to sit down.”

“Oh, thank you; cast me as the villain!” Hera scowled.

“I don’t want to,” said Eris. “This is more fun than theater.”

“Of course it is, but you know how your mom gets when she’s mad,” Zeus chided.

“Fine,” Eris conceded. But as she was getting seated, she remarked to Aphrodite, “I didn’t know you liked hunting.”

“Me neither,” said Ares. “We should go sometime.”

“Who says I like hunting?” said Aphrodite.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Calliope announced to the crowd in her stadium voice. “We welcome you to the Muses’ Finale.”

The competition got underway. Calliope’s entry was first, then Clio’s. Then it was time for Erato’s contestant, the breakout lyric poetess. I glanced over at Artemis and Athena. Artemis smiled and discreetly took Athena’s hand. Athena was in Elysia.

The poetess strummed the opening measures of a pleasant song. But suddenly, the tune and the meter changed. Her eyes turned white. Her whole bearing transformed. I looked down the row to Erato, as did my sisters, but Erato was obviously as confused as I was. Then I looked to Apollo.

Apollo can have a vision without any noticeable giveaways. It’s just more sensory input to him, like hearing or smelling something in the distance. So it must have been the subject matter of this particular vision that had rendered him nearly catatonic. None of us dared disturb him. We turned our attention back to the possessed poetess, who appeared to be functioning as a singing oracle.

“What shall we do, Aphrodite?
Lovely Adonis is dying.
Ah, but we mourn him!

Will he return when the Autumn
Purples the earth, and the sunlight
Sleeps in the vineyard?

Will he return when the Winter
Huddles the sheep, and Orion
Goes to his hunting?

Ah, but thy beauty, Adonis,
With the soft spring and south wind,
Love and desire!”[1]

---

“Don’t you dare say that!” Artemis protested. “There is no one I respect more than Athena. What we have together is above that. She’s above that.”

“Artemis,” Psyche remonstrated, “we’ve talked about this. A lot. It’s not the same thing.” I wondered what Psyche meant by the same thing, but revealing myself to ask was out of the question.

“I know, and what you’ve told me makes sense, but I just can’t think of it as anything but degrading,” said Artemis.

“Think of exactly what you felt when you were with Athena yesterday,” said Psyche. “Do you have that in your mind now?”

“Yes,” Artemis sighed. She closed her eyes. I could still tell she was rolling them. I got the idea that she and Psyche had been doing such exercises more frequently than Artemis preferred.

“Not just this new feeling, but that plus everything you’ve told me about Athena. How much you admire and respect her, and how much happier you are when you’re with her than when you aren’t.”

“Got it,” Artemis nodded. She leaned against a shelf in an indifferent stance, with both her arms and legs crossed.

“Now imagine Athena feeling all of those things about you,” Psyche directed. “Does that feel degrading?”

Artemis broke her concentration. She turned her back on Psyche to hide her obvious discomposure. “Why?” her voice broke. “What we had was perfect. Why would she let something like this screw it up?”

“If you both want this and you’re both available,” Psyche asked, “how is it screwing anything up?”

“I don’t want to have sex,” said Artemis.

“Forget about sex for now,” said Psyche. “What about love?”

“I already loved her. The way I loved her before was better.”

“Why?”

“Because I loved her soul. That’s a much higher, purer form of love than wanting someone’s body.”

“Those things aren’t mutually exclusive,” said Psyche. “Can you honestly tell me that you don’t love her soul anymore, or that you’d want her body if there were a different soul inside it?”

“I don’t want to sleep with Athena!” Artemis snapped. “Will you quit saying that?

“Actually, you’re the one who keeps saying that,” Psyche calmly replied.

“Athena deserves to be honored and revered,” said Artemis. “She’s a goddess of immeasurable power and beauty. She’s indomitable. She’s above being possessed.”

“There you go again,” said Psyche, whose calm was starting to erode ever so slightly. “Dominion. Possession. We’ve talked about this so many times. And what about what Athena wants? Have you ever given that any thought? Why do you get to decide how she should be loved? Doesn’t this indomitable goddess of immeasurable power have any agency? What if what she wants more than anything is for an equally indomitable goddess of equal power to – in a spirit of mutual love and respect – work her over like a fallow field in planting season?”

“Don’t you ever talk about her like that again!” Artemis roared. “I would shred your wings right now if I didn’t know it would mean more weeks of this torture.”

“Alright, let’s forget about Athena. Let’s get back to you. What do you want?”

“I want to not have to deal with any of this,” said Artemis. “It’s all more trouble than it’s worth.”

“Whether or not you deal with it is your choice,” said Psyche. “You can work through this and live a well-rounded, functional, healthy adult life, or you can stay stuck at the edge of puberty forever.”

“Said the eternal seventeen-year-old,” Artemis replied, unimpressed.

“You know, I hear how people talk about me,” said Psyche. “I know everyone says only a teenager would be stupid enough to say the things I say to the gods and goddesses. Well, maybe that’s why the Fates turned me into a goddess when they did instead of waiting five or ten years. Maybe you need someone stupid enough to say the things that I know need to be said.”

“And you think I need to be told to grow up? Have you listened to a single thing I’ve told you about my life? I had to grow up the second I was born. I was my mother’s midwife at my twin brother’s birth. I spent most of my childhood months on the run in the most desolate parts of our world, places you don’t even know exist. I was the size of a six-year-old human when I killed my first monster. And when we came to the Olympian Court, you think Zeus was any kind of parent? Or Hera? Do you think Eris babysat us and Ares helped us with our homework? As soon as Apollo and I were taken from our mother, I became both of our mothers. And you’re telling me to grow up because the thought of sleeping with my best friend is repulsive to me?”

“Growing up is a linear process,” said Psyche, steady again, but forceful now. “You start as an infant, from there you become a child, then an adolescent, and then an adult. Your process was accelerated, interrupted, and convoluted in so many ways that, yes, I’m saying you never had a chance to grow up. You never got to be a baby who needed her mom to hold her and make everything okay. Or a little girl sitting on her daddy’s lap, knowing he would always love her and protect her. Or a teenage girl looking at that special person, not quite sure where this crazy new feeling was coming from, but just knowing that all she wants is to hold that person in her arms forever.”

“So?” said Artemis. “You only get one shot at childhood. It’s too late for all that. My mother’s gone, my father’s a sociopath, end of story.”

“You have Athena,” Psyche quietly reminded her.

“Athena deserves better than to get sucked into this screwed-up mess.”

“Whatever she deserves, I’m pretty sure she wants you.”

“She doesn’t know everything about me.”

“If there’s something you think she needs to know, why don’t you tell her?” Psyche urged. “If nothing else, she is your best friend. She’ll listen. She won’t judge.”

“I know,” Artemis sighed. “She’ll just care. I don’t want to burden her.”

“Still the protector,” said Psyche. “If a monster were charging at Athena, you’d be right to shoot it, but you can’t make yourself responsible for protecting her emotions. Her emotional well-being isn’t your responsibility. But yours is, and it’s the one thing you’re refusing to take care of.”

“I guess something has to give,” said Artemis.

“You feel tired,” Psyche observed.

“No kidding,” said Artemis.

“Why don’t you spend the rest of the day at home?” Psyche suggested. “Or, you know what, if you want to, why don’t you go for a walk in your forest? No one should bother you. Your hunters are all at the Games.”

“I might do that later,” Artemis agreed. “For now, I just want to lie down.”

“We’ll talk more tomorrow,” Psyche promised.

“Of course we will.”

Artemis disappeared.

As soon as Psyche was facing the opposite direction, I rolled under the tent flap. I walked around the grounds in my helmet for awhile, taking in the atmosphere and ignoring it at the same time. As much as I tried to convince myself otherwise, I couldn’t escape the obvious: Artemis wasn’t happy. Not only was she unhappy, she was deliberately resisting happiness. Was my revocation the cause? I didn’t see how it could be. Nothing Artemis and Psyche were talking about had anything to do with killing Adonis or not. And Adonis most definitely deserved to die. Apollo was about to get his heart broken whether or not Adonis lived. Adonis might as well pay for it.

Well, enough self-indulgent contemplation. It was time to judge another round of theater competitions.

Apollo was there to judge the lyric poetry competition, too. His date was with him. That was no surprise. But Artemis’ presence was.

“Hi,” I greeted her, ignoring Apollo and Adonis. “Here to watch the show?”

“Here to ditch my therapist and remind Apollo he has a sister,” she half-smiled. “If the music is any good, that’ll be a bonus.”

“I’m glad you decided to come,” Apollo said to her. “It’d be nice if you and Adonis got to know each other.”

“You know I’m terrible at small talk,” Artemis replied with a terse smile at her brother’s inamorato. “Is comparing body counts a good ice breaker?”

“My body count is one,” Adonis smiled back. “What’s yours?”

“You’ve killed someone already?” Apollo said with disturbed incredulity.

“Oh, is that what she meant?” Adonis giggled.

“Let’s please not go there,” Apollo gently warned as he placed a pacifying hand on Artemis’ stiff arm.

“I’m sorry,” said the penitent young demigod. “And, Artemis, as long as you’re happy, I think it’s fine that you’re still a virgin. I mean, I couldn’t do it, but I admire your self-discipline.”

“I am happy,” was Artemis’ adamant reply. “Thank you.” You condescending, self-important little prick, her eyes silently added.

I truly could not see how getting to kill this guy would result in anything but happiness for Artemis.

“I don’t know much about lyric poetry,” Adonis said to Apollo. Of course he didn’t, the mindless ignorant himbo. “What makes it different from other kinds?”

“It’s really more a form of music since it’s written to be self-accompanied on a lyre or a kithara,” Apollo explained. “Lyric; lyre. We call it poetry to emphasize the words, though. While epic poetry tells a story and focuses on actions and events, lyric poetry is all about the feelings of the poet.”

“So it’s love songs?” Adonis summarized.

“There are plenty of other feelings to write about, but love tends to be the most common,” Apollo acknowledged. “New love, requited love, heartbreak, the whole spectrum. Looks like the show’s about to start.”

I would’ve had to walk past several people to get to my assigned seat, so I just sat down next to Artemis to avoid creating a disturbance. Thankfully, Artemis didn’t seem to mind.

My sister Erato opened the event and introduced the first contestant. The mortal poetess took center stage with her lyre and began her song.

“Peer of the gods he seems,
Who in thy presence
Sits and hears close to him
Thy silver speech-tones
And lovely laughter.

Ah, but the heart flutters
Under my bosom,
When I behold thee
Even a moment;
Utterance leaves me.”

Adonis leaned into Apollo. Apollo put an arm around him and kissed him on the cheek. I deliberately looked away from them and focused on the performer.

“My tongue is useless;
A subtle fire
Runs through my body;
My eyes are sightless,
And my ears ringing.”

Sometimes I really hate lyric poetry.

“I flush with fever,
And a strong trembling
Lays hold upon me;
Paler than grass am I,
Half dead for madness.”

A small, sharp sound caught my ear. It was Artemis, valiantly choking back sobs, and vainly trying to blink back the tears that were dropping down her cheeks. And I realized that, like pretty much everyone else does within their first couple decades of existence, Artemis was getting lyric poetry for the first time.

“Yet must I, greatly
Daring, adore thee,
As the adventurous
Sailor makes seaward
For the lost sky-line

And undiscovered
Fabulous islands,
Drawn by the lure of
Beauty and summer
And the sea’s secret.”[1]

I do not get lyric poetry.

“Excellent lyrics,” Erato praised the poetess. “Good form, good expression. You are definitely going on to the next round. Apollo, anything you want to add?”

“Your self-accompaniment was superb,” said Apollo. “The music was a strong, but not overpowering, support for the lyrics. If anyone doesn’t know what falling in love feels like, they will after they hear your song. Brava.”

“Thank you, my Lord and Lady,” the poetess bowed to the judges.

Artemis whispered something to Apollo. Apollo nodded, though he looked surprised. He announced to the contestant, “My sister, the Lady Artemis, would like to commend your poem. Artemis?”

Artemis stood. “That was incredible,” she said to the poetess. “That was the most beautiful, perfect thing I’ve ever heard in my life. How did you do it?”

“With the blessing of my Muse, of course,” the poetess acknowledged my sister Erato with proper humility.

“But the things you wrote about,” Artemis persisted. “You’ve felt all those things?”

“Yes, My Lady, as have all who have been touched by the Seafoam Goddess.”

“Thank you.”

As the judging continued, I heard Artemis say quietly to Apollo, “Does everyone really feel that? Did you feel that every time?”

“Every time,” Apollo confirmed. “I’ve always sort of envied your immunity to those feelings.”

“What does it feel like when you follow them?” she asked. “Like, when the other person feels the same way about you and it works?”

“When I find out, I’ll let you know.”

“And what about when it doesn’t work?”

“Be grateful you’ll never have to find out.”

“Is that poem how you feel about Adonis?”

“What’s with the sudden interest in feelings?” Apollo laughed. “Is Psyche getting to you?”

“Is it?” she persisted.

“Yes, it is,” Apollo said, with a confidence and conviction that made me hate that poem way more than I already did.

Artemis came back the next day because she liked spending time with her brother and totally not to hear the poetess again. The poetess didn’t disappoint.

“Softer than the hill-fog to the forest
Are the loving hands of my dear lover,
When she sleeps beside me in the starlight
And her beauty drenches me with rest.

As the quiet mist enfolds the beech-trees,
Even as she dreams her arms enfold me,
Half awakening with a hundred kisses
On the scarlet lily of her mouth.”[2]

Or the day after that:

“I shall be ever maiden
If thou be not my lover,
And no man shall possess me
Henceforth and forever.

But thou alone shalt gather
This fragile flower of beauty,—
To crush and keep the fragrance
Like a holy incense.

Thou only shalt remember
This love of mine, or hallow
The coming year with gladness,
Calm and pride and passion.”[3]

Artemis was enthralled by this woman’s poetry. She’d listen with undivided attention, sometimes in tears, sometimes nodding, like, Yes! That’s it, exactly! How did you know? On the seventh day of the Games, Artemis was there waiting for the last round of the lyric poetry tournament. Maybe, I snarked to myself, Athena should’ve gone to Erato in the first place and spared me this whole damned summer.

Hmm…

“Erato,” I grabbed my sister as soon as the event was at a break. “Can we go home for a minute? I need to ask you for a favor. In private.”

“Can it wait ’til the poetry tournament’s over?”

“No, it really can’t. Please? Just a couple minutes?”

“Alright,” she conceded, knowing I’d keep badgering her until she gave up anyway.

We teleported to our empty throne room. “What’s so important?” she asked.

“You know that poetess that everyone’s in love with?”

“She’s wonderful, isn’t she? People are going to remember her poems for thousands of years.”

“I want you to give her a new one for the next round.”

“But I haven’t directly inspired any of her poems, or any of the other contestants’. You know how I feel about that.”

“Just hear me out. Let’s say this woman, this really powerful woman who could do horrible things to me if she wanted to, was in love with this other woman who could also do horrible things to me, but she couldn’t tell her. So she chokes down her pride and beseeches Aphrodite to get the two of them together. And Aphrodite wants nothing more than to make that happen. Wouldn’t that make a great poem?”

“Thalia, are you in trouble?” Erato suspected.

“In trouble? Me? Why would you think that, silly person?”

Erato appeared unconvinced. “That does sound like a good story, but why don’t you just get one of your playwrights to turn it into a romantic comedy?”

“Maybe I wasn’t clear about the part where all the characters involved could do horrible things to me if they wanted to.”

Erato shook her head. “I don’t know what’s going on, and I do not want to, but it does sound like a great premise. I’ll see what I can do.”

We went back to the pavilion for the final round of the lyric poetry tournament. The poetess in question was up last.

“O Aphrodite,
God-born and deathless,
Break not my spirit
With bitter anguish;
Thou wilful empress,
I pray thee, hither!

As once aforetime
Well thou didst hearken
To my voice far off,—
Listen, and leaving
Thy guardian’s golden
House in yoked chariot,

Come, thy fleet sparrows
Beating the mid-air
Over the dark earth.
Suddenly near me,
Smiling, immortal,
Thy bright regard asked

What had befallen,—
Why I had called thee,—
What my mad heart then
Most was desiring.
‘What fair thing wouldst thou
Lure now to love thee?

Who wrongs thee, Lady?
If now she flies thee,
Soon shall she follow;—
Scorning thy gifts now,
Soon be the giver;—
And a loth loved one

Soon be the lover.’
So even now, too,
Come and release me
From mordant love pain
And all my heart’s will
Help me accomplish!”[4]

The crowd loved it. Artemis loved it. Erato was immensely pleased with herself. Adonis looked upset at the mention of Aphrodite. Apollo was comforting the duplicitous backstabber. The sight made me physically ill. I told myself that it would be over soon enough. I’d show the Fates. If all went according to plan, Erato’s unwitting blessing would wrap things up for Athena and Artemis, and I wouldn’t have to re-invoke mine. I’d have my happy ending and eat it, too.

As a good experimenter, I had to observe the subject of my experiment. So when the event was over, I donned my helmet and followed Artemis. She walked around until she found Athena near a textile merchant’s stall. Both goddesses were invisible to mortals.

“What have you been up to?” Athena asked, barely looking up from the fabric she was perusing.

“Not much,” said Artemis. “Getting tortured by Psyche, spending time with my brother, watching the Games. I found out I like lyric poetry. I mean, I’ve heard it before, of course, but I never really noticed it until now. It’s weird, isn’t it, how something can be there all the time, and one day it hits you all of a sudden that you lo- like it, a lot, and you’ve always liked it a lot, you just couldn’t see your own feelings?”

“I’ve never paid much attention to lyric poetry,” said Athena. “I prefer the epic stuff.”

“Because half the time it’s about you?” Artemis laughed.

“That’s possible.”

“You want to go for a walk?” Artemis invited. “My forest should be empty. All my hunters are here.”

“Sure,” Athena accepted. They teleported away. I teleported to Artemis’ camp, hoping that was their landing point. It was.

Artemis glanced down at Athena’s left hand like it was a fascinating, volatile curiosity. She timidly approached it with her right. Athena took Artemis’ hand. They headed down a path through the forest together. I floated along behind them, careful not to brush against any branches, brambles, or tall grasses.

After a few minutes of semi-awkward silence, Athena said, “So. Lyric poetry?”

“I always thought it was kind of stupid,” said Artemis, “but some of it is really amazing.”

“Like?”

Artemis cleared her throat and quietly sang part of the poetess’ last entry.

“What fair thing wouldst thou
Lure now to love thee?
Who wrongs thee, Lady?
If now she flies thee,
Soon shall she follow;—
Scorning thy gifts now,
Soon be the giver;—
And a loth loved one
Soon be the lover.”[5]

Wow. Artemis could sing.

“I like that,” said Athena. “You know, I always thought you had the talent to be a theater goddess.”

“It just never interested me,” said Artemis. “Besides, I had to give Apollo something,” she laughed.

“I’ll bet he’s missed you lately,” said Athena.

“I don’t know,” said Artemis. “He’s been so obsessed with Persephone’s son, I don’t know if he even noticed I was gone. I guess he really was sleeping with Aphrodite?”

“Adonis? I don’t know,” Athena shrugged. “Probably. I honestly don’t get the big deal about him. In fact, I’ve been wondering if the rest of the Court’s obsession with him is supernaturally induced, because I don’t see any natural cause for it.” Now, there was an interesting thought. But if it were true, I must be immune, too. I certainly hadn’t been obsessed with the little skank. I barely acknowledged his existence. I was, in fact, happy to end his existence.

“Well, if that is his power,” said Artemis, “I must be immune, too. Unfortunately, my brother has proven pretty susceptible. Did you know they’re semi-official now?”

“No. When did that happen?”

“The last few days. He says Aphrodite dumped him. Are you as shocked as I was?”

“Stunned,” Athena laughed.

“Apollo’s head over heels for him,” said Artemis. “You know how he gets. All tender and protective and gallant.” She was quiet for a minute. “Athena,” she came to an abrupt stop as she broke the silence, “there’s something I need to tell you.”

“What is it?” Athena said, her breath catching in her throat.

“You were right about Callisto.” Um, maybe not the direction she should have taken the conversation.

“What about her?”

“Before I set her in the sky, she told me she was in love with me. You kept trying to tell me she was, and I wouldn’t listen. I’m sorry.”

“You’re forgiven,” said Athena, relieved. “We all have our blind spots.”

“And I think you were right about me having feelings for her, too,” said Artemis. Yeah, definitely the wrong direction.

“I’m so glad you decided to tell me,” said Athena. Methinks hidden in the night sky was a good place for Callisto to be right about then.

“I felt like I should,” said Artemis, oblivious to the scathing sarcasm dripping from Athena’s words like blood from a Maenad’s chin. “It was stupid and inappropriate and unprofessional, and if I’d seen it from the start, maybe things would have turned out differently, but I didn’t. I…I think maybe you’ve always known my feelings better than I’ve known them myself.”

“I don’t know how you feel about continuing this conversation,” said Athena, “but I’d rather not.”

“Athena, please.”

“I can’t take this anymore!” Athena protested. “You’re the best friend I could possibly ask for, and I must be the most selfish person alive to want even more from you, but I do. I want so much more. I’ve always comforted myself with the thought that you were giving me everything you could possibly give anyone, but I guess that wasn’t true.”

“I have been giving you everything I could give.”

“Everything except your feelings for Callisto, feelings you’ve never been able to muster up for me,” said Athena. “What was it about her? Is it because she’s shorter than me? Smaller? Less powerful? Did her minuscule cleavage let you imagine she was a boy?”

“Athena!”

“Was it the way she adored you, and couldn’t keep her eyes off you, and lavished you with attention whenever you were around her? I wish I’d known that’s what you wanted. You have no idea how much I’ve always held back. Artemis, you are the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen. More beautiful than Aphrodite, than Hera, even than me. And you’re so much more than beautiful. You’re strong, brave, compassionate. You just do what you feel is right no matter how anyone else might react or how much you might get hurt. Knowing you exist makes me happier. So many times, when I’m with you I feel like my breastplate is the only thing keeping my heart inside my chest. I’ve wanted to tell you these things all my life, but I never did because I didn’t want to scare you.”

“You are kind of scaring me now,” Artemis said.

“But Callisto didn’t.”

“You know what? Forget it. Maybe you’re right. Maybe we never should have had this conversation.”

“Fine with me,” said Athena. She disappeared. Artemis collapsed onto a fallen log, propped her head in her hands, and cried like I’d never seen her cry before. I half expected her eyeballs to float out on the waterfalls of tears.

And I was struck by how freakin’ much she looked like her brother.

I thought of the image in the Fates’ tapestry of Apollo mourning over Adonis’ corpse. I remembered him crying for Coronis, Chione, and all the others. As much as their betrayals had hurt him, the pain of their deaths had been worse. Most of all, I thought of the one I knew Apollo would see and always had seen in Adonis: Hyacinthus. The enchanting young mortal prince who had captured Apollo’s heart and, unlike most who had come before and would come after him, came pretty close to deserving it. We had all mourned along with Apollo when another god murdered Hyacinthus out of jealousy. The one lover who had stayed adamantly faithful to Apollo, killed for his fidelity.

How, I wondered, could I have even considered causing Apollo that kind of pain? Or at least refusing to spare him when such a thing might be in my power? Fates, I called out in my mind, I still have absolutely no idea what one has to do with the other, but I can’t let Artemis kill Adonis. I offer my blessing again. By all the power I have, whatever that is, may Artemis and Athena live happily ever after.

I didn’t know whether the Fates would accept my revocation. They hadn’t said anything about a number of mind-changes allowed, only that I had to make my choice by the end of the Games. Tomorrow was the last day. All I could do now was hope for the best.

Maybe my blessing was starting to work already. Artemis’ cries were going from full-blown wailing to sharp, intermittent sobs. She wiped her face with her arm, stood up, and started walking further into the woods. Her stride was slow, steady, and contemplative.

I don’t know how long I followed her. Maybe an hour, maybe more. But eventually, we came to the edge of Persephone’s Doom.

Where, in the broad afternoon sun, sat Adonis and Aphrodite.

Artemis spotted them before I did. Her instant change in demeanor was what put me on alert. She crouched behind a tree, her eyes intent, her muscles tensed.

“Aren’t you finished with him yet?” we heard Aphrodite plead.

“You know what a gentleman he is,” Adonis lamented. “I thought for sure I’d have gotten him in bed by now, but he doesn’t want to take advantage of me. Tonight, if all goes well.”

“And if it doesn’t?” Aphrodite said with a marked lack of patience.

Adonis kissed her. “What does it matter?” he laughed. “We don’t have to really be apart in the meantime, I just have to keep him convinced we are.”

Laughter was followed by more kissing, which was soon accompanied by groping. Do I have to spell out where things were heading?

If Adonis survived two-timing Apollo and being found out by Artemis, he’d be the first. And for some idiotic reason, I was determined to help the bitch earn that distinction. I kept my mind on the image of Apollo’s anguish, forcing myself not to make yet another revocation. Artemis instinctively reached for her bow and arrow. Both were absent. She growled a curse under her breath. Zeus, I recalled, had confiscated her bow and quiver and was keeping them out of her reach. Was that my blessing at work?

A bow and a single arrow appeared in Artemis’ hands. This wasn’t her own golden bow. She had commandeered Apollo’s silver one, and one of his arrows. I imagined Apollo’s grief and horror at finding Adonis shot to death with his own bow and arrow. I couldn’t let that come to pass if there was any way for me to prevent it. As Artemis fitted the arrow’s shaft to the bowstring, I floated around to block her, ready to stop the arrow with my own body if I had to.

The Divine Huntress stalked her prey as she had so many others for the same crime. This was business as usual for her. Her fierce eyes bore into her target. Her supple arm drew back the bowstring. But then, just as I situated myself perfectly in her line of fire, something in her countenance changed. I panicked. Had she detected me somehow? What would she do if she found me out?

“My brother’s happiness,” Artemis whispered what had to be Psyche’s words, “is not my responsibility.” Carefully, contemplatively, she relaxed her bowstring. “My happiness is my responsibility.” She let the bow and the arrow fall to the ground.

She sprinted back the way she’d come. I did my best to keep up. I can’t float very fast, but I was at least able to keep her in my visual range. She stopped when she reached the place Athena had left her. Before long, Athena appeared beside her.

“Look, I’m sorry,” Artemis said to her. “I’m not great with words. You know that. And I’m so bad at understanding my own feelings, it’s no wonder I can’t make anyone else understand them. But I want you to understand,” she frantically explained. “You know me better than anyone else, even better than my brother, but there’s so much I’ve been keeping from you. I was just trying to protect you, but I can see now that I’ve just been hurting you, and I’ve been hurting myself. I want you to know everything. So please, please, promise you’ll stay and listen to everything, no matter how hard this is for you to hear or for me to say.”

Athena took a seat on the fallen log. Artemis sat next to her. Athena set her helmet on the ground by her feet and said, “I promise.”

---

Adonis’ gleaming, statuesque shoulders rose and fell in the waves of grass. I was mesmerized by the sensual, overpowering rhythm. My errand was forgotten. Invisibly, I floated toward the eye of the storm, wanting nothing more than to be swept up in it. Adonis was submerged, and a tidal wave of gold rose in his place as Aphrodite emerged from the vortex. The wave continued to rise and fall. Entranced, I floated to where I could see Aphrodite’s magnificent breasts, two great pink opals set with rubies. I caught a glimpse of her laughing seafoam eyes. I had never seen such perfect happiness in them. I wondered if that was how she always looked when she made love. It was, after all, who she was. Like comedic theater was my forte, this was hers. Pleasure, beauty, luxury, sensuality…love.

Aphrodite was in love.

I know it seems strange that I found that so remarkable. Though Aphrodite had always changed partners the way I change costumes, she always felt a deep affection for them at the moment she was with them. But it was an ephemeral, superficial affection. Even with Ares, her most consistent quarry, she tired of him as easily as she craved him.

Fully satiated, Aphrodite rolled over onto the grass next to Adonis. She laid her head on his chest as he encircled her with his lithe, chiseled arm.

“Stay with me,” Aphrodite murmured.

“We have time,” he comforted, gently fingering the apex of her breast.

“No,” said Aphrodite. “Stay with me forever.”

“Of course,” he said. “No matter how many others there are, you’ll always be my favorite.”

My trance was shattered. What others?

“I don’t want to be your favorite,” Aphrodite said with an unfamiliar earnestness. “I want to be your only.”

The shards of my trance were shattered further.

“Well, that’s a little unfair, isn’t it?” Adonis teased. “Do you really think you could stay with one man forever?”

“I know my heart even when I don’t know anything else,” she said. “I know I could stay with you forever.”

This wasn’t the first time she’d said those words. She’d said them to Hephaestus literally thousands of times during their sham of a marriage. Every time she had, he’d told himself that this time she meant it. She’d said it to Ares, Hermes, and Dionysus, and they’d all said it back to her, knowing each time that it was just a game. She’d said it to hundreds of mortal men who would wake up the next morning and wonder if the night before was only a dream.

So why was my heart telling me that, this time, she really did mean it?

“It still doesn’t seem fair,” Adonis chided. “You’ve had centuries of other men. I’ve only had a month.”

“But I’m me,” Aphrodite laughed. “Why would you need anyone else?”

“You know I love you, but think of when you were my age,” said Adonis. “Could you have committed to one man knowing there was an eternity of beauty and love waiting to be experienced?”

“I never was your age,” she reminded him.

“How do you know? You could’ve lived and forgotten a hundred lifetimes before you came to Greece. Maybe someday you’ll forget this one and wake up in a different land.”

“Don’t be mean,” said Aphrodite.

“It’s called being thoughtful, my love,” he teased her. “You think about these things when you grow up in Hades. Death, rebirth, memories lost, memories gained, it’s all business as usual back home.”

“Well, to an Olympian, it’s horrible,” said Aphrodite. “I like living forever. I like making happy memories and remembering them forever. If I just woke up somewhere and forgot everything, I might as well be one of your Asphodelians, or at least Elysians. It’s not very goddess-like.”

“You have so many memories with so many men,” Adonis remarked, not with jealousy or resentment, but with good-natured wistful envy. “Can’t you understand that I just want the same opportunity? I still love you. I’ll always come back to you, no matter how many others there are. Isn’t that enough?”

“I wish it were, but I don’t want anyone but you anymore,” Aphrodite pleaded. “I can’t tell you how much I wish that weren’t true. I’ve tried to want others. I’ve looked at every mortal at these Games and I don’t feel anything. Even when I look at Ares, I don’t understand what I ever loved about him, and I find myself wishing I was looking at you instead. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before, and I wish I didn’t, or that you felt the same way about me.”

“Maybe in a century or two, I will,” Adonis considered.

“I don’t want to wait,” said Aphrodite. “I love you now.”

“And I love you now.”

“But not only me.”

“I’m not even a year old yet,” he reminded her.

“And I’ve been waiting for you for ages.”

“Not exactly waiting in idleness,” he laughed.

Aphrodite turned her face from his and let silent tears fall on the arm that still encircled her. “I don’t know why the Fates timed our births the way they did,” she lamented. “But who’s to say that if we had been born at the same time and raised side by side, we wouldn’t have loved each other from the start? Maybe I never would’ve needed anyone else if I’d had you from the beginning.”

“Maybe,” Adonis reluctantly considered. “And maybe I wouldn’t want anyone else if you’d never had anyone else.”

By now I was again fully entranced by their aura of absolute sensual euphoria. Why, I wondered, hadn’t the Fates brought them into the world at the same time? This was the Goddess of Love at her zenith. Her love for Adonis and his love in return would radiate throughout the world. All love would be beautiful, complete, requited. In that moment, I knew what I had to do.

My blessing must stand. Adonis had to live.

I knew I should leave, that I never should have intruded on this moment in the first place, but I couldn’t help lingering. I felt more joy and peace in that moment than I had all summer. Just a little more, I told myself, feeling like a beggar at the end of a rich feast. Just a little more happiness. Just a little more warmth. Just a little more love.

Aphrodite faced Adonis again and sighed. “How many more do you need?” she asked.

“You’re the most beautiful woman in the world,” Adonis said. “I could never love another woman.”

“I like the way this is going,” Aphrodite smiled again as she held him tighter. “But what about men?”

“It stands to reason that the most beautiful man in the world could spoil me as well for other men,” Adonis theorized. “Let me have him, and I swear I’ll come back to you.”

“Have at him,” Aphrodite teased as she pushed his hand down his torso.

Adonis laughed. “You know who I mean.”

Aphrodite’s mirth faded. “I know.”

“I’ll come back to you,” he said.

“Do you swear?”

“I swear.” He sealed his promise with a kiss. “You know how obsessively moral he is, though. If I’m going to have him, I may need to tell him you and I aren’t together anymore.”

“Do whatever you need to do,” Aphrodite granted. “Apollo is yours.”

Adonis gleefully rolled over on top of his giggling companion. “Thank you,” he kissed her again. “With any luck, I’ll be done with him and back to you before the Games are over. Ow!”

“I haven’t done anything yet.”

“This rock just hit my back. I don’t know where it came from.”

Behind Dionysus’ Tent, I discreetly took off my helmet and replaced it with my mask. I went inside the tent and located Persephone. “Did you find him?” she asked me.

“He and Aphrodite were in your meadow,” I told her through my mask. “No one else was around, and what they were doing seemed harmless enough, so I left pretty quick. It’s the safest place for them. If anyone or anything tries to hurt them, Artemis’ huntresses are a shout away. You really shouldn’t worry.”

“Thank you so much,” Persephone threw her bony, white arms around me.

“You’re welcome.”

That done, I left the tent and teleported home. Once there, I threw my mask aside and ran to the stable. Pegasus was in his stall. I trotted him out and mounted him mid-stride. “To my hollow,” I commanded. “Hurry.”

Pegasus cantered down the dancing field. The canter became a gallop. He spread his wings. The gallop became flight. The world disappeared beneath me as he sped to the hollow. “Survey and secure,” I ordered once we’d reached it. He circled around the hollow a few times. Once he was sure we were alone, he landed near the waterfall. I dismounted.

I took a few slow breaths so deep I thought my ribs might break. I sucked in the spray from the waterfall wishing I could drown in it. I felt for my vocal cords and tried to remember how to activate them.

“FATES!” I shouted with all my strength. FATES, Fates, fates, fae, the hollow echoed after me.

“I TAKE IT BACK!”  BACK, Back, back, ba, a

“I WITHDRAW MY BLESSING!” DRAW MY BLESSING, Draw blessing, dressing, essi

“I WANT HIM DEAD!” DEAD, Dead, dead, de

“DEAD!” DEAD, Dead, dead, de

“DEAD!”

I didn’t go back to the Games that evening. There was nothing else I had to judge, and there was no one else I wanted to see. I half expected the Fates to visit me in my dreams. I never saw them. I can’t say for sure that they didn’t have a hand in my dream, though. It was one of the most vivid nightmares I’d ever had.

In my dream, I was revisiting a scene from my distant past. Remember that story about Athena’s two-pronged flute? This was the sequel.

As with the Fates’ retelling of that story, I was an unseen spectator, separate from Past Me. Past Me was playing a lyre in a band with my sisters. We were on a river bank. Apollo was in our band singing lead. Coronis, Apollo’s first love, was watching.

I remembered that day all too well. Apollo had been begging us for weeks to let him bring Coronis to the Museum. Calliope wouldn’t allow it. Mortals dared not approach our sanctuary. But Apollo had begged so incessantly that Calliope finally agreed to this compromise. Coronis would be allowed to appear before us at a neutral location far from our Museum. It was also far enough from her palace that no uninvited mortals would stumble upon us.

Judging by Princess Prissyface’s countenance as she sat and watched the show, she was a bit unclear on who was being honored by the gift of whose presence. Present Me wondered if Coronis ever suspected that she had no remarkable qualities of her own beyond her looks, and that history would only remember her as the mother of Apollo’s son. Maybe she had. Maybe that had been her whole motivation for getting involved with him.

When our song was over, Apollo said, “That was good, but I think it could have used a little more percussion. And the harmony was slightly out of tune in the second chorus. You know what might have made this so much better? If we had picked up the tempo just a little bit in the coda. And-”

“Apollo,” Calliope interrupted him in her best Big Sister voice, “If you ever become the leader of the Muses, you can direct our chorus then, but we’ve been working on this arrangement for awhile and I’m quite happy with it.”

“You were all wonderful,” Coronis gushed. “Especially you,” she said to Apollo with a sickening, seductive smile.

“Especially you,” Past Me mimicked to the Twerps. They giggled.

“You’re still visible to her,” Present Me vainly reminded Past Me.

Apollo and Coronis both turned to Past Me. They didn’t seem amused, which was ridiculous because I was amusing. Coronis opened her tight, stuck-up little mouth. “I don’t have to be a goddess to know a good performance when I hear one,” she said. “Apollo is the best musician in the world.”

Present Me could see the bristling in the band as sure as Past Me had felt it. Apollo whispered something to Coronis. Coronis bowed her head toward Calliope and corrected herself. “The best male musician, of course,” she amended. My sisters were appeased, but Past Me wasn’t convinced. Coronis whispered something else to Apollo. They shared an openly covert laugh. Past Me gagged.

Just then, a horned figure emerged from the tall reeds in the river. We knew him by sight. He was Marsyas, a satyr renowned for his musical talent. He used his song and dance to seduce shepherds and shepherdesses alike. He hopped over to Coronis on his furry goat legs. “The best, you say?” he taunted her as he fingered the jewels sewn into her sleeve.

Coronis retreated to Apollo’s side. “How dare you approach me, you disgusting creature,” she rebuked him. Apollo held her close and shielded her from the satyr.

“Forgive me,” Marsyas said with an exaggerated courtly bow. “My deepest respects, Princess Coronis. I’ve not had the pleasure of meeting you before, though some of my brothers have. According to their tales, you are worthy of great honor and renown indeed.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Her Highness said with a maidenly blush. Past Me was gleefully observing that Coronis had absolutely no talent as an actress.

Apollo spoke. “You will not defile the name of my beloved,” he protested. “She was chaste as Hestia when I met her, and has been faithful as Hera since.”

“Could that dialogue be any lamer?” Past Me whispered to the Twerps.

“Still visible,” I called to her. “Also,” I said as I repeatedly smacked Apollo upside the head, “you’re a moron, she’s cheating on you, and you’re a moron.” Alas, as in all dreams, my hand bounced off its target without impact.

“If that’s what she’s told you, my lord, I won’t challenge it,” Marsyas conceded. “But I will challenge your lady’s allegation that you are the best musician in the world.”

“Best male musician,” Apollo reminded him, not wanting to incur the wrath of the Nine Muses upon his mortal beloved.

“I challenge you to a duel of music,” said Marsyas.

“This ought to be good,” Apollo smirked.

“Two rounds,” Marsyas proposed.

“Very well. Coronis can judge,” Apollo agreed.

“I think not,” Marsyas countered. “Your lady love will say anything to get a demigod in her womb. Let the Nine judge. Their devotion to the arts outweighs their affection for you.”

“Fair enough, if the Muses agree to it,” said Apollo. “Calliope?”

“Ladies?” Calliope looked to us. We all gave our assent. “We agree,” said Calliope.

“Very well,” said Apollo. “You have made the challenge, so you decide the stakes,” he said to Marsyas.

“Simple,” Marsyas replied. “The winner may do whatever he wants to the loser.”

Holy Fates.

How had I missed that the first time? Was I really so young and naive that I didn’t catch the way Marsyas had made his bet? The way he’d leered at Apollo when he’d said it? His whole stance toward Apollo, the subtle threat and the obvious lust? Or rather than youthful naïveté, had I been so obsessed with Coronis as the primary threat in the scene that I’d completely overlooked Marsyas?

Either way, to my horror, Past Me was actually laughing. I suppose I couldn’t blame her. It was a common enough bet, and it was usually settled by making the loser do something stupid like hopping backwards on one leg while blindfolded. Worst case scenario would be the loser providing the winner with free labor. But older, wiser, more aware me could see that neither scenario was what Marsyas had in mind for his vanquished opponent.

Apollo could see it, too.

Calliope called the beginning of the contest. Apollo went first. He played an instrumental number on his kithara, the small harp he had invented. His performance was incredible. I could hear a kaleidoscope of colors in his song. Marsyas’ signature instrument was the flute. No matter how pure and skillful his melody, surely he wouldn’t be able to match Apollo’s harmonies, we were all thinking.

“You were amazing,” said Coronis, right before rewarding Apollo’s performance by tongue-tapping his tonsils. Past Me and Present Me were struck with identical stomach aches at the sight.

Then it was Marsyas’s turn. He produced his instrument: Athena’s two-pronged flute, the aulos, which we hadn’t seen since she’d thrown it away a few weeks earlier. We’d all forgotten about it. We’d also forgotten about the curse she’d imparted as she’d cast it aside: Damn that stupid instrument and damn the next person stupid enough to pick it up.

Marsyas played a beautiful pastoral tune filled with rich, rustic harmonies. In his song, we could see the green pastures, the rolling hills, the grazing ewes and the frolicking lambs, the daydreaming shepherds and the spirited shepherdesses. But Present Me could see something Past Me had missed. Throughout his performance, Marsyas never once took his lecherous eyes off Apollo.

My sisters and Past Me huddled for deliberation. Calliope came forward with a verdict. “Apollo, I’m sorry,” she said, “but this round goes to Marsyas.”

Each contestant played a second time. After a much longer deliberation, we decided the second round went to Apollo, but just barely. Calliope ruled that we would judge a tie-breaker round. Marsyas looked assured of victory. Present Me could see his sick anticipation of his impending conquest and Apollo’s inevitable subjugation. Though Apollo was doing his best to maintain his composure, even Past Me was starting to realize that he was in genuine distress, not the fun kind.

“Tie-breaker rule!” Past Me called out as she waved her hand in the air.

“Thalia, not now,” Apollo groaned.

“What’s the matter, bitch?” Marsyas taunted him. “Why don’t you surrender now and get it over with?”

Past Me ignored them both. “For the final round,” she declared, “each contestant must play his instrument upside down.”

“I’ll allow it,” Calliope said.

“What? Why?” Marsyas demanded.

“Because you’re rude and vulgar and I don’t like you,” said Calliope. “Apollo, take your place. Marsyas, if you don’t know how, I suggest you spend some time playing with your instrument until you figure it out. Thalia, there’s no need to gloat. You can stop that giggling.”

Apollo played his kithara upside down as impressively as right side up. Then it was Marsyas’s turn. He placed the upside down aulos in his mouth. He set his thumbs on the tone holes. So far so good. Then he twisted his hands and made a painful, tedious attempt to set his fingers on the top holes. It was impossible. He’d get one or two fingers in place, and that would tilt the mouthpiece out of his mouth. He’d get it back in and lose hold of the aulos altogether. Finally, he slammed it to the ground. “That’s it,” he growled. “I’m done.”

“Ladies?” Calliope barely looked in our direction.

“Apollo,” we ruled in a unanimous cacophony.

“Apollo is the winner,” Calliope declared. “Name your penalty, Apollo.”

“Let me take Coronis home first,” Apollo said. “She doesn’t need to see this.”

He was back in a matter of seconds. Marsyas was waiting, unconcerned, almost exultant. “What don’t you want your girlfriend to watch?” Marsyas goaded with that same licentious smirk he’d had from the beginning. “Got some frustrations you need to work out?” Present Me wanted nothing more than to hurt him. But apparently lucid dreaming wasn’t an option. I had no choice but to let the memory run its course.

“Something like that,” Apollo replied in a low, strained voice. He waved his hand. In an instant, the bewildered satyr was hanging from a tree branch by his bound wrists.

Now Calliope was worried. “Apollo,” she warned, “no harm has been done here. Don’t do anything you’ll regret.”

“I won’t,” said Apollo, with an anger and terror in his eyes that had disturbed me then, but that I understood now. I wondered how many innocent shepherds and shepherdesses would’ve understood, too. “And I know I’ll regret it if I don’t flay this monster alive while I have the chance.”

I woke myself from my dream kicking and flailing. I was spared the rest of the scene, but it played out in my waking mind anyway. I recalled the end, when my sisters and I had shown mercy on Marsyas by turning him to water and joining him with the river before Apollo finished his task. That river bears Marsyas’s name now and forever. Would I, I wondered, have shown the same mercy if I’d understood then what I did now?

I never got back to sleep that night.

I kept to myself the next morning until my presence was required in the theater competitions. I was barely able to concentrate during the judging. The presence of other people felt oppressive. I fully intended to have lunch alone at the empty Museum.

Adonis’ appearance on our pavilion initially made me more resolute in my plan. I teleported home without saying anything to him or Apollo. Neither of them were worth speaking to or paying any attention to. It wasn’t my problem that Apollo was an idiot in matters of the…let’s say heart. I couldn’t help it if he was a magnet for the beautiful and the cruel. So he was going to make the same mistake all over again and end up with yet another heartbreak. See if I cared.

I put on my helmet and shot back to the pavilion.

The two men were alone. They were sitting on a bench at the back of the pavilion, Adonis distraught and vulnerable, Apollo steady and firm with a protective arm around him. “I knew what she was like,” Adonis lamented, “but she told me it was different with me.”

“It’s always ‘different with you’,” Apollo consoled him. “Your kingdom is full of women who told me it was different with me.”

“And I still think it was different,” Adonis bravely maintained. “She loved me more than she ever loved Ares. I know she did.”

“I’m sure she loved you as much as she’s capable of loving anyone,” Apollo allowed. “How could she not?”

“Can you believe I was thinking about staying here when Mom goes home at the equinox?” said Adonis. “Mom tried to warn me not to plan two months in advance around Aphrodite, but I didn’t want to believe her.”

Apollo held Adonis in silence for awhile. A brief look from Adonis implied that Apollo wasn’t following the script. “I might as well go home with Mom now,” he tried again. “There’s nothing to keep me here.”

“I think that’s for the best,” Apollo said with dutiful resolve as he stroked Adonis’ tanned, toned shoulder. “It’s safer for you in your own realm. Besides, I’m sure your dad misses you.”

“One winter isn’t forever,” Adonis dismissed. “It’s not like I’d never see him again.”

“I don’t think you realize how lucky you are,” said Apollo. “You have two parents who are good people, who care about you, and who care about each other. Not very many people in the Pantheon can say the same.”

“Your father made you one of the Twelve,” said Adonis. “He must care about you.”

“Seeking glory, honor, and power through your children isn’t the same thing as caring about them,” said Apollo. “At all. Love means putting someone’s well-being ahead of your own desires. Sometimes even ahead of their desires.”

“What happens when what you want, what the person you love wants, and what’s in both of your best interests coincide?” Adonis asked.

“A miracle,” said Apollo.

Adonis nestled his head in Apollo’s neck. Before Apollo knew what was happening, Adonis brought his lips to meet Apollo’s. He held onto the shy, delicate kiss. Apollo didn’t pull away.

“We’re gods,” said Adonis. “Making miracles is what we do.”

Apollo initiated the next kiss. This one was deep, uninhibited, the flooding release of a month and a half’s worth of dammed-up emotions.

I decided I had other places to be.

A part of me wanted very much to just tell Artemis right away that Adonis was playing her brother. But a strong sense of integrity, altruism, and maturity stopped me.

Are you done laughing yet?

I could have told Artemis, but I decided not to. The Fates had been running me through all kinds of stupid tests for the last two years. I decided it was time to give them one. I wasn’t going to do a single thing to tip Artemis off to Scumboy’s treachery. In fact, if I had the opportunity, I would try to actively hide the affair from her. If the Fates wanted her to send a swift arrow of justice through that two-faced whore’s pathetic excuse for a heart, they could figure out some way to alert her themselves. I was going to put the whole thing out of my mind and enjoy the rest of the Games as much as I could.

So I went to Dionysus’ Tent in search of enjoyment.

Instead, I found Eris. I thought of putting my helmet back on, but she’d already spotted me. Eris finding out about the helmet could lead to no good whatsoever.

“Hi, Random Muse Person,” she greeted me.

“Thalia,” I said.

“Whatever. You Muses all look alike. You should all pose as different ones sometime. That would be so funny.”

“We don’t look that much alike,” I said. “But,” I had to admit, “that would be pretty funny if it would work.”

“You could wear masks and be anonymous,” Eris suggested. “I love these Games,” she randomly changed the subject. “It’s so much fun whispering to the athletes. At the wrestling tournament this morning, I told one wrestler that his opponent was trying to poison him, and I told the other that his opponent was in love with him.”

“You need help,” I observed aloud.

“Ooooo, do you want to be my minion?” she grinned.

“No, thank you.”

“If Adonis falls in love, do you think he’ll stay?” she contemplated.

“Where on earth did that come from?”

“Me,” said Eris. “I just said it. See, look at my mouth. The words you’re hearing are coming out of it. See?”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” I stopped her.

“So do you think Adonis will stay?” she asked again.

“Don’t know, don’t care,” I replied.

“Really? I’d think you would care if he fell in love with Apollo and Apollo fell in love with him and he stayed here.”

“He’s not in love with Apollo,” I snapped. Immediately, I cursed myself for saying that.

“How do you know?” Eris grinned.

“Just a gut feeling,” I shrugged.

“A feeling like being punched in the gut because you think he might be in love with Apollo?”

“No, Eris, a gut feeling means-”

“I know what it means,” Eris interrupted me. “Everyone thinks I’m stupid, but I’m not. Would a stupid person know that it wasn’t really Apollo with Aphrodite in the woods that night?”

“It’s theoretically possible,” I replied. I should have let it go at that, but curiosity prevailed. “If you didn’t think it was really Apollo, why didn’t you say anything?”

“I said a lot of things,” said Eris.

“I mean, why didn’t you say anything about that?”

“Oh, that. Why would I?”

“Good question,” I granted.

“If it’s such a good question, why don’t you answer it?”

“What?”

“You can answer that, too, even though it’s not a very good question. Answer the good question first, though. Go ahead. I’ll wait.”

“I’m not going to do that,” I stammered.

“But it was such a good question,” Eris pouted.

“You know what? I’m going to go be somewhere else,” I decided.

“Oh, I’ll come with you,” Eris offered.

“I wish you wouldn’t.”

“If wishes were horses, they’d have four legs,” Eris pontificated.

“That makes no sense.”

“It makes perfect sense. Horses have four legs. Didn’t you know that? I’ll get a horse so you can count them.”

In the blink of an eye, one of Ares’ enormous war horses appeared before us in the tent. I took advantage of the ensuing chaos and slipped away unnoticed.

Once I was safely secluded, I put my helmet back on. Invisible mingling seemed like the perfect compromise. I could take in the Games without having to interact with anyone.

I wandered toward Aglaea’s medic headquarters tent, thinking I might say hi to her if she were alone and things were slow. I hadn’t seen her since that one time I’d visited her after Euphrosyne’s birth.

A sign in front of the tent stated that the physician was out. Aglaea, I surmised, must be overseeing something at another medic station. I slipped inside anyway to get a break from the crowd and the sun.

But I wasn’t alone. Psyche was watching little Euphrosyne, and Artemis was with her. I kept my helmet on and sat down in a corner as close to the tent wall as I could get without touching it.

“You know, you don’t have to stay with me,” Psyche was telling Artemis. “Wouldn’t you rather be watching the Games with your brother or some of your friends?”

“I hate crowds,” said Artemis. “Besides, hosting and producing the Games keeps Apollo pretty busy, and I like to let the hunters have fun without their boss hanging around.”

“What about Athena?” Psyche suggested as she tilted her head to give Euphrosyne better access to her thick black hair.

“Things have been weird with Athena,” said Artemis.

“You two seemed like you were getting along fine yesterday,” said Psyche.

“Right; we get along,” said Artemis, “but it’s just, I don’t know, it’s weird. When I’m around her, I have all these…these things.”

“Feelings?” Psyche suggested.

“No, that doesn’t sound right,” said Artemis.

“You know I’m an empath, don’t you?” Psyche reminded her.

“You won’t let me forget,” Artemis replied.

“Do you want to know what I think is going on?”

“You’re going to tell me anyway,” Artemis looked away and crossed her arms.

“Te naway,” Euphrosyne babbled. She shook her fistful of Psyche’s hair and giggled.

“Of course I am,” Psyche cooed at Euphrosyne, “because that’s my job. Yes, it is.” Back in her normal voice, Psyche said, “I think that, as you’re getting stronger, you’re becoming aware of feelings that were too painful and traumatic for you to process before. They’re still not easy to process, especially since you’ve been avoiding them for so long, but you can at least sense them now.”

“I’ve always known how I feel about Athena,” said Artemis. “She’s an incredible person and the best friend I could ever ask for. There’s nothing painful or traumatic about that, and there shouldn’t be anything weird. This is different.”

“Does it feel like this?” asked Psyche. She set Euphrosyne down and stared at Artemis with intense concentration. Artemis winced. She started trembling. I could hear her rapid heartbeat from across the tent.

“Make it stop,” Artemis begged in a whisper.

“Remember what I showed you,” Psyche’s voice strained.

Artemis closed her eyes and took some deep, slow, purposeful breaths. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. She repeated this a few times before declaring, “I’m alright.”

Psyche broke her concentration. Both goddess’ countenances returned to normal. Well, normal plus the look of an athlete who’d just completed a thorough workout.

“That’s it, exactly,” said Artemis. “What was it? How can I make it stop?”

“You can’t make it stop,” said Psyche. “All you can do is assess the situation and determine whether you want to act on the feeling or ride it out until it leaves on its own.”

“I don’t even know what acting on that feeling looks like,” said Artemis.

“I think you do, a little bit,” said Psyche. “You told me you held Athena’s hand yesterday. What happened to the feeling then?”

“It got better and worse at the same time,” Artemis recalled.

“That’s what I’d expect,” Psyche nodded.

“What, are you saying this is a normal thing?”

“Yes,” said Psyche, her wings fluttering with excitement. “It’s very normal. This is quite a breakthrough. Honestly, I was afraid it would take us months to get to this point.” It was hard to tell whether Psyche was more excited for her patient or pleased with her own skill as a healer as she delivered her diagnosis:

“You’re feeling your desire for Athena!”

Apollo didn’t get to see Artemis. Zeus ruled that Apollo wasn’t allowed to visit her because it would just “agitate her delicate condition” or some crap like that. The forced separation was certainly agitating Apollo. Aglaea may or may not have pacified him with a report from treating Artemis’ physical injuries. She probably didn’t. Aglaea, as we all know, never breaks protocol or does under-the-table favors for family.

Speaking of Aglaea, Artemis was lucky her lightning bolt attack didn’t happen a day or two later. It would have been pretty hard for Aglaea to pull off an exam and treatment while in labor. As predicted, Aglaea gave birth to a healthy baby girl. Euphrosyne looked as much like Hephaestus as Apollo had prophesied she would. Hephaestus wouldn’t let Hera near her in any rooms with windows.

Eros was gleefully occupied with his role as go-to babysitter. Psyche had wanted the job herself, but Artemis was taking all of her time. That disappointed me. I’d hoped Psyche would make a nominal acquiescence to Zeus’ orders and leave Artemis alone for the most part. What a fool I was. The actual outcome shouldn’t have taken an oracle to predict: Psyche was overjoyed to finally have a real patient.

Psyche regarded her care of Artemis with the utmost gravity. She was even more serious in her regard for confidentiality, which meant none of us got to find out a damn thing. The hunters and Echo were encouraged to visit once or twice a week. Athena tried, but Psyche refused her. Psyche wouldn’t say whether the refusal was Artemis’ decision or her own.

Athena’s armies were very busy for the next few weeks.

Which meant Ares was sufficiently distracted from Aphrodite’s increasingly public love affair with Adonis. Adonis still didn’t hang around Olympus much, but Aphrodite was usually with him in Artemis’ or Dionysus’ forests, in Hermes’ pastures, or in any of her own temples. As Aphrodite’s attentions to Adonis became more and more exclusive, jealous talk from Hermes and Dionysus made her nervous, so she and Adonis spent most of their time together in Artemis’ forests. I hoped Artemis wasn’t getting word of it. That would be the last nail in her sanity’s coffin.

Despite what I’d told the Fates, though, I wasn’t giving much thought to Artemis or Adonis. I was focusing on getting my competitors ready for the Pythian Games. This would be the year of black comedy. My minions were bringing the art of comedic violence – comedic death, even – to new heights. There were still happy endings. Sometimes, I observed as my playwrights presented their practice skits, the death of one character is the best way to effect happiness for the others. Maybe the only way.

The day before the Games, I had my mortal minions seated on the lawn of the Corycian Cave in a perfect parabola. I paced before the vertex as I delivered my last orders through a megaphone. To inspire a healthy fear of goddess, I wore a comedic mask made of black leather and brandished a menacing whip that had been lying unused in my prop collection.

My monologue was interrupted when Apollo materialized inside the parabola at an equal distance from the vertex as me. Well, it would’ve been an interruption if I had stopped talking, which I didn’t. I was working. Apollo could talk to me later, unless he was too busy waiting for Adonis to come to his senses. Assuming the bitch had any senses to come to.

“Stay seated until I tell you otherwise,” I ordered the comedians when I’d finished. I reverted to my natural Invisible To Mortals mode. I figured Apollo was invisible to them, too, since none of my disciples had shown any kind of reaction to his presence. “What do you want?” I asked Apollo, still wearing my mask and speaking through my megaphone.

“I was on my way home from Helicon, and I just wanted to see how you were doing, make sure you were ready for the Games tomorrow.” He managed to convey nonchalance and awkwardness simultaneously.

“We’re ready,” I said. “That trophy is mine this year. It’ll be the best thing for all of us. Urania can’t handle success.”

“Good. That’s good. Uh, did you need anything?”

“Like?”

“I don’t know. I just thought I should see.”

I need you to quit hanging around Helicon, I thought. What I said was, “Thanks, but I’m good. Can you move now? This is my thing. You’re not supposed to be the focus.”

Apollo looked apologetic for a moment, then perused his surroundings with a new awareness. He groaned with realization. “Please tell me you’re not –

“Yes, I am.”

“And you’re teaching these people about good comedic writing?”

“I’ll see you at the Games,” I dismissed him. He disappeared and I returned to the mortals’ vision.

“Sorry about that; got called away on conference,” I said to my audience. “Any last questions?”

Everyone was silent except for my minion Eustachys, who had been campaigning hard all summer for the position of teacher’s pet. “No questions, My Lady,” he bowed his head. “You may go ahead with your lesson on the Sad Clown archetype.”

WTF? “Did I say I was doing a lesson on sad clowns?”

“No,” he replied, pleased with himself, “but I see the tears dripping beneath your mask. Does one pierce bags of water beneath the mask, or are the tears left to the actors? I fear that not all mortal performers could produce such tears on demand.”

“You figured it out. Congratulations. You’re all dismissed; be sure to rest up and eat well for tomorrow.”

Psyche had decided, nay, insisted, that Artemis should attend the Games. She gave orders that Artemis was to stay invisible to mortals and not to do any judging or make any public appearances. She must simply take the opportunity to enjoy herself in the company of family and friends. Apollo planned to spend as much time with Artemis as he could. I planned to hang around and make sure he didn’t smother her.

But, alas, my plans were interrupted. Persephone summoned me to Dionysus’ Tent shortly after the opening ceremonies. She was seated in a quiet, intimate corner of the tent away from the loud revelry. I took a seat on the large velvet cushion next to hers. “I suppose you’ve noticed Adonis has a date,” she said.

“I haven’t been paying much attention,” I lied. Adonis had appeared alongside Persephone and Demeter in the opening ceremonies. Aphrodite had appeared solo, as had both Ares and Apollo. But as soon as the ceremonies were over, I’d noticed Aphrodite and Adonis leave the wings together.

“I hope Ares hasn’t been paying attention, either,” Persephone growled.

“Probably not,” I shrugged. As far as I’d seen, Ares didn’t notice Aphrodite and Adonis leave together because Athena was bitching him out about something. Athena had been acting weird all day. She hadn’t seen Artemis since their fight right before Artemis’ throne room confrontation. I didn’t know if Athena was planning to see Artemis today, nor did I know whether seeing Artemis would put Athena back to normal or just make her weirder.

“I was wondering if you’d do me a favor,” Persephone proposed. “Remember this?” She held up a light, ornate, feminine-looking helmet. At first I didn’t remember it. Then it came to me. The memory, not the helmet.

“Isn’t that my Helmet of Darkness?” I asked.

“No, it’s my Helmet of Darkness,” she corrected me. “If it were yours, that would mean Hephaestus had made a copy of Hades’ personal weapon technology for someone outside the Royal Family, which we both know he didn’t.”

Actually, Hephaestus had done that. The original Helmet of Darkness was Hades’ signature weapon, which he’d used in the battle against the Titans. Hephaestus had copied the helmet for me ages ago when I’d helped Persephone fake her abduction and elope with Hades. And in payment for my most excellent assistance, Hades had confiscated my helmet when the job was done and had never given it back. The ungrateful fiend.

“I forgot all about this thing,” I said as I reached out to touch it. “I used to wonder whether Hades destroyed it or kept it for you, but I’d never think to ask until you were gone for the winter.”

“You know what kinds of creatures we keep in Tartarus. Hades has all kinds of crap stockpiled for our protection in case of a prison break. Of course, we’ve never had one, but it would be a good idea not to be caught helpless and unprotected if we ever did.” I inferred from her brief half smile that, in the meantime, that was exactly what their his-and-hers helmets were being used for.

“You were going to ask me for a favor?” I reminded her.

She put the helmet in my lap. “I want you to keep an eye on Adonis,” she said.

I hesitated. “Why me?”

“Because you already know about the helmet,” she said. “Plus, you’re the only goddess I can think of who hates him enough not to fall for him yourself but isn’t powerful enough to kill him.”

Gulp.

“No, I mean, why don’t you just keep an eye on him rather than risk delegating?”

“Call me crazy, but I really don’t want to see my son bone the Whore of Olympus.”

“And you think I want to see that?”

“Well, I’m not telling you to watch,” said Persephone. “Just keep an eye on him and summon me if it looks like someone’s trying to kill him.”

“You understand that I’m a host and a judge at these Games, so I will occasionally have duties that take precedence over surveillance and reconnaissance?” I stipulated.

“Sure.”

“And I get to keep the helmet? I mean, I get to have stewardship of your helmet which belongs to you?” I corrected myself with an innocent grin as I clutched the precious in my greedy little hands.

“Go ahead. I’ll have Hephaestus make me another one before the Equinox.”

“If anything happens to Adonis in spite of my best efforts, you will not in any way hold me or my family responsible?”

“Nah, I’m pretty sure if anything happens to my stupid kid, he’ll be the one responsible.”

“Alright, then,” I consented. “I will do you this favor.”

Eventually.

The archery games were about to start. That seemed like a logical place to find Artemis, so I put the helmet on and teleported there. I wanted to see if Athena had met up with Artemis yet, and if Psyche had pushed her supervision too far.

Artemis and Psyche had front row seats to the event. I knew Apollo and Eros had invited them to sit in the judges’ box, but apparently they’d declined. Psyche had Euphrosyne on her lap. I guessed this distraction was partly responsible for Artemis’ complacent acceptance of Psyche’s presence. Either that or Psyche had gotten a lot better at psychic sedation. I sat cross-legged on the ground in front of them in the perfect spot between the kicking zone and the line of fire. The mortals couldn’t see the goddesses, and the goddesses couldn’t see me. This amused me.

“Who’s a cute little girl?” Psyche was babbling to Euphrosyne. “Who loves her Auntie Psyche?”

“You’re her sister-in-law,” Artemis reminded her.

“Whatever,” Psyche continued to address the giggling baby on her lap. “We doesn’t care, does we?”

“She’ll be talking soon,” Artemis said with a bit of a smile. No one could resist smiling at Euphrosyne. “If her grammar sucks, I’ll tell her parents who to blame.”

“Gamma sucks!” Euphrosyne declared with exuberance and jubilation.

“Hi.”

Athena had come after all. The bold, magnificent, fully-armored Goddess of Battle now appeared as shy as the most girlish nymph in all the forests of Greece.

“Athena,” Artemis greeted her, attempting to mask her awkwardness and not succeeding well.

“I was just here for…”

“Archery,” Artemis nodded. “Yeah. Yep, me too.”

Silence.

“Have a seat,” Psyche offered.

“Gamma sucks,” Euphrosyne grinned.

Athena sat down on the other side of Artemis. “Missed you in the opening ceremonies,” she said after a tense silence.

“At least I didn’t have to dress up,” Artemis laughed. She was wearing a plain, sturdy hunting chiton that had seen better days.

“You look great,” said Athena, still channeling her inner nymph. “You always look great.”

Artemis tensed and blushed. She looked a little panicked. Psyche closed her eyes for a moment. Artemis relaxed enough to reply, “Thank you.” After a bit of hesitation, she added, “You look great, too.”

Artemis and Athena spent the archery event in stilted conversation while Psyche kept her attention turned to Euphrosyne. After the first round, Psyche said, “I’m going to take Phrossie back to her parents. You two, go ahead, stay here and visit.”

“So, what are they saying about me?” Artemis asked Athena as soon as Psyche had flown away.

“I don’t know,” said Athena. “I haven’t been socializing much lately. My-” her voice caught. “My best friend,” she exhaled the phrase, “hasn’t been around.” She squeezed Artemis’ hand.

Artemis smiled a little. Her neck flushed. I could hear her heartbeat speed up and her breaths become shallow. That was weird. Psyche’s “treatment”, it seemed, was just making Artemis crazier. I wondered whether I should summon Psyche, or maybe Aglaea, if Artemis had a full-blown panic attack.

Artemis took a deep, cleansing breath. She gave Athena another unsure little smile. Then she intertwined her fingers with Athena’s and went back to watching the next round of archers. Both goddesses looked happy and comfortable. Neither said another word.

As I watched them together, I questioned what exactly I was watching. Artemis’ awkwardness had to be a leftover from Athena’s insinuation that they were more than friends. But was it awkward because Athena was right and Artemis really did have feelings for her, or because Athena was wrong and Artemis really didn’t? The latter seemed possible. It would explain the blushes and panic attacks. Artemis cared for Athena. That much was certain. But if she wasn’t in love with Athena, the knowledge that she’d have to break her best friend’s heart and possibly lose that friend in the process would be sufficiently panic-inducing. Maybe Athena was coming to terms with this possibility. Maybe the tentative peace in her countenance was a growing contentedness with the idea of Artemis as, truly, her best friend and only that. Maybe she’d even be able to move on and find another love. Plenty of women, immortal and otherwise, had to be waiting in line.

Maybe they didn’t need my blessing after all.

Spy duty was delayed further by judging duties in the theatrical division. My favorite comedic performance was a particularly ingenious sketch about an insufferable antagonist who kept dying, resurrecting, and dying all over again, each death more hilariously horrific than the last. The character absolutely was not based on any demigods in my acquaintance. How could it be? Adonis was so new to the Pantheon that hardly any of the mortals had known he existed before that morning’s opening ceremonies. And I was prepared to tell Apollo that if he asked.

He didn’t, though. I doubt he even considered the idea or paid attention to the play. Even though he knew Adonis wasn’t giving up Aphrodite, all Apollo could think about when he was away from Adonis was seeing him again.

Poor guy would have to wait. We had to judge tragic theater after comedic. I hate watching tragedies. I always know everything’s going to suck for everyone in the end, so I don’t see the point in investing myself in the characters, who are going to remind me how much people suck, or the story, which will remind me how much the world sucks. But I was a judge, so I resolved to pay as much attention as my sanity would allow.

The Tale of Medusa? Now I knew I was going to hate this play. Oh, great staging, people. Why did they have to show Poseidon raping Medusa? Everyone knows rape is traumatic, and if some idiot doesn’t, watching a dramatization isn’t going to change that. It’s just going to get the pervs off.

The chorus provided a segue.

“Virginity once pledged was now destroyed
Before the altar of the Maid Divine.
Athena was beyond Poseidon’s reach,
But her mere acolyte, a nymph, was not.
No more a virgin, fair Medusa must
Now leave the service of the Maid Athene.”

The actress playing Athena took center stage. I cringed, awaiting the inevitable travesty. Playwrights and poets always got the next part wrong.

“What must become now of Medusa?” Stage Athena asked herself in the austere, grandiose manner that high theater always gives the gods and goddesses. “I have offered to provide for her now that she must leave my service. Though it is not within my rights to punish Poseidon for his crime, I have offered to hide Medusa from him. She would be safe from his gaze, his touch, his knowledge, for as long as she lives. In time he will forget her. It is likely that he has already.

“But this is not enough for her. She cries to me, begs me, to take her beauty from her. Her prayer is that I make her the ugliest creature alive that no man may lust after her again.”

Huh. This troupe actually got it right.

Stage Athena was joined by a second actress. Her bow and hunter’s chiton identified her as Artemis. That was strange. As far as I knew, Artemis didn’t have anything to do with this story. “Why, my sister,” asked Artemis, “do you not give your servant what she asks of you?”

“Because, Blessed Huntress, child of my creator,” Athena answered her, “what she asks is futile. Her beauty was not to blame. Poseidon’s wickedness was.”

The chorus interrupted:

“So spake the goddess of her nemesis,
The god who would wrest Athens from her charge,
The god who, once, her maidenhead pursued.
We speak Athena’s heart, and not our own.”

“Many times my maiden huntresses,” said Stage Artemis, “forced so by gods, by satyrs, even by mortal men, have beseeched me for death. Always have I granted their prayers.” Truth.

“Never have I done this for my priestesses,” said Stage Athena. “I visit upon their assailants punishments that will haunt them all their long lives. But I will not punish one who has committed no crime.”

“She prays not for judgment but for mercy,” said Artemis. “Why do you not see that her beauty was a curse that brought this doom upon her? Why will you not take this curse from her?”

“Poseidon and others like him lust not after their victims’ beauty, but after power over those victims,” said Athena.

“Most beloved of my sisters,” said Artemis as she knelt before Athena, “as the Protector of Virgins, I intercede to you for your servant Medusa. Grant her petitions. Give her the peace she so desperately needs. Take her cursed beauty from her and let her find refuge in its loss. Grant her the relief of knowing that none will look on her with lust again.”

Athena took Artemis’ clasped hands and knelt, too. “Your pleas have softened my heart,” she relented. “I grant this petition not for Medusa, but for you.”

Artemis exited the stage. Medusa returned. With an impressive use of props and effects, Athena and Medusa mimed the end of the story as the chorus narrated.

“Athena to Medusa gave a choice
Of any form in earth or heav’n desired.
Medusa thought on forms devoid of charm,
Forms of allure and elegance bereft.
No softness sought she for her visage. No,
Repelling all who saw her was her goal.
So great was now her terror and her shame
That no more could she stand the gentlest gaze
Nor loving looks, nor innocent desire.
From all the monsters kept in Hades’ hall
The very foulest of Echidna’s brood,
The visage feared and loathed above all
Medusa claimed as her self-chosen form.
The Gorgon. Tremble as you hear its name.
And know what doom awaits you if you dare
To look into its monstrous tortured eyes
That under hair of living serpents dwell.
A severed Gorgon head Athena keeps
Among her aegis, shield, and sword to wield
Against her enemies, who at one look
Will turn forever to a lifeless stone.
Stone, never moving forward, never back.
Stone, never growing, never changing, still.
So all who look upon Medusa fare,
As fare all hearts that, when they suffer ill,
Are hardened, never healing from their hurt
A monument upon the very spot
Where first a monster’s visage they beheld.”

The actors took their bows and awaited our judgment. Melpomene rose and addressed them. “That was incredible,” she praised. “This is the most accurate rendition of the tale of Medusa that I have ever seen. You captured the true essence of her tragedy. And may the Lady Athena bless you for understanding her wisdom and mercy. I give you a perfect ten. Thalia?” she turned it over to me.

“Question for the playwright,” I said.

“Yes, My Lady?” she stepped downstage.

“Like my sister, I was impressed with your unique presentation of this story. Athena showing mercy was in character, but I’m curious about your inclusion of Artemis. What gave you the idea?” I asked.

“It was last-minute inspiration,” she replied. “Surely a gift from my Lady, your sister Melpomene. I had been struggling over the ending for weeks, when suddenly it came to me.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Eight out of ten.”

Once the judging was over, we were all free to go our separate ways. I fully intended to do some sanctioned stalking. But before I could, Mel pulled me aside. I repositioned the helmet under my arm so that my mask hid it from her view. I knew she’d tattle to Calliope if she figured out what I was up to.

“Thalia,” she began.

“I’m not up to anything,” I protested.

“Of course not,” she smiled with relief. “You know I’m not, either, don’t you?”

I blanked out for a second before replying, “Oh, the skit! Hey, it’s no big deal. We’re Muses. It’s what we do. Personally, I think my contestants are good enough that none of them need special help, but if yours don’t have what it takes, do what you got to do.”

“Well, that’s just it,” Mel said. “I’m not giving any of my contestants special inspiration, either, including that last playwright. I don’t know where her inspiration came from, or if it was divine at all. You understand that I’m not cheating or playing games or doing anything that warrants some kind of bizarre, disastrous, escalating game of revenge, right?”

“Absolutely,” I said. I did understand.

But now I was curious.

Once I got away from the crowd, I put my helmet back on and set out to find Artemis. She was watching the women’s footraces with Athena, invisible to mortals, away from the other immortals. I took off my helmet, shoved it in the bag I’d finally thought to snap up, and approached the two goddesses.

“Hi, Thalia,” Artemis greeted me with a peaceful, easy-going smile. “Want to watch the next heat with us?”

“Sure,” I accepted. I took the seat next to her.

“So then the right phalanx advanced, and-” Athena’s attempt to continue her war story was cut off by Artemis’ raised hand and pursed lips. Artemis turned her head in Athena’s direction. Gingerly, Athena raised timid fingers toward Artemis’ wrist. She quickly withdrew them as Artemis’ hand shot past her head like a striking cobra. A mortal man about ten yards from us dropped to the ground. Artemis snapped her fingers and his body disappeared. The other men in the audience began folding their hands and murmuring quiet prayers. Some left altogether.

“Sorry, he was a ‘sponsor’ for one of the contestants,” Artemis brushed it off. “I’ve had a bad feeling about him all afternoon. Go on. Something about your right flank?”

“Aren’t you going to get in trouble?” asked Athena.

“Zeus just said I can’t shoot anyone. If he didn’t want me to use my instant plague power, he wouldn’t have let me keep it,” Artemis shrugged.

“You should have let me do it just to be on the safe side,” said Athena.

“You wouldn’t have killed him,” Artemis laughed. “You would’ve just blinded him or made his dick fall off or something.”

“Killing isn’t always necessary,” said Athena.

“It’s easier,” said Artemis. “Shoot the arrow, burn the body, never deal with the bastard again.”

“Hey, speaking of stories,” I spoke up, “the last tragic play was pretty interesting. It was about Medusa.”

“Wonderful,” Athena sighed.

“How was it?” Artemis asked, showing way more interest than she usually did in our theater stuff. “Please tell me they told the story accurately and didn’t make Athena out to be a psychotic victim-blamer.”

“They did get it right, actually,” I said.

“Good,” Artemis smiled, more to herself than at me. “You know, Athena didn’t even want to change Medusa’s form like she asked. I was the one who talked her into it.” She paused, looked at Athena for a moment, and then back to me. “I wouldn’t have if I’d known everyone was going to blame Athena forever.”

“I don’t care about that,” said Athena. “I just wish she’d been able to heal.”

“I do, too,” Artemis said quietly. “You were right. Medusa might have been able to accept her beauty again in time.” Haltingly, she continued. “Maybe she would have figured out that not everyone would look at her the way Poseidon did. That maybe there’s a good way to look at someone and want them, and someday, someone might- I, I mean, she might want someone to- well, whatever, she’s dead now,” she finished in haste. “Let’s just watch the race. Actually, you know what? I need to go home, I’m really tired. I need to lie down.”

“You want me to come with you?” Athena offered in concern. “I can get you into bed. I mean-”

“No!” Artemis insisted. “I’ll be fine. I’ll summon Psyche. You enjoy the rest of the Games. See you tomorrow. Maybe.”

Artemis was gone, and I was left with her flustered companion. We watched the footrace for awhile before I commented, “Killing that guy seemed to cheer her up for a little bit.”

“It does put her in a good mood most of the time,” Athena acknowledged.

“You’re the Goddess of Wisdom,” I remarked. “You like hypothetical dilemmas, don’t you?”

“Not really,” said Athena. “They tend to be pointless. Sometimes the right choice in one situation turns out to be the wrong choice in a nearly identical one.”

“Good. You’ll love this one. How could preventing Artemis from killing someone possibly lead to her happiness?”

“Could the victim possibly bring her happiness in the future?”

“The victim is incapable of bringing happiness to anyone. The victim exists for the sole purpose of bringing misery to all who meet him. Or her. Or hir. Like I said, it’s hypothetical.”

Athena looked suspicious. “I’ll tell you what would lead to her unhappiness: if someone took advantage of her current state of anxiety and manipulated her into acting as their hit man. I’m pretty certain I’d be unhappy about that, too.”

“That is a wise and most excellent conclusion,” I conceded. “I’ll be going now.”

As I pondered the best way to locate Aphrodite and Adonis without summoning either one of them, I also pondered Athena’s words. And I acknowledged that she was right. However I wanted to dress it up, I would be taking advantage of Artemis and I would be using her for my hit man. Actually, forget the prepositional phrase. I’d be using her. Period. Artemis and I had never been all that close, but I did care about her. And regardless of my relation to her, she meant the world to Apollo. He was the last person I’d want to hurt.

At that point, I’d have been happy to forget about Adonis altogether. But I’d promised Persephone. So I put on my helmet and began searching in earnest.

I teleported to Artemis’ camp. I was quiet in case any of the tents around me contained sleeping huntresses. They girls were probably all at the Games, though. I thought about borrowing a hound to track Adonis, but their kennel was on Olympus, and I didn’t want to risk a trip there. I’d have to rely on my own nearly non-existent tracking skills.

I walked a little way into the forest, then sat down to meditate. If I were to bring a secret lover to this forest, I asked myself, where would I bring him? I thought of places that would be the most secluded, the least likely for hunters to find me, the most well-lit, the least lit, the safest from monsters and predators. Then I remembered that I was looking for Aphrodite. She would choose romance and sensuality over safety and practicality.

I pictured myself with an imaginary lover who totally did not resemble anyone I knew in real life. I imagined warm sunlight, a gentle breeze, a rainbow of wildflowers, a lush carpet of cool grasses cushioning my back. There was only one place they could be. I felt stupid for not teleporting there in the first place.

When Persephone faked her abduction and eloped with Hades all those centuries ago, she enlisted the help of her appointed chaperones, Artemis and Athena. She knew she had to let the two goddesses in on it. Artemis would have done something stupid if she thought Hades really was taking Persephone against her will, and Athena would have figured out the whole plot anyway. Though both Artemis and Athena turned out to be rather pathetic at acting, they were a big help in other ways. Artemis, for instance, lent us a perfect meadow in her hunting grounds on which to stage the show. It was open enough for Hades to break through the ground, chariot and all. A rainbow of wildflowers made it just the kind of place one would expect an earth goddess’ flower-child daughter to spend a lazy afternoon with a couple of girlfriends. The elopement went as planned, and the meadow became a sacred place in its own right, known as Persephone’s Doom. Calliope named it. Hard to tell, isn’t it?

So I teleported my invisible self to Persephone’s Doom.

The grass was thick and green, and the flowers were in full bloom, as they always are when Persephone is in the realm of the living. Every year on the exact day that she goes home, the grass begins to wither and the flowers drop their seeds. Not that Persephone cares about these flowers. She prefers the Asphodel Meadows of Hades, a drowsy plain of eternal twilight.

The Land of the Dead is divided into three parts. Tartarus is the high-security prison. The Titans are bound there, as well as any slain monsters, or any creatures who particularly angered the gods or harmed their fellow creatures in life. They spend eternity paying for their sins. Let’s just say Hades and Persephone can get rather creative in coming up with punishments to fit their prisoners’ crimes.

The Elysian Fields is the Home of the Blessed. People who particularly please the gods in life are rewarded with endless bliss in the afterlife. Light as bright as the fullest moon illuminates the land. Its people spend eternity in music, dances, feasts, discourse, lovemaking, and rest, when they want it and how they want it. No memories of their earthly life and the people they left behind haunt them. The essence of who they are remains, but they’re better, more complete, more fulfilled versions of themselves.

But most people go through life neither particularly pleasing nor angering the gods. This majority goes to the Asphodel Meadows. The sky is eternal dusk. A purple sunset streaks across the horizon in every direction. In the light, the white asphodels look violet grey. People don’t do much of anything because they don’t care to. This land is a place of passive peace where its people rest from their labors on Earth. Like the people of the Elysian Fields, they don’t remember their old lives. They don’t have much awareness of their new lives, either. But they know they’re free to take the rest they crave, safe under the eternal care of their King and Queen.

It was a good thing I was the one to visit Persephone’s Doom that day. If Persephone had gone herself, I guarantee that Adonis wouldn’t even have made it to the Asphodel Meadows. He’d have been grounded in Tartarus forever.

“Eris, I’m only going to say this one more time. Get out of my way!” Artemis commanded with a shove. She tried to get around Eris, but Eris was too quick even for the Huntress.

“Glad that was the last time,” Eris grinned as she continued to block the corridor. “You can pass if you take me with you, and I’ll say that over and over again.”

“This has nothing to do with you,” said Artemis. “Stay out of it.”

“Nothing ever has anything to do with me,” Eris complained. “If I only went where I was wanted, I’d never go anywhere. I want to see Dad, too. Take me with you.”

“Trust me, you want to be as far away from the throne room as possible,” said Artemis.

“Is this about the girl you got pregnant?” asked Eris. “I’ve never had a baby,” she pondered. Thank the Fates, I thought. “Maybe I should have one. It would follow me and play with me and I’d teach it to be just like me,” she giggled with delight. “We could make so much chaos together! Can you make me pregnant?”

“Ew! Eris, I’m your sister. Do you understand that?” Artemis had just enough presence of mind to not look Eris in the eye while giving this admonition.

Eris wouldn’t have that. She grabbed Artemis’ face and locked eyes with her. “Mom and Dad made me together, on purpose,” she screamed. “You’re not my real family!” Artemis didn’t move or speak. I knew she couldn’t. She probably couldn’t even hear what Eris was saying. She was lost in Eris’ storm of chaos, blind to connection, deaf to logic, out of touch with order of any kind. Eris disappeared with her. Taking a guess at their destination, I teleported to a side entrance of the throne room.

I’d guessed correctly. To my surprise, Apollo was there, too, seated on his throne. As was Aphrodite. And Ares. Oh, right. It was unofficial morning check-in time. All of the Twelve except Athena were there, as well as several courtiers. It was possible that Artemis hadn’t realized this in her blind fury, but I couldn’t imagine Eris had been unaware of this opportunity. While Artemis and Eris had everyone’s attention at the center of the ring of thrones, I slinked behind Athena’s empty throne in hopes of remaining unnoticed.

Eris released Artemis from her stare. She’d been distracted by a new victim. “Hey, Aphrodite,” Eris said, “where’s your boyfriend?” Artemis stood by in dazed, disoriented silence.

“I don’t have boyfriends,” said Aphrodite. “I have lovers.”

“Ooooo,” Eris stood corrected. “Then where’s your lover?”

“Which one?” Aphrodite asked.

“The one you were with last night. The one I saw with you in the forest by Mom’s pasture. He took you hunting, or tried. You didn’t like it. You were afraid of big game. You were right to be afraid. There shouldn’t be any big game in those woods, but I spotted you, so a bear or a lion or a boar would have if it were there. Such a pretty chiton you wore! White silk with flowers and leaves embroidered in so many colors, anyone could’ve spotted you. I’ll bet the chiton’s still in the woods where you left it. He was wonderful. Even better with you than my brother ever was.”

“You followed us into the woods?” Aphrodite replied. She was cool on the surface, but fear was evident to the discerning eye.

“No, I was already there,” said Eris. “I wanted to poke the bear, but the bear was gone. Mom, why didn’t you let me keep the bear? She was fun.”

“If I’d known you liked her, I would have considered it,” Hera apologized.

“Can you bring her back?” asked Eris. “I’ll feed her and play with her and everything.”

“I’m sorry, sweetie; Artemis killed her last night,” said Hera. “You’ll have to find something else to play with.”

“Was anyone not in our forest last night?” Zeus laughed. He stopped laughing as an arrow grazed the side of his lips. He caught the shaft of the arrow in his fingertips. A lock of white hair from his beard fell to the ground.

“Shut! Up!” Artemis shouted to the room at large, though she was facing Zeus.

“I wasn’t in any forest,” said Ares. “Who was it?” he demanded of Aphrodite.

“I’m a free woman,” said Aphrodite. “I don’t owe you a report.”

“I summoned you last night and you said you weren’t in the mood.” The rusty gears in Ares’ cavernous cranium were jerking to a start. “I can’t believe I fell for that! I mean, you?”

“I’m sure you spent the night suffering in solitude since I wasn’t available,” Aphrodite shot back.

“You were available, alright, just not to me. Who was it?”

“It was me.”

All eyes turned to Apollo.

I felt a tumult of emotions to which Eris’ storm seemed preferable. I didn’t know which felt worse, the thought of Apollo with Aphrodite or the certainty that he was, in fact, lying to protect Adonis. “I was with Aphrodite last night,” Apollo claimed. “Like she said, she’s a free woman. I’m a free man. I didn’t see the harm. It’s been my understanding that you and she aren’t exclusive. Has that changed?”

“It certainly hasn’t,” said Aphrodite. “And you know what?” she said to Ares. “He was better than you.”

“You slept with Aphrodite?” Artemis demanded, fully diverted from her quest by this new crisis. “Have you gone completely insane?”

“It’s my life and my decision,” said Apollo. “If you want to lecture me about it, you can come home with me and discuss it in private. If you don’t want to do that, let’s drop it.” My guess was that he wanted her to pick the former and leave the throne room before Zeus remembered she’d just shot him in the face.

Artemis sighed and slung her bow over her shoulder. “Alright,” she said. “Let’s get to Parnassus as soon as you’re ready.”

“Artemis,” said Zeus. “Before you go, I want an apology.”

“I want a father who doesn’t rape my friends in my body,” said Artemis. “I guess neither one of us is getting what we want today.”

The room stopped breathing.

Apollo rushed to his sister’s side. “Let’s go home,” he urged.

“Artemis,” Hera ordered, “apologize right now.”

“Okay. I’m sorry you were dumb enough to marry a known serial rapist,” said Artemis.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Zeus. “I haven’t raped anyone, especially not in my own daughter’s body.”

Artemis shot a volley of arrows at Zeus. He caught one in each hand, but a third penetrated his throat. “DO NOT LIE TO ME!” Artemis shouted. “You know exactly what you did, though I would believe that you don’t remember her name or what she looked like or anything about her besides what she felt like against your body. MY BODY!” A fourth arrow stuck in Zeus’ throne between his thighs.

“Please, let’s go,” Apollo begged her.

Zeus pulled the arrow out of his throat. “Princess, as lovely as your form is, why would I use that one when there are so many others?”

“Because you’re a sick perverted bastard,” Artemis raged.

“Am I?” Zeus mulled. “It seems you’re the one entertaining fantasies of your father seducing your ‘friend’ in your body. All these ages of celibacy can’t be good for your psyche. Psyche,” he thoughtfully repeated the word to himself. “Psyche!” he summoned.

The winged goddess appeared, hovering above the center of the throne room. “You summoned me, my lord?” she curtsied in midair.

“Your domain is the healing of the soul – the mind, will, and emotions – as Asclepius’ domain is the healing of the body, yes?” Zeus put forth. I could see Apollo trying not to show his anger and fear at the mention of his son Asclepius, whom Zeus had first executed for creating a cure for death and then resurrected to cover up the cure’s existence.

“It is,” Psyche answered.

“My daughter’s soul is clearly unwell,” said Zeus. “I hereby commit her to your care and governance until she is restored to sanity, even if it takes the rest of eternity.”

“What?” Artemis cried.

“It’s okay,” Psyche assured her. “The therapies I’ve been developing are all very humane and non-invasive. I think Eris will really benefit from treatment and so, consequently, will we all.”

“I’m not crazy, Artemis is,” said Eris.

“No one’s calling you crazy,” Psyche gently fluttered toward Eris.

“I did mean Artemis,” said Zeus. “There’s nothing wrong with Eris. Psyche, I give you full custody of Artemis for as long as her affliction continues. Artemis, I relieve you of your duties. You’ll spend your days at Psyche’s disposal. You will leave your quarters only with supervision, and you will receive guests only as Psyche deems appropriate. At the moment, you can return with her to your quarters peacefully or by force. It’s your choice.” Artemis had her hand on her bow. Her legs were tensed, ready to bolt.

“Artemis, it’ll be fine,” said Psyche. “I know you’re not crazy. I do think I could help you, though. I could help a lot of you,” she threw a quick glance at Apollo, “but no one ever listens to me.” Artemis relaxed her stance a bit. I started to feel relaxed, too, though I didn’t know why. I decided it must be fatigue.

“No one listens to me either,” Eris grumbled.

“Eris, be quiet,” said Hera.

“And Hebe always gets to hold Dad’s cup!” Eris continued. “Just because she’s the oldest. Dad never lets me hold the cup. I can hold a stupid cup.”

“He let you hold it that one time, and you shattered it,” said Hera. “On purpose.”

“It was prettier that way.”

“Ares, make yourself useful and watch your sister,” Hera said tersely.

“Sis, wanna play army?” Ares offered. “I’ve got a village to raid on the outskirts of Thrace.”

“Can I blow stuff up?” Eris rubbed her hands together.

“All you want.”

Ares dismounted his throne and took Eris’ hand. But before they teleported, he glared at Aphrodite and said, “We’re not done.”

Apollo said quietly to Artemis, “I know this is excessive, but I think it would be best to comply for now.”

“I think so, too,” Artemis nodded in placid assent. “Psyche, let’s go. The sooner we get started, the sooner we can get this over with.”

“That’s the idea,” Psyche said. Still flying so that she was a little taller than Artemis, Psyche reached for Artemis’ hand with a cheerful smile. However, I noticed that Psyche’s temples were throbbing and her nostrils were flaring ever so slightly. Her capillary veins were swollen and blue. She gasped, breaking her composure. Artemis’ calm broke as well, panic in its place, and she sprang toward the corridor.

Before Apollo had time to run to her, the room was overwhelmed by a flash of light and a roar of thunder. A bolt of electricity so white it was almost blue shot across the room and hit Artemis’ back right in the quiver. She collapsed on her side. Apollo didn’t move. Artemis’ body twitched for a second and then lay paralyzed. “It did happen,” she gasped, her lungs and vocal chords barely responsive. “Whatever you say,” she struggled, “whatever you do to me, it’s still the truth. You know what you did to her. To all of them.”

Zeus fired another bolt at her. This second shot paralyzed her completely. I could see Apollo struggling with himself, wanting to run to her but not wanting to risk making things worse. Hera surveyed the scene with a completely blank expression. “Psyche,” Zeus ordered, “teleport Artemis to her quarters if you’re able to. If not, carry her.”

“Yes, my lord,” Psyche nodded in fearful assent. She landed beside Artemis, took her limp hand, and teleported away with her.

“Hermes, tell Selene she’s to take over the night shift,” said Zeus. “The rest of you are dismissed. Go about your business.”

I shrank further behind Athena’s throne and kept an eye on Apollo. I didn’t want to leave until I was sure he wouldn’t put himself in danger. Aphrodite approached him. So did Demeter.

“Thank you,” Aphrodite said softly, her countenance full of genuine gratitude and relief. “For what you said to Ares. You knew, didn’t you?”

“I do now,” said Apollo, brave resignation in his.

“Perhaps the two of you would like to join Persephone and me for brunch?” Demeter offered, her gravity matching that of her prospective guests. “My grandson will, of course, be with us.”

“We may as well,” Apollo accepted. The three of them left together.

Whatever. Sleep is for mortals.

I teleported a little way outside the Helicon Museum, guessing the others would go inside right away. I didn’t want to call attention to the fact that I’d followed them from the throne room.

When I got to the banquet hall, I saw that Calliope had joined the party. Seriously? Apollo had summoned Calliope but not me? Okay. “Thalia, join us,” Calliope offered when she saw me. “I invited her; I hope you don’t mind,” she told the others. I took a seat next to her.

Adonis, seated across from me between Apollo and Aphrodite, seemed rather unsure of himself. He was so different around the two of them separately that he didn’t know who to be when they were together.

“We need to be more careful,” Aphrodite was telling him. “You don’t know how lucky you are that Eris and Ares are dumber than a pair of posts.”

“You’re adorable when you worry about me, you know that?” Mandonis brushed a lock of golden hair away from Aphrodite’s cheekbone. Persephone watched them like a hawk, but whatever she was thinking, she kept it to herself. “You should have seen her last night,” he said to the rest of us, his eyes carefully avoiding Apollo. “She just wanted us to stalk squirrels and bunnies because a wild cat or a boar might kill me.”

“She was right,” said Persephone.

“They weren’t in danger,” said Calliope. “As far as I know, there isn’t any big game in that forest. Artemis lets her hounds loose there every so often to keep the small animals’ numbers in check, but they never attack people unless they’re ordered to.”

“Apparently the forest isn’t completely free of big game,” said Apollo. “Hera said Artemis shot a bear in the woods before you two got there. I wanted to talk to Artemis about that, among other things, but it’ll have to wait.”

“If you’re so worried, why don’t you join us next time?” Femdonis tempted Apollo.

“I don’t like hunting,” said Apollo. I was pretty sure he’d missed the point.

“Well, join us anyway, and we’ll just skip the pretext of hunting,” said Slutface. I was right.

“Are you honestly suggesting that the three of us…?” Apollo finally picked up on the proposition. Good grief, I could practically see the roots of his hair blushing.

“No, he isn’t,” said Persephone.

“Yes, I was,” said Adonis.

“I don’t do that,” said Apollo.

“I wouldn’t either,” said Aphrodite.

“Since when?” I spoke for myself and everyone else in the room. “Are threesomes too tame for you now?”

“I don’t want to share, okay?” she said. “It’s not a big deal. Don’t make it one.”

“Darling, you of all people know it’s possible to love more than one person at the same time,” Mandonis laughed. He graced Aphrodite’s forehead with a kiss that danced on the line between affection and condescension.

“A proper ménage is me and two men who are into me, not me and two men who are into each other,” Aphrodite turned away in indignation.

“People, that’s my son and I’m right here,” said Persephone.

“Yes, we already have far more information than we need,” said Demeter. “But the point is, Ares eventually will, too. Aphrodite, I’m not going to ask you and Adonis to stop seeing each other, but I think it would be best for all of us if you don’t refuse Ares for him again.”

“No,” said Aphrodite. “I wanted to be with Adonis last night and I didn’t want to be with Ares. It’s not like it’s the first time I’ve turned him down.”

“But weren’t all the other times just to make him jealous?” Calliope recalled. “It always worked. Well, except that time a couple summers ago,” she smiled to herself.

“Hey, are you still into Ares?” Aphrodite perked up. “He still thinks you’re hot. You could distract him for me.”

“No thank you, I’ve moved on,” said Calliope.

“Are you sure?” Aphrodite encouraged. “Even if you’re not that into him, he makes pretty babies. Maybe it’s time you had another one.”

“No,” Calliope, Apollo, and I said together.

“Thalia, do you like Ares?” Aphrodite offered.

“Huh?” I was too stunned to think of a coherent response.

“Oh, come on, the guy is a walking orgasm!” Aphrodite despaired. “I should have a bidding war on my hands!”

“Sorry,” I found my tongue, “but even if it were someone, you know, remotely interesting, sleeping with your sister’s ex is the epitome of not cool.”

“I suppose in the interest of protecting my grandson, I could consider-”

“Ew! Mom! Seriously?”

“I never thought I’d hear myself say this, but I think Aphrodite was right in the first place,” I said.

“Good, you’ll take him,” Aphrodite said with delight. “I’ll give you plenty of tips. He really likes it when-”

“No! No, no, no. I meant you were right when you said you were a free woman and none of this was Ares’ business,” I clarified. “If you’d rather be with another guy, just let Ares suck it up and deal with it like the rest of the male population. Adonis is only going to be here for another couple of months or so anyway, right?”

“Actually,” said Adonis, not quite sure which version of himself he was at the moment, “I’ve been thinking of staying here when Mom goes back to the Underworld.”

“Absolutely not!” said Persephone. “What are you going to do? Keep the whole Museum yourself? Live on Olympus and be Zeus’ ‘cupbearer’ in exchange for room and board?”

“He wouldn’t need his own quarters. He could stay in mine,” said Aphrodite.

“We have plenty of room on Parnassus,” Apollo put in his bid.

“No we don’t,” Calliope and I said in unison.

“By the Equinox, I’ll be a year old,” Adonis reasoned. “That’s the same age the Muses were when they left Hades.”

“That was different,” said Persephone. “There were nine of them. You’d be alone. And besides, Mnemosyne had been grooming them for a role in Zeus’ realm since they were conceived. You are the Prince of Hades. You were raised for the Underworld.”

“You were raised for Zeus’ court,” said Adonis. “That didn’t mean you were born for it.”

“As much as I want to be selfish and tell you to stay,” said Apollo, “it would probably be best for you if you go home when Persephone does, at least for this year. Six months should give Ares time to cool down or, if you’re lucky, forget the whole thing.”

“Do we have to talk about this right now?” Femdonis sighed.

“No,” said Apollo, “but when you’re ready to make that decision, I hope you will talk to me about it.”

“But you’re right. It doesn’t have to happen today,” Aphrodite said to Adonis. “Please, let’s just have whatever fun we can today.”

“Of course,” Mandonis said as he caressed her. “And if it means that much to you, we’ll meet here tonight, or somewhere besides Olympus.”

“Bitch, you are not defiling my son in my house,” said Persephone.

“It’s actually my house,” I reminded her. “And I don’t know if you’ve been listening, but the kid ain’t exactly driven snow.”

“Thalia!” Apollo disapproved.

“Oh, spare me,” I said, fatigue having eroded most of my already limited self-censoring ability. “You’re just jealous that you weren’t the one to make the tracks.”

“That was out of line,” Apollo warned, not as Governor of the Muses, but as a friend whose buttons I was pushing a little too well.

“Whatever,” I said. “I’m going home to get some sleep. I was gone all night, which you probably didn’t notice, helping your sister, whose existence you’ve apparently forgotten along with everyone else’s, save her friend from Hera, who got the last laugh anyway now that Artemis has been committed, which you don’t really seem to care about.”

“Could that sentence have been any less coherent?” Apollo blinked.

“I’m going home,” I recapped. “Anyone who wakes me will resent their immortality.”

I teleported straight to my room. Apollo materialized with me.

“You could knock,” I complained.

“I wanted to make sure you were okay,” he said.

“Since when do you care?”

“I did see you at the throne room this morning,” he said. “You did the right thing by staying out of the way.”

“Glad you approve,” I said.

“Did I hear you right?” he asked. “That you were with Artemis last night?”

“Yeah,” I said. “It’s a long story.”

“I think I can guess.” He proceeded to piece together the night’s events based on Artemis’ tirade, Hera’s insinuations, and Urania’s sunrise announcement that a new constellation in the shape of a bear had appeared in the northern sky. Almost the whole story, that is. Apparently he hadn’t noticed Athena’s absence, because he neither guessed at nor asked for an explanation for it. Athena didn’t factor into his conjecture at all. He guessed correctly that Artemis had kept me with her so Hera wouldn’t know I’d seen what I had. He guessed incorrectly that I’d followed Artemis to the throne room against her bidding out of morbid curiosity.

“Pretty much,” I said when he’d finished his extrapolation. “Are you going to try to check on Artemis?”

“Later; this afternoon,” he said. “I’m afraid if I go now, it’ll attract unwanted attention. Besides, I think if I see her before the paralysis wears off, it’ll just agitate her. I hope Psyche has enough sense to give her plenty of time to rest before she starts any treatments.”

“No kidding,” I said.

“You should rest, too,” said Apollo. “Get to bed. Take the day off.”

“That was the plan,” I reminded him. “Apollo?”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry about Adonis and Aphrodite.” Just like every other time I’d expressed sympathies of that nature to him after having seen the tragedy coming a mile away, I was surprised at how very much I meant it.

“He’s young,” Apollo repeated the old refrain. “Inexperienced. Confused. I was only a little younger than him when I started realizing I was attracted to men as well as women. I didn’t want to believe it. I didn’t want Ares to be right,” he said with a grim chuckle. “Mostly, though, I didn’t want to believe I was anything like my father.”

“You’re not,” I said. “And you know you’re not like Adonis, either, right? As far as I know, you never tried to ease your confusion by toying with a man who cared about you and sleeping with a woman who doesn’t care about anyone behind that man’s back.”

“You shouldn’t be so hard on Adonis,” said Apollo. “He’s not deliberately toying with me. He just needs some guidance. And if he keeps taunting Ares, a lot of protection. Which is why I am going to keep spending time with him.”

I groaned. “You do understand that he wants Aphrodite, don’t you?”

“I understand that he wants to believe he wants Aphrodite, and that he wants to be thought of as a man she would want,” said Apollo. “I don’t know how much of that is genuine attraction. He might not like women at all.”

I stared at Apollo, trying to think of some clever, eloquent, point-making, sense-inducing response. All I came up with in the end was, “Okay.”

“Don’t worry about me,” he laughed. “I know what I’m doing.”

“You always do. Anyway, I’m going to get some sleep and hope my dreams don’t render the nap completely useless.”

Apollo looked confused and uncomfortable for a few seconds, like there was something he wanted to say but wasn’t sure what, how, or why. “Sleep well,” he said at last.

“I will as soon as you’re gone.”

He left and closed the door behind him. I took my hair down, snapped off my makeup, changed into my most comfortable nightgown, and collapsed on my bed for some much-needed sleep.

But Fate had other ideas. “Okay,” I addressed the audience that triangulated me, their white robes shining in the darkness of their tower. “You win. Everything in the first set of tests was a fluke. You three can do whatever you want to wreck everyone’s lives, and I can’t do a damn thing to stop you. Can I go home now?”

“Have you decided to withdraw your blessing, then?” asked Atropos.

“I don’t see any reason to,” I said. “If it was powerless in the first place, withdrawing it shouldn’t have any effect.”

“I suppose we could give her a little bit more information,” Clotho determined. “It will be interesting to observe how it affects her choice.”

Clotho spun a slender silken thread of gold, silver, and crystalline filaments. Lachesis drew it out and held a small part of it, just a few inches, against her measuring rod. Atropos poised her shears over the mark Lachesis indicated.

“Adonis’ fate,” Lachesis presented. “This short thread will be woven with so many others. Aphrodite’s. Persephone’s. Apollo’s.”

“What does Apollo have to do with this?” I demanded.

“I said we would reveal a little, not all,” said Clotho. “What you need to know is how Artemis’ fate pertains to Adonis’.”

The spotlight that bore down on me moved to the dark wall and revealed the Fates’ tapestry. The image in focus was of Adonis, lifeless, blood flowing out of his bare chest like water from a spring. As graphic as the image was, though, it couldn’t match the horror of one beside it: the pain and anguish in Apollo’s face as he knelt over the body of yet another dead lover. Aphrodite knelt, too; her tears mingling with Adonis’ blood. And Persephone was there, distraught and enraged.

“Artemis is going to kill him,” I surmised.

“She may or she may not,” said Atropos. “We will leave that choice to you, provided you have the power to affect it.”

My mind was as silent as my voice as I stared at the tapestry and listened to Atropos expound.

“If you withdraw your blessing, Artemis will surely bring this scene to pass,” she said. The circle of light on the tapestry shifted to the side, showing Artemis the Huntress, bow in hand and quiver in place, surveying her kill with cold hatred. “If you can maintain and effect your blessing, she will take a different course.” The image of Artemis disappeared from the tapestry, and the spotlight returned to me.

I was still silent. So many thoughts were tumbling around in my mind. One prominent thought that I wasn’t the least bit proud of but just couldn’t get rid of was that, ultimately, Adonis’ death could be for the best. He did have feelings for Apollo. That much was obvious. But it was just as obvious that he had no intention of being the kind of lover that Apollo needed and deserved. If Apollo couldn’t see that now, he never would. Death was the only thing that ever really let Apollo get over his faithless lovers.

But what about the others? Aphrodite was easy. She’d cry for a day or two and enjoy the romance of her sorrow as much as she’d enjoyed the illicit thrill of the affair while it lasted. What about Persephone? My friend? Could I make a choice that I knew might lead to the death of her only son? Could I risk putting her through the same thing Calliope had endured when Orpheus was murdered? Or would it be the same thing? Persephone had never wanted children. Aphrodite had practically forced Adonis on her when he was born. Although Persephone was clearly attached to Adonis, she didn’t seem to enjoy being a mother at all. Every time I saw her and Adonis together, all she did was yell at him and stress about him. Maybe she’d be better off with the memory of a son than with the reality of a son.

But what about Artemis? Withdrawing my blessing would lead to this fate. What this could possibly have to do with her and Athena was beyond my comprehension. Maybe that wasn’t the point, though. My blessing had been that Athena and Artemis would live happily ever after. I hadn’t specified that this happy life would include them being a real couple. What if Artemis truly didn’t share Athena’s feelings and never would? What if getting Athena’s feelings out in the open was the first step to destroying the fantasy so they could both find a happy but ultimately separate reality? Of course, none of this answered my original question: what did any of this have to do with Adonis’ death? I reasoned that Artemis killing Adonis could incite retribution from Persephone, Hades, and/or Aphrodite, and create a rift between her and Apollo. Any of those possibilities could start a course for endless tragedy.

But if I let her kill Adonis, then Adonis would be dead.

“When do I have to decide?” I asked.

“What do you think?” Clotho carelessly addressed her sisters.

“We may as well let her take some time,” said Atropos.

“The Pythian Games are approaching,” said Lachesis. “Let us make that the deadline. For old time’s sake. You have until the closing ceremony to withdraw your blessing.”

“If you do,” said Atropos, “this test will be your last. We will conclude the experiment and determine your hypothesis incorrect once and for all.”

“About that; can we please keep in mind that technically it wasn’t my hypothesis?” I reminded her.

“Of course,” said Clotho. “It was Apollo’s, was it not?”

Clotho’s words took my mind back to that night in Pegasus’ stable when Apollo had first made this “hypothesis”. I remembered the scent of straw and horse hair. I remembered the way the summer night air felt on my skin. And I remembered what had me awake and agitated at that hour in the first place: Aphrodite’s threat that Apollo and I might find true love in the next week, but not with each other. I was as disinclined in the present to acknowledge how much I’d hated that thought as I had been in the past. But the memory was still there.

“I’ll think about it.”

PHYSICIAN’S NOTES

ATTENDING PHYSICIAN: Aglaea

PATIENT: Artemis

This is the first confirmed case I have witnessed of a full-blooded god or goddess struck with one of Zeus’ lightning bolts. Information gained from the cadavers of human and demigod victims of such assaults that I have studied has been invaluable.

Patient was completely paralyzed, including her internal organs, for three hours immediately following the assault. Heart, lung, and speech functions resumed with some difficulty, though the patient’s limbs were still immobile for another hour. Patient expressed belief that the paralysis lasted so long because she was struck twice. I did not pursue her reasoning, as my first priority was keeping the patient calm. Potions supplied by me and a calming spell supplied by Psyche, the attending psychologist, aided in this goal.

Patient reported having experienced severe pain during the paralysis stage. Psyche, an empath, confirmed this. My tests indicate that the pain was largely the effect of physical damage, though I detected some spirit damage as well. Spirit damage is out of my domain, as a multitude of hypotheses regarding Hephaestus‘ leg continually remind me. As patient has residual spirit damage from an unknown childhood injury, I have some concerns about the cumulative effect.

I have prescribed a number of potions to relieve pain and anxiety. Patient’s body will heal itself in time. I have scheduled a follow-up appointment for two weeks from today so I can assess the effect of cumulative spirit damage. Hopefully, personal matters will neither prevent nor impede this research.

Nothing worth talking about happened for the next couple of weeks. Unless you consider the Muses’ idiot governor spending most of his spare time on Helicon thinking he could save a two-faced liar from hirself worth talking about. I don’t.

I wished my sister Melpomene shared that sentiment. She and I had been hosting a joint theater workshop at the Corycian Cave in preparation for the Pythian Games. I was training my human worshippers in the art of comedy, and she was training hers in tragedy. “I’m so going to take home that trophy this year,” she playfully taunted me when practice was over and our contestants had cleared out.

“You wish,” I mustered a retort from behind my comic mask.

“I know I will if you keep this up,” she said. “You go back and forth between driving your contestants into the ground and hardly paying attention to them at all.”

“Part of comedy is the element of surprise,” I shrugged. “Gotta keep ’em guessing.”

“I couldn’t help noticing that sketch where the antagonist named Schmadonis-”

“A very common name.”

“- Gets carved into bite-sized pieces and fed to vultures,” Mel said. “I never would’ve thought to play that for laughs, but you did make it work.”

“Yep, I’m a friggin’ comedic genius.”

“Honey, are you doing alright?”

“I’m fine, Mel!” I snapped. “It’s just…everything’s so…I don’t…I’m fine, okay?”

Mel held out her hand and caught a teardrop that dripped out from under my mask. “You want to just sit here and be fine together for awhile?” she offered.

“Yeah,” I accepted. “I’d like that.” We sat down right inside the cave. Mel took my hand. I didn’t take it away.

“Maybe later we can find a human ignoramus and turn it into a famous politician,” she offered. “We both love that, and we haven’t done it in so long.”

“I do love that.”

Later that week, I tried escaping to my hollow for some me-time. Alas, I found Echo, who had been anxiously waiting for me.

“Did you ever tell Callisto whether her baby was a boy or a girl?” she asked before I had a chance to dismount Pegasus.

“Oh man, Echo, I forgot all about that! I’m so sorry.” I really had forgotten, and I did feel bad about it. I’d also practically forgotten about the whole matter with Callisto, Artemis, Athena, and the Fates. I’d been steering clear of Athena as per her request. Artemis had been avoiding everyone. She’d drive the moon, go to bed, get up, drive the moon again, go back to bed. Her hunters had been operating under a substitute commander chosen from within their ranks. Apollo would’ve never let this go on so long under normal circumstances, but he’d been preoccupied. Likewise, Artemis’ own preoccupation was surely the only reason she hadn’t put an arrow through Adonis’ excuse for a heart.

“So you don’t know where Callisto is?” Echo asked.

“No. Don’t you?”

“After the baby shower, she went home with a couple of the other girls. I didn’t think anything of it when she didn’t come back the first day, or the second day, or the third day, or the fourth day, and I was kind of worried by the fifth day but Pan said not to worry about it so I didn’t worry, but then it was a whole week, so I asked the girls she went home with and they both thought she was with me. She’d gone out for a run the day after the party and she never came back. We’ve talked to all the other hunters, and none of them know where she is. They all thought she was with someone else or with me, but I guess I’m someone else too.”

“Has anyone asked Artemis about her?”

“Artemis hasn’t talked to any of us and we’re all scared to,” said Echo. “But I thought maybe you could ask her or at least ask Apollo to ask her.”

“I’ll see what I can do. Meet me here tomorrow.”

Having a conversation with Apollo was the last thing I felt like doing, so I chose the much dumber option. Since I knew Artemis wouldn’t answer a summons from me, I teleported to the Olympian stables to wait for her. She should be there soon. Lately she’d been setting out in her chariot hours before Helios got home. But it turned out I wasn’t the only one waiting for Artemis.

Fortunately, I saw Hera before anyone saw me. I ducked behind a stack of hay bales and hoped it wasn’t feeding time. Artemis approached as I had predicted. When she saw Hera, she started to turn away from her.

“Artemis!” Hera’s sharp voice froze her. “I’ve been summoning you all day. Why haven’t you answered me?”

“I was asleep,” she said with a clenched jaw. “Does that offend you, my lady?”

“Please, not even a mortal needs the amount of sleep you’ve been taking,” Hera disregarded her. “There’s a bear near my pastures and I need you to take care of it.”

“Has it eaten any of your cattle?” asked Artemis.

“No, but it will soon enough,” said Hera. “You’re not leaving with this chariot until you dispose of it.”

“There’s no need to kill it,” Artemis said. “I’ll take it to my woods. There are plenty of deer there. Bears have to eat their fill so there aren’t too many deer to share the vegetation.”

“Artemis, I want it dead!” Hera ordered. “Now, you can take it down yourself with one clean shot, or I can find someone else who’ll try their best, inferior to yours though it may be. Those are your options.”

“Fine,” Artemis resigned. Her eyes were as numb as her voice. She was too tired to fight. She and Hera teleported to the pastures.

I ran to the kennel, took one of Artemis’ hunting hounds, and teleported to the pasture myself. “Find Artemis, but keep us hidden,” I whispered to the hound. She led me though brush and tall grass until we came in view of Artemis and Hera on the outskirts of the pasture. We laid under a shrub tree, shielded from the two goddesses’ sight.

“There it is,” Hera said quietly as she pointed into the thicket. I could see the bear perfectly with my spectator vision. It was gigantic, lumbering, almost grotesque in its massiveness. Its claws must have been a foot long, and I could’ve lost an arm in its fur.

“I can’t shoot her; she’s pregnant!” Artemis protested at a similar volume.

“How can you tell?” Hera was taken aback.

“I’m the protector of animals and pregnant women,” said Artemis, her tone warning Hera not to tax her with more stupid questions.

“Very well,” said Hera. “Protect that pregnant animal from being hunted by a clumsy amateur.”

“I can’t hunt that bear any more than you, the Goddess of Marriage, can cheat on your husband.”

“Don’t think of it as a hunt, think of it as an execution!” Hera hissed. “Get it over with before I rip that bow and quiver off your back and do it myself.”

“Whatever,” Artemis returned to her numb state. “I’ll shoot it and dispose of the body, and then I’m getting back to my real job.”

But then, the bear saw Artemis. She turned her enormous head and made deliberate, anguished eye contact with the golden huntress. She held up a paw and groaned, not as though she were pleading for her life, but as though she were praying for death.

“I have to do this,” Artemis cried. “It’s better from me. Please be still; it won’t hurt so much,” she begged. “One sting and then you’ll sleep.”

In the blink of an eye, the arrow found its mark. The bear let out a roar as her immense body heaved to the ground. I held the hound, calming her from the shock of the impact and keeping her from running to comfort her mistress. Artemis couldn’t muster the effort to stop her tears from falling or to accompany them with audible sobs or a change of expression. “Satisfied?” she said to Hera.

Hera flicked her hand at the carcass. The great she-bear shrunk from view.

In her place was a tiny, naked, obviously pregnant nymph.

“Yes,” said Hera. “Now dispose of the body as you agreed.”

“What have you done?” Artemis shouted, staring in disbelief at Callisto’s still form.

“Me? I haven’t done a thing. You, on the other hand, seem to have solved both our problems.”

“If I’d wanted to solve my problem by killing my friend, I wouldn’t have needed to be tricked into it. And why in Atropos’ name would you- it was him, wasn’t it? Zeus did this? As…he…” Artemis fell silent. With rigid jaw and burning eyes, she sprinted toward Callisto’s body.

The hound broke away from me and shot after her mistress. Artemis looked over her shoulder and shouted, “Stay!” The hound obeyed. Artemis reached Callisto’s body and dropped to the ground beside it. “Go,” she said to Hera through her numb, involuntary tears. “Just go. I’ll take care of this.”

“So dramatic,” Hera tsked. Thankfully, she left.

“Come,” Artemis called to the hound. Again, the hound obeyed. “Come!” she repeated. Silence. “Thalia, here, now!” Artemis shouted. Speechless and trembling, I obeyed as well as the hound had. Artemis picked up the corpse. “I’m summoning my chariot,” she said. “Hold on.”

I held on to Artemis’ shoulder. In a flash, we four were in her silver chariot high above Olympus with the moon trailing behind us in a darkening, sunset-streaked sky. Artemis quickly wrapped the horses’ reins around a hook. They knew their route. Her hands were freed to tend to Callisto’s body.

“Cover her,” Artemis said to me. “Do your theater goddess thing.” Wordlessly, I snapped a hooded dressing gown onto Callisto’s corpse. “It’s safe,” Artemis said. “You can talk now.”

“I don’t know what to say,” I faltered.

“Not you,” she brushed me off. “Callisto, please, say something. Open your eyes if you can. It’s alright. I’m not going to hurt you. No one’s going to hurt you.”

Callisto’s eyes opened with much effort. “My lady,” she said weakly. “Please forgive me.”

“Don’t say that,” Artemis wept. “Don’t you dare apologize. Don’t you ever, ever apologize for any of this. I should have known. I should have believed you. Nothing can make up for the way I’ve treated you.”

“Dying in your arms is more than I ever dreamed of,” Callisto managed a faint smile.

“You’ll have to dream bigger, because you’re not going to die,” said Artemis. “At least not tonight. Not for Zeus’ crime and my stupidity. Thalia, can you hold her while I pull the arrow out?”

“Yes.” I could see now that the arrow had hit Callisto in a non-lethal spot. Removing the arrow should still have resulted in major blood loss, but as I predicted, Artemis used her healing powers to stop it.

“I’m so sorry,” Artemis kissed the closed wound. “I’m so sorry. I should have known.”

“I should have known it was too good to be true,” said Callisto. “It was so stupid, thinking there was any chance you could love me the way I love you. You’re one of the Twelve, and I’m just some silly little nymph.”

“Callisto, you were one of the best hunters I ever had,” said Artemis. “You being part of the team made it better. Seeing you always brightened my day. You were a very special part of my life, and I hated losing you. But that kind of desire, that kind of love, I don’t feel it for anyone. I never have. I don’t even think I can. But I do love you, the way I’d love you if you were my sister.”

“If I were your sister, I suppose this wouldn’t have happened.”

Artemis grabbed Callisto and held her tightly. She didn’t say a word for the longest time, but her face spoke volumes. Horror and rage fought for supremacy. Rage maintained a slight lead. At last, Artemis said, “I wish I could give you your old life back, but I’ll do whatever I can to give you a new one. I’ll build you a home in the night sky where I can protect you. Hera and —no one will be able to touch you. I’ll bring the other hunters to visit you as often as you want so you won’t be lonely. Will that be all right with you?”

“If you say it’s all right, I trust you,” said Callisto.

The constellations that you mortals see are only shells of the creatures that inhabit them. They’re kind of like houses, I guess, if houses were ships that sailed along a set course forever. The god who creates the constellation sets the course, and the creature inside the constellation has no power to change it. When the demigod Orion wouldn’t quit stalking Artemis, Apollo stuck him in the sky right in the path of the monster Scorpio, one of Zeus’ pets. They’ve been chasing each other in circles ever since.

“Where are you going to put me?” asked Callisto.

“I’ll put you between a couple of Athena’s pets,” said Artemis. “They’ll guard you.”

“Are you sure they won’t turn on me? A jealous Athena probably isn’t much better than a jealous Hera.”

“I don’t know why Athena would be jealous,” Artemis comforted her. Emotional intelligence, I concluded, must be in the blood.

Artemis worked all night on Callisto’s constellation. It was spacious and comfortable, and, in an act of poetic justice, shaped like a giant bear. Artemis set it between Draco and Leo, a dragon and a lion. Athena isn’t that original when it comes to naming her pets. My contribution was to give Callisto a new wardrobe and furniture.

“I guess I’ll go home as soon as we pull in,” I commented as the chariot neared Olympus

“Not until I can take you myself,” Artemis ordered. I couldn’t see any danger in teleporting back to the Museum. I could, however, see plenty of danger in arguing with Artemis at the moment, so I dropped the subject.

Artemis halted the chariot and Athena appeared in it. Athena’s countenance was that of a woman who’d been ignored by the object of her affection for weeks and was now being summoned as though nothing had happened.

“What?” she greeted Artemis.

“Teleport Thalia to my quarters now,” Artemis issued her rushed directive. “I’ll be there as soon as I put up the horses and the dog.”

“You can’t take Thalia yourself?” Athena replied.

“I can’t let her be seen with me.”

“Why? Is she pregnant, too?”

I silently but vigorously shook my head.

“I’ll explain everything as soon as I get there,” said Artemis. “Just please, take her.”

“Fine.”

Athena took me to Artemis’ quarters. “I don’t suppose you can tell me what this is all about?” she asked me.

“I think Artemis needs to be the one to do that,” I said.

“Can you at least tell me why she thinks you need a bodyguard?”

“Because she’s Apollo’s twin?” I attempted to lighten the mood. I failed. “I was somewhere I shouldn’t have been and saw something I probably shouldn’t have seen,” I tried again sans levity. To my relief, Athena accepted that answer without further question. We sat down on the couch and waited for Artemis. I wrapped myself in a blanket because I felt like it.

Artemis arrived. She sat down between us and told Athena the whole story. Though, curiously enough, she left out the conversation where Callisto said she was in love with her. “I don’t know what to do from here,” Artemis concluded the story.

“You’ve done everything you can,” said Athena, going into strategy goddess mode. “You’ve removed Callisto from danger, and you’ve made provisions for her future.”

“That’s not everything,” said Artemis. “I still have to make him pay for it.”

“Artemis, no!” Athena grabbed her arm. “Have you lost your mind? You can’t attack Zeus!”

“Why not?” Artemis demanded.

“Because you’ll lose! Why do you think no one in the Pantheon has ever challenged his reign? Why do you think Hera only goes after his mistresses?”

“Don’t you dare call Callisto a mistress,” Artemis shouted in a whisper. “Do not try to pretend there was anything consensual about what Zeus did to her.”

“I didn’t mean-”

“I’m sick of all the pretending,” Artemis went on. “When is someone going to call it what it is? When is someone going to stand before Zeus, face him, and call him what he is?”

“Can it please not be today?” Athena begged.

“And what about Hera? When is someone going to tell her to her face what we’re all thinking? That she could be using her power to aid his victims, but instead she punishes them because she’s a petty, self-centered coward who wants to make sure they’re as miserable as she is?”

“Not today,” Athena repeated, tightening her grip on Artemis’ arm.

“They can’t kill me,” said Artemis.

“And you think that’s the only way to hurt someone?”

“I don’t care about getting hurt. Callisto was assaulted on my watch, and I punished her for telling me it happened.”

“And now you want to punish yourself,” Athena deduced.

It was then that I remembered my throat could make sounds which, if arranged in recognizable patterns, would allow me to communicate with those around me. “Artemis,” I said, “please, think about what it would do to your brother if anything happened to you.”

“What could happen to me?” she said. “Say Zeus hits me with a lightning bolt. I’ll be stunned and in pain, maybe for an hour, maybe for days, who knows. It’s different depending on the target and the force of the attack. But I can’t die.”

“Will you please use your head for once?” said Athena. “You know Zeus’ lightning bolt supply is finite now. If you’re so set on getting revenge, wait until he runs out.”

“Use my head for once?” Artemis thrust Athena’s hands away from her. “Like you do every time someone suggests it’s just possible that you aren’t the hottest, most talented thing in the universe?”

“At least I don’t flip out every time someone suggests I am hot,” Athena shot back.

“Forgive me for thinking there’s more to being a goddess than making sure I’m the center of attention all the time.”

“You’re the only goddess who can’t handle any attention,” Athena accused. “Why? Why can’t you accept that you’re beautiful, and that people see that, and that sometimes they fall in love with you?”

“I know they do. That’s when I shoot them.”

“Desire doesn’t have to be a threat,” said Athena.

“You’re going to lecture me on threat identification? You turned that mortal woman, Arachne, into a spider because she said she was a better weaver than you,” Artemis argued. “How was that a threat? Unless it was true. It could’ve been, for all I know. None of us got to see Arachne’s tapestry. You shredded it before anyone had a chance.”

“You’d thank me for that if you knew what was on it,” Athena said quietly.

“And now I never will know.”

“That was my intention.”

“Yes, another fine example of the Goddess of Wisdom using her head!” Artemis seemed to be addressing me here. I shrank into my corner of the couch a little more, hoping they’d go back to ignoring my presence. I wished I could help the situation, but they were beyond the reach of humor. What could I do? I thought of summoning Apollo, but I knew he’d be even more freaked out than Athena at the thought of Artemis leading a charge against Zeus.

“Alright, you want to know what was on the tapestry?” said Athena. “Which was, incidentally, the finest work I’d ever seen by a mortal. Every detail was perfect. You would have sworn you were looking at a painting.”

“What was it?”

“It was a porno extravaganza of Zeus’ most famous animal shapeshifting ‘affairs’. Guess who made the center?”

Artemis fell silent.

That lasted for about three seconds. “My mom’s not a whore,” she said.

“I know that,” Athena tried to calm her.

“She only let Zeus do the quail thing with her so her sister could get away,” said Artemis.

“I know that,” Athena tried again.

“I don’t care who says otherwise; coerced consent isn’t consent at all.”

“Artemis, I know that! That’s why I didn’t want anyone, especially you, to see that damned tapestry! I didn’t want you to be hurt then, and I don’t want you to be hurt now. So I’m begging you, please,” she said as she took Artemis’ hands with a gentle urgency, “take some time to rest and clear your head before you run off on some vengeance kick.”

“If you were really my friend,” said Artemis, “you wouldn’t try to stop me, you’d help me.”

“Your friend?” Athena laughed in frustrated disbelief. “If I were really your friends? Yeah, okay. Maybe you have a point. You spend most of your spare time with me. You tell me everything about your life. Every triumph and every trial, I’m the first one you bring it to, and you’re always there for me to do the same. You hold my hand for no reason. You tease me all the time, and you blush when I tease you back. You get defensive when other people flirt with me. You tangle my hair just so you can comb it smooth again. You sleep in my quarters as often as your own. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m not really your friend.”

Artemis stared at Athena like a deer that knows it’s been cornered by a pack of hounds. “Let go of me,” the words forced their way out of her tightened throat. Athena let go. Artemis sprinted out of the room and into the corridor.

“Aren’t you going after her?” I asked Athena.

“Why did I say that?” Athena fretted, more to herself than to me. “I knew she’d do that. Why did I say it? Why is the one thing that means more to me than anything else in the world the only thing I can’t keep my head about?” She turned away from me. “Thalia, you go after her. Please. If I do, I’ll just make things worse.”

Still numb with shock, I obeyed. I ran out the door in the direction of the throne room, guessing that was where Artemis was heading. An unwelcome sight stopped me as I rounded the curve.

Eris.

“Alright, great dance practice,” said Apollo. “You all can do your own thing now. I might be late for dinner.” Having dismissed us, he teleported away almost before he’d finished his last sentence.

I ignored him and ran after Calliope. When I caught up with her at the steps of the Museum, I asked, “He’s going to Helicon, isn’t he?”

“Most likely,” she disapproved.

“And you’re not going along to chaperon again?”

“I think Persephone has that under control,” said Calliope. “Maybe a little too much control. Adonis is just waiting for an opportunity to rebel.”

“He’s taken it,” I whispered. “Last night at midnight I saw him with Aphrodite.”

“Were you spying on him?” Calliope was horrified at the thought.

“No! Aphrodite summoned me. It’s a long story that I’d rather not tell you.”

“And I’m sure I’d rather not hear it,” she concurred. “Are you sure she and Adonis were, you know, together?”

“I don’t know. I suppose he could’ve been in her bed spooning her naked body in a chaste, brotherly manner.”

“Oh dear.”

“He said Apollo knew. Do you think he was telling the truth?”

“I don’t know,” said Calliope. “I don’t have a good feeling about him. I think it’s entirely possible that he lied to you so you wouldn’t tell Apollo.”

“That was my thought, too,” I said. “Apollo being two-timed wouldn’t be anything new, but he usually doesn’t consciously know about it and accept it. He stays oblivious to it until it’s staring him in the face.”

“You really do have a type,” Calliope commented.

“What are you talking about? I don’t have anything, except a dilemma as to whether or not I should tell Apollo what I saw last night.”

“You know he’ll ask why you were in Aphrodite’s quarters in the first place if you do tell him.”

“I’ll tell him the truth,” I said. Defending Artemis’ virginal reputation was surely a worthy goal in Apollo’s eyes.

“And he’ll think you’re acting jealous.”

“I’m not.”

“Really?”

“I just don’t want him to get hurt again, okay?”

“And I don’t want you to get hurt again,” said Calliope. “You think nobody sees it. I think you even convince yourself that you don’t see it. But every single time, with every one of them since Coronis, when Apollo gets his heart broken, yours breaks right along with it.”

“So why put off the inevitable?”

“Has trying to warn him ever worked in the past?”

“No,” I sighed. “I guess I’ll just let him figure it out on his own. The kid goes home in three months anyway.”

“That’s what I’m counting on,” said Calliope.

“If you think Adonis is trouble, why did you rent out the Museum in the first place?” I asked.

“I thought it would be a good way to keep an eye on him,” she said. “Not only in regard to Apollo. It’s much more complicated than that. I don’t quite know how to explain it. I just have this feeling about Adonis. Like there’s a lot more to him than meets the eye.”

“Any of it good?”

“I don’t know,” she pondered. “I really don’t know.”

After lunch, I was feeling too restless to work on any of my solo projects, so I decided to take Pegasus for a long ride. “Cloud cover,” I directed my flying steed. Pegasus shot upward toward a wide patch of clouds. He landed on top of the cloud cover and cantered the length of it, twisting and turning around icy promontories at my command. As we rounded a particularly thick stalagmite, Pegasus stopped himself just before running into Hermes.

I was a bit startled by Hermes’ appearance on my cloudy course, but unimpressed. He has the power to find anyone anywhere. “What do you have for me?” I asked him.

“A question,” he said. “Who do you think knocked up that nymph? Artemis or Athena?”

“What in Tartarus?”

“Hey, I did not open the scroll. I never made the slightest attempt to open that scroll,” said the embodiment of innocence. “I just asked Aphrodite what it said after she opened it. And I went back this morning and asked her how your meeting went. Boy, was she pissed at you,” he laughed.

“Did she look anything like this?” I pointed to my face with both index fingers. “I guess it’s too much to hope that I’m the first person you’ve discussed this with.”

“Is there really such a thing as too much hope?” Hermes answered with that slick smile of his.

Evidently there was. “Who did you tell?”

“I mentioned it to Hera in passing. Figured any story that makes Artemis look stupid would put her in a good mood.”

“Anyone else?”

“I guess I said something to Dionysus. I don’t know which part he thought was hotter, one of the ‘virgin’ goddesses knocking up a nymph, or Stud Cupcake wanting a threesome with Apollo and Aphrodite. He said if Apollo keeps turning down the offer, he’d be happy to fill in for him.”

“Did you say anything to Apollo? Or Ares?”

“I thought about it, but I decided it’ll be more fun to see how long it takes them to figure  it out for themselves. Just this once, I’m betting on Apollo being dumber than Ares.”

“Goodbye, Hermes.” I cued Pegasus toward the open sky. Hermes flew after us, the little dove wings on his ankles beating away.

“You didn’t answer the question,” he persisted. “Who do you think it was?”

“I think I’m done talking to you,” I said.

“Suit yourself.” Hermes flew off en route to his next victim.

What was he thinking, telling Hera? I wasn’t worried about Callisto. The mystery shapeshifter couldn’t be Zeus since there was no way he was that familiar with Artemis’ naked body. But Hera wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to torment Artemis or Athena about this humiliating turn of events.

This train of thought sparked memories of finding out Calliope was pregnant by Zeus. Aglaea had used a sample of Calliope’s blood in a physician’s chalice to see that Calliope was pregnant with septuplet boys. Hera had swiped the chalice and used her prophetic powers to take the test a step further: a look at the babies’ conception and, therefore, their parentage. Fortunately, the image had been small and unclear enough that we were able to lie about it. Hera accepted that it was me and Apollo together in the moonlight and shadows, not Calliope and Zeus.

But memories of that incident got me thinking. If a prophecy goddess could use a physician’s chalice to see a shadowy image in a few drops of blood, what could a god who was both a seer and a physician do with a better sample?

Phase One of my new plot didn’t pan out. Neither Callisto nor Echo was in my hollow. So I went to Echo and Pan’s cave to look. Pan was gone, but Echo was home. Callisto was with her.

“I see you’ve moved from the hollow,” I said. “I hope this is a positive development?”

“Oh, yes,” Echo answered for Callisto. “Artemis has cooled off, and Callisto missed seeing the other girls. We’re having some of them over tonight for a baby shower. That’s not a real shower, it’s a party where everyone brings presents for the baby. And we all look at the presents and play games and talk about baby stuff and-”

“Got it,” I nodded. “Look, I need your help with something, and if you can cooperate, I might  be able to tell you whether your friends should bring presents for a boy or a girl,” I offered.

“What can I do?” Callisto asked, intrigued.

“I just need you to let Echo prick you with this needle.” If you recall, I have a crippling fear of handling sharp medical instruments. The need to solve a mystery did nothing to assuage that fear. “Echo, have you ever used a syringe before?”

Apollo was home about an hour before dinner. I grabbed him on the steps before any of my sisters could. “Hey, I need to talk to you,” I said.

“What about?” he asked in a nervous, embarrassed way.

“Science,” I said. He relaxed. “This,” I held out a glass syringe, “is fluid from the womb of a pregnant nymph.” I waited a second for him to make some wisecrack about my taste in collections. None came, so I continued. “Would you be able to use your physician’s chalice to get some information about the baby? Like sex, paternity, etc.?”

Intrigued, Apollo took the syringe. “It’s an interesting challenge,” he considered. “Let’s go to my store room and take a look.”

Apollo’s store room is really more of a laboratory. I don’t know why he doesn’t just call it a laboratory. That’d sound so much cooler. Anyway, once we were in his laboratory, Apollo located a chalice that was about twice the size of a thimble.

He transferred the fluid from the syringe into the chalice and gazed into it. “First sex,” he said. “That’s the easy part. It’s a boy. Now I’ll try paternity, which I’ve never achieved with blood. There. I think I’m getting an image. Hm, looks li- MY EYES!!! FATES, MY EYES!!!” he screamed as he dropped the chalice and syringe to better claw at his eyeballs. “Brain bleach! Give it! Now!” he shouted. I grabbed the jug thus labeled and handed it over. He tilted his head and poured the bleach into his ear it until it overflowed. Then he rinsed his eyes with some bleach for good measure.

“Putting this away now,” I took the jug from him. “You don’t want to give yourself total amnesia.” The brain bleach, invented by Apollo and named by me, was a very weak dilution of water from the river Lethe. A full-strength dose of Lethe water can make someone forget their entire life. The brain bleach just dims traumatic memories so you don’t have soul-scarring images seared into your mind’s eye forever. Images like a porno starring your sister.

Apollo sunk to the floor. “Okay,” he spoke in between slow, deep breaths. “Could…could have warned me?”

“You could have thought of a way to divine the paternity besides watching the conception,” I said as I swept up the broken glass with a whisk broom. “You know from experience that that doesn’t always give accurate results anyway. At least we’ve confirmed that Callisto believes she’s telling the truth. Did you get a good enough look to see if there was any possibility that it could have been someone else?”

Apollo answered me with a shell-shocked, open-mouthed look punctuated by silent blinks.

“I just don’t believe it was really Artemis, though,” I said. “Do you?”

“Uh uh,” he grunted as he shook his head. “Not her.”

“And I don’t think it was Athena, either. If she wanted to get rid of Callisto that badly, she could just kill her. Artemis would never have to know. If anyone could pull off the perfect murder, it’d be the Goddess of Battle Strategy.”

“Ri’,” Apollo nodded.

“So that leaves Aphrodite for means and motive. But then why would she lie to me about it? She doesn’t have any reason to. This is the kind of thing she’d brag about. Unless she thinks impregnating another female would damage her reputation as the paragon of feminine sexuality. Or unless blaming Athena is part of her revenge.”

“Maybe.”

“And it has to be a goddess, because there’s no way any of the gods have seen Artemis naked.”

“No!” Apollo affirmed. “No way. Never.”

“But I don’t know; some of your half-brothers are awfully pervy, and most of them didn’t even grow up with you two,” I reasoned aloud. “I guess one of them could’ve tried to peek. You think maybe Dionysus?”

“No!” Apollo repeated.

“He did make out with you at Hephaestus’ bachelor party, so the half-sibling deal obviously doesn’t mean anything to him.”

“I was so drunk when that happened, I barely knew my own name,” Apollo reminded me, having finally found his tongue. “Besides, Artemis isn’t as cautious as I’ve learned to be. If Dionysus had ever seen Artemis naked, she’d have gotten her revenge in such a spectacular way that we’d all have heard about it. We’d all still be hearing about it.”

“I suppose you’re right,” I conceded. “By the way, how did it go at Helicon?” Apollo pretended not to hear me as he mopped up the fluid. Apparently my cleanup job hadn’t been thorough enough. “This afternoon?” I persisted. “When you went to visit?”

Eventually, he replied, “Adonis is young and confused. Persephone doesn’t help matters by keeping him on such a tight leash. Of course he wants to explore and test his limits.”

“And where do you fall in this exploration of limits?” I asked.

“I’m his friend. Someone who’s there to look out for him.” He sighed. “Someone who’ll defend his reputation if he doesn’t look out for himself.”

“Come again?”

“I guess the rumor hasn’t made it to Parnassus yet. People are saying he’s already slept with Aphrodite. Can you believe that?”

“Can you?” I asked.

“That they’re saying it, yes; that it happened, no. And he can’t see that people believing it is not a good thing for him.”

“Where do you factor into the rumors? Or do you at all?”

“Depending on who you ask, I’m either a cuckold or part of a ménage,” he said.

“Sorry to hear that,” I said.

“It’s alright,” he shrugged. “It’ll blow over, especially as the summer goes on and people notice that Adonis isn’t being seen with Aphrodite.”

“And you’re anticipating that he will be seen with you?”

“Like I said, for now I’m his friend,” said Apollo. “I think that’s what he needs most right now. But, maybe, when he’s grown up a little more and he’s more sure of who he is and what he wants…I don’t know. We’ll see.”

“Got it,” I replied with a stoic nod. To myself, I added, Here we go again.

I’d planned to deliver Callisto’s test results after dinner, but I got a summons from Athena as soon as I left the table. I answered the summons right away.

“You brought Hermes in on this? What were you thinking?” Athena demanded as soon as I materialized in her quarters.

“That our friendly neighborhood delivery service was safe to use?” I said as Athena paced before me with angry strides. “I know, it was an incredibly stupid thing to think, and I’ll never think it again.”

“Now half of Olympus is speculating that I ‘fathered’ that child, and Artemis won’t speak to me! And everyone who doesn’t think I slept with Callisto is laughing about how I’ve been ‘jilted’.”

“Athena,” I said with as much penitence as possible, “I don’t know how to tell you how sorry I am. I really thought it was Aphrodite. I still think it might have been her. You’ve seen how perfect her shapeshifting is. You jilted her at Cronia, and this is exactly the kind of thing she’d do for revenge. Blaming you could be the next phase of her revenge for all we know.”

“Well, if it is, it’s working,” said Athena. “This is driving  me out of my mind. Ares actually guided an army to victory against Athens today. I’m the Goddess of Wisdom and Strategy and I can’t even think straight. Why is this happening to me?” She threw a dagger across the room. It skimmed past my shoulder and hit the center of a shield that hung on the wall behind me. “It seems like ever since I asked for your help, the Fates have had it in for me.”

“That’s totally not my fault,” I quickly protested, wondering how fast I could grab that shield if need be.

“This all started with your blessing.”

“We don’t know that my blessing caused any of this.”

“What did, then?”

“I don’t know! I told you, I don’t know how this works, or even if it works. That whole story in your tapestry? About Hephaestus’, Eros’, and Aphrodite’s happy endings? That could have been more Aphrodite than me. Maybe I can’t do anything without a love god’s assistance. Or maybe she’s outright working against me and I don’t stand a chance. I just don’t know.”

“I wish I’d never asked for help from either of you,” Athena resolutely refrained from crying or shouting. “I wish I’d never entertained the hope that anything could happen between me and Artemis. I’ve become just like Ares: ruled by passion, obsessed with the object of my desire, wanting nothing more than her and caring about nothing except her.”

“You know Ares doesn’t love Aphrodite the way you love Artemis,” I said, probably because a tiny part of my brain thought Tartarus must be lovely this time of year.

“That makes me feel so much better,” said Athena, “knowing he loves his woman less but has her anyway.” She telekinetically recalled her dagger and sheathed it by hand. “You can go now,” she said, putting on her stoic face. “You’re right, this isn’t your fault. You weren’t powerful enough to cause this, and you certainly aren’t powerful enough to fix it, so there’s really no point in you being here. I’ll see you at the meeting tonight.”

“What meeting?”

“The committee meeting for the Pythian Games,” said Athena. “It’s still at Parnassus tonight, isn’t it?”

“Oh, yes! It is.” Right. That was happening. Was it that time already? I wouldn’t be able to get to Echo before the meeting, and I certainly wasn’t going to use Hermes to deliver the test results. Callisto’s friends would have to bring gender-neutral presents to the baby shower after all.

It was indeed that time already. The Pythian Games, a week-long competitive event in sports and the arts that Apollo hosted in his sacred city of Delphi every other year, were less than six weeks away. Apollo and my sisters were, of course, in attendance at the committee meeting. Athena came as promised. Hephaestus was working as master engineer, AKA Builder and Fixer of Everything, as always. Aglaea had volunteered as chief medic for the event. Ares was a judge and Hermes was overseeing the vendors. Dionysus would most likely handle refreshments for the immortal guests, but he never signed up until the last minute. Artemis, who was supposed to judge women’s archery, was notably absent from the meeting. Also on the notably absent list was Aphrodite, who had not been asked to join this year’s committee. The beauty pageant, once her pet project, had been stricken from the roster after last Games’ debacle.

Eros and Psyche flew into our dining hall right as the meeting was being called to order. “What are you two doing here?” asked Apollo.

“I heard your sis was going to be a no-show,” said Eros. “I’d hate to see the hopes and dreams of all those bow-slinging chicks get wiped out by a little Olympian drama, so I thought I’d volunteer to substitute.”

“You want to judge women’s archery?” Apollo reiterated. “That’s thoughtful of you.”

“Hey, I’m a happily married man, and I resent your implication!”

“Eros’ motives are innocent,” his empath bride confirmed. “As for me, Aglaea, do you remember what we talked about?”

“Right,” said Aglaea. “Psyche’s been working on something she calls ‘sports psychology’. She’d like to work under me and offer her services to the athle- Ares, shut your mouth, and keep in mind I’m sleeping with the guy who makes your weapons and armor.”

“Sure, keep telling people that,” Ares mocked. “Wait ’til the little bastard comes out with wings or horns or some other guy’s face.”

“Ares, where’s your girlfriend tonight?” Athena changed the subject.

“Girlfriend,” Ares scoffed. “We don’t need words for each other.”

“I’m sure a lack of words works best for both of you,” said Athena.

“Oh, yeah? Well, you knocked up a chick,” Ares taunted in reply.

“I did no such thing! I’ve kept my vow,” Athena protested.

“Then your girlfriend hasn’t,” said Ares.

“And what about yours?” said Athena.

“Don’t have one,” Ares maintained.

“Well, then,” Athena tried again. “Let me rephrase that. Where is the goddess who normally sleeps with you but, according to rumor, has been otherwise occupied since Persephone’s feast?”

“Huh?”

“It’s just a rumor,” said Apollo.

“She’s saying Aphrodite dumped you,” Hephaestus translated. I got the feeling Aglaea thought he was being a little more smug than necessary.

“For a twink,” Hermes added.

“Shut up, Hermes!” Apollo bristled.

“Is ‘himbo’ better?” asked Hermes.

“No, it isn’t,” said Apollo.

“Cool,” said Hermes. “I’ll go with that one.”

“Just leave him alone, will you?” Apollo ordered, going completely on the defensive.

“I’m not doing anything to him,” said Hermes. “I’m just saying, he’s kind of an airheaded skank.”

“He is not, and since when do you find those qualities objectionable anyway?” said Apollo.

“Hey!” said Ares. “Are you saying my woman’s been blowing me off for that-”

“Persephone’s son,” Athena finished Ares’ sentence for him, likely in much different words than he would’ve used. “And Aphrodite’s ‘your woman’ now? I thought you two didn’t need words.”

“Damn right she’s my woman, and if I catch that fruitcake with her, I’ll make him my woman, too.”

Apollo jumped up and gripped the table with his fists. “Ares, if I find you’ve so much as leered in his general direction, I will lay you out in front of the entire Pantheon. I’ve done it before, and you know I’ll do it again.” I believed him. When Apollo was about Adonis’ age, he’d taken up boxing for the sole purpose of getting Ares to quit bullying him. Suffice it to say, it worked.

“What, you jealous?” Ares taunted. “No problem, there’ll be some of this left for you when I’m done with your little boyfriend.” Okay, it kinda sorta mostly worked.

Calliope rose next to Apollo. “I will not have this kind of talk in my house,” she commanded. “Ares, you need to leave. Now.”

“I’ll leave when I want to leave, bitch,” Ares folded his arms.

“You want to leave,” Apollo said as the rest of us Muses stood in unison.

“Ares, get out or I’ll call Mom,” Hephaestus quietly told his brother. “She’s been pretty mad at you since you got blood all over the marble at Persephone’s feast.”

“Fine, I’m going. But you can’t watch your boyfriend all the time, Twinkletoes.” With those parting words, Ares disappeared.

“Can we discuss actual business now?” Clio suggested.

“Excellent idea,” said Apollo. “Now, Aglaea, are you sure you’ll be able to handle the medic setup so soon after the baby’s born?” Assuming Aglaea delivered on time, her baby would only be a few weeks old by the Games.

“Childcare? Heard of it?” Aglaea replied. Psyche’s eager smile and nod implied that she’d been chosen for this task.

“Maternity leave? Heard of it?” Apollo persisted.

“You know the baby’s going to be healthy and Aglaea’s future looks good,” I reminded Apollo.

“I also know that my ‘knowledge’ can be incomplete,” Apollo replied.

“Did you have a vision about the baby?” Aglaea gasped in delight.

“Who does she look like? I mean, what does she look like?” asked Hephaestus. Aglaea glared at him. “I just meant more like me or you,” he disclaimed. In any case, his question was overlapped by a chorus of demands from my sisters, all wanting to hear about the vision.

“Hephaestus,” Apollo said with a heavy sigh, “I…I’m sorry, I don’t know how to break this to you after everything you’ve been through.” He paused for dramatic effect before revealing the awful truth: “Your daughter looks just like you.”

Hephaestus was still for a moment. I wasn’t sure if he was going to laugh or cry. He went with a third option: grabbing his wife’s face and kissing her for all he was worth. Through some combination of the three, he kept whispering to her, “She looks just like me.” Aglaea held him and whispered back, “I told you she would.” The scene would have been picture perfect if not for a brave smile masking downcast eyes on the boy at the end of the table. Eros kissed Psyche on the cheek and quietly slipped out of the room, leaving his dad and stepmom to their celebration.

The meeting finally got around to some actual plan-making. As soon as the committee was discussing business that didn’t concern me (well, it might have concerned me, but I was bored to death), I followed Eros’ example and sneaked out of the Museum. I flew Pegasus to the place I knew Eros would be: the gazebo in my hollow. The gazebo he’d built there for Psyche when they’d first met.

“Hey, kiddo,” I said as I dismounted. Eros’ back was to me. He didn’t turn around.

“I’m not a kid anymore,” he reminded me. “I’m a lot older than I was a couple years ago.”

“I guess so,” I acknowledged. “It’s hard to remember since you still look the same, and half the time you still act the same. But, yeah, since we planned the last Pythian Games, you’ve fallen in love, gotten engaged, gotten married, your parents got divorced, your dad’s started a new family…”

“Do you know what a love child is?” he sulked, leaning against a birch pillar, still facing away from me.

“I’m familiar with the term.”

“It’s what I supposedly am,” he answered himself. “I’m not really as dumb as I wish I was. I know that my father is either that guy in there who was threatening to rape my mom’s shag-of-the-week, or that other guy who only hooks up with my mom when they’re both bored with the people they’re really into, and who doesn’t think twice about spreading gossip about her.”

He snapped a twig off the pillar and absently threw it in no particular direction. “Did you see Dad’s face when Apollo said the baby looks just like him? Did you feel him and Aglaea feeling at each other?”

“I’m not an empath,” I reminded him. Eros isn’t a universal empath like Psyche, but as a love god, he can sense feelings of love and desire as well as create them.

He turned to look at me. “What I felt was a woman who knows she made a baby with the love of her life, and a man who knows he’s going to be a father for the first time.” He carelessly flipped his hair, but his voice wavered. “Who’s the real love child?”

“I remember when your parents were expecting you,” I said. “You were all your dad could talk about. Every time I saw him, he’d tell me, ‘This time we’re keeping it. This time we get to have a real family.’ And when you were born, he was crazy about you. He’d take you to the forge with him whenever your mom would let him. Sometimes she’d even go with you guys and the three of you would have these cute little family moments. Your dad was so proud of you the first time you picked up a hammer, and when you mixed your first alloy. Do you remember that?”

“Kind of,” he smiled a little. “Hey, remember when I made that spear?”

“Oh, man,” I laughed. “Your dad must’ve told me that story a million times.”

“I was just a kid,” he remembered. “When are humans that size? Like, nine? Ten?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“I’d gotten this great idea for a love spear. You know, so I could get two people at once and have them stuck together so they couldn’t run away from their feelings? Dad helped me with the forging and Mom helped me with the love spells.” He laughed at his youthful naiveté. “It’d still be a great idea if I could figure out how to make it invisible. And if I could think of something to call it besides a love spear.”

“Ares came in just when you’d finished your first prototype,” I prompted him. “Your parents were both there.”

“Yeah, and the spear was really heavy, but I’d enchanted it so I could lift it easy,” he grinned. “So I’m flying around with it and Ares comes in to pick up some weapon. He’s all like, ‘Hey, you’re finally acting like a real man. Whatcha got there?’ And I’m like, ‘It’s a love spear.’ And I’m all excited because Ares never cared about my inventions before. And then he’s laughing at me, and calling it fruity and stuff. Mom didn’t say anything, but I could tell she was mad at him.” I was relieved to hear Eros falling back into his normal speech patterns. Philosopher/Poet Eros always concerns me a bit. “So then I’m like, ‘Here, you want to hold it?’ And I drop the spear into Ares’ hands and he practically falls over! Dad goes, ‘You want some help with that?’ But noooo, Big Bad Ares doesn’t need help with anything. So he stands there for the longest time holding the damn thing up like the moron that he is. After awhile he goes, ‘Here, kid, want your spear back?’ And I said, ‘Nah, keep it.’ He would’ve been stuck holding it forever if his troops hadn’t summoned him.” Eros ended the story with a real smile and real laughter. “Mom was pretty embarrassed about Ares looking so the way he is. Dad loved it.”

“Won’t it be cool when you and your dad can help Euphrosyne learn the forge together?” I suggested.

“Oh man, that’ll be awesome!” he grinned. “I’ll make her her own little baby quiver and bow when she’s born. Don’t worry, the arrows’ll be mostly powerless. Hey, I wonder what kind of powers she’ll have? Aglaea’s a healer. You think she’ll be able to do that?” He paused in rapture at the beauty of his next thought. “We can bring the spear back! She can heal people after I spear them!”

“Your dad and Aglaea are so lucky to have you for a babysitter.”

“I just hope it kills Psyche’s baby fever,” he laughed. “Whenever we talk about it, she goes into empath mode and says I’m being selfish. I am, kind of, but not how she thinks. She thinks I’m afraid of the responsibility. That’s not it, though. We’ve got all the time in the world to make babies. I guess two years feels like a long time to someone born human, but I feel like I just met her. I want to keep her all to myself for a while.”

“Have you told her that?”

“Are you nuts? I’d sound like a total sap.”

“She married a love god,” I reminded him. “I think she’s cool with total saps.”

“She is,” Psyche said.

“How long has she been behind me?” asked Eros.

“Since about the time you were wrapping up your story about the love spear,” I replied. “Those butterfly wings are really quiet. You guys stay here as long as you want; I’m heading home.” I mounted Pegasus and urged him toward the Museum before the sapfest could begin.

“Hey, Eros,” I heard Psyche giggle as we flew away. “Turn around.”

I was able to grab a couple hours of dreamless sleep before breakfast. Apparently no one had noticed that I’d come in just as the sun was rising. Good. I didn’t want any questions about Callisto or the Fates. But I had plenty of questions myself, and I was scheming to get some answers.

I carried out my morning routine as usual to avoid arousing suspicion. To make extra sure my behavior was totally normal, I picked a fight with Apollo over our choreography. At least, I tried to. Apollo was too distracted to care. Oh, well. I could be distracted, too. I went over my plans in my head as I mindlessly ran through chorale exercises.

Once our morning practices were out of the way and lunch was over, I had the rest of the day to set my plan in motion. I locked myself in my room and summoned Hermes. When a goddess has to send a secret message, who does she call but the trustworthy honest reliable only Messenger of the Gods?

Hermes promptly appeared in the middle of my room. He observed our surroundings and gave me a suggestive smile. “I’m on duty right now, but how about tonight?” he winked.

“Slut,” I laughed, smacking him with a pillow. He laughed with me. “Sorry to disappoint you,” I said, “but I summoned you here on business. Business I don’t want my sisters or Apollo to know about.”

“Speaking of your sisters, how’s Urania these days? Is she seeing anybody?” he asked, as though the question were completely random and irrelevant.

“Why? Did the Platinum Princeling knock you further down the queue?”

“Just making a friendly inquiry about a friend,” he dismissed. “And I guess you’re not an Adonis fan either?”

“Why wouldn’t I be a fan of someone who turns in to a completely different person depending on who he’s hitting on?” I replied with biting laughter.

“And who he’s hitting on isn’t a factor at all, I’m sure?”

“Okay, enough about Bitch Boy,” I waved him off. “Give Aphrodite this message.” I handed him a sealed mini-scroll that I’d prepared. “I’ve enchanted the seal so that only she can open it, so don’t even try.”

“Of course not,” he winked as he reached for the scroll. Hermes really can be quite appealing if you’re into the smooth-talking gentleman con artist type. Which I’m totally not. Honest.

“Promise?” I jerked it away from him.

“Sure.”

“Promise what?”

Hermes smiled at me like a little boy who’d been caught stealing cookies and knew that, by the end of his scolding, not only would his mother have forgiven him, she’d be baking him a fresh batch of cookies to make up for the stolen ones being stale. “I promise not to open or read this top-secret scroll that you’re giving me for Aphrodite,” he pledged.

“Okay, then.” I smacked his palm with the scroll as I handed it over. I doubted his intentions, but the wording sounded as good as it could get.

Once Hermes was gone, I went to Calliope’s room. My level-headed sister seemed like the best choice for a confidante, and I wanted to sort through all this drama with someone. Well, the Callisto drama. Calliope still didn’t know about my trials with the Fates, and I wanted to keep it that way.

But Calliope wasn’t in her room or anywhere else on the grounds of the Parnassus Museum. I tried summoning her. She didn’t answer. I summoned her again. This time she summoned me back. I answered her summons and found myself in the throne room of our old Museum on Helicon.

Or what used to be a throne room. In place of the nine thrones were a few chaises, cushions, and low tables. Demeter was lounging on one chaise, holding a goblet that was being filled by one of her handmaids. Calliope, seated at the other end of the chaise, was dipping bread in olive oil. On another chaise, Persephone sat erect, alert, and vigilant between Adonis and Apollo. Apollo was trying to respect Persephone’s presence while Adonis was trying to ignore it.

“Thalia,” Apollo started. “What are you doing here?”

“I invited her,” said Calliope.

“Have a seat,” Persephone ordered, showing pleasure at this turn of events in her dark, severe way. She moved closer to Adonis to make room for me between herself and Apollo. Apollo obliviously followed her, closing the gap. She shoved him back. With great trepidation, I seated myself in the empty spot.

“Thalia,” Adonis rose and demurely shook my hand. “I’m glad you joined us. I didn’t realize who you were when we met at the feast yesterday. I know your sons, the Corybantes. We were just talking about them.”

“Right! My sons! Well, our sons,” I said, patting Apollo’s knee. “Did Mom set you guys up on a playdate or something?”

“Or something,” Adonis laughed, sliding onto Persephone’s lap. Which, at his age, should’ve been disturbing, but was somehow just plain adorable. I wanted to take him into my own lap. Then I noticed Apollo thinking the same thing, and suddenly I wanted to rip the kid’s jugular out with my teeth.

“Adonis was telling us that Mom finally gave up trying to give the Corybantes individual names,” said Calliope. “They won’t hear of it. It’s as if they’re one mind split among seven bodies.” Calliope had spent a few weeks in Hades with the Corybantes after they were born, but she’d never talked about it much. I wondered if she had tried to name them herself in that time.

“It doesn’t make sense to me how they all move in unison,” said Persephone. “What’s the advantage of having seven bodies if they’re all doing the same thing?”

“Who says there has to be an advantage?” Calliope defended. “As long as they’re happy and productive. Mom says they make great acolytes.”

“Whatever,” Persephone dismissed, bored already. “Really, though,” she addressed me and Apollo, “if you two have kids again, put some thought into it next time. Those guys are just weird.”

“We won’t have kids again.”

“It’ll never happen again.”

“We were drunk.”

“A one-night stand.”

“These things happen.”

“We’re just friends,” Apollo concluded our cacophony of protestations. I found myself wishing there was a spear handy.

“Excuse me?” Calliope scowled at the Iron Queen. “There is nothing wrong with those boys. Nothing. They’re unique, that’s all. They’re happy, and they’re not causing anyone any trouble, which is more than can be said for most of this pantheon. And if – if Thalia has a hundred more children-”

I’m not having a hundred more children, I mouthed as I subtly shook my head.

“- I wouldn’t care if every last one of them were exactly like the Corybantes, because they’d be my…nephews, and I’d love them no matter what.”

“I’m bored now,” said Persephone, in case her countenance wasn’t doing an adequate job.

“Adonis, do you have any other friends in Hades?” Demeter changed the subject. “Anyone special?” she gently teased.

“I don’t know anybody else,” Adonis said, more sad than petulant. “Unless you count Cerberus, and he’s really Dad’s anyway.” Cerberus is Hades’ dog. He has three heads and is awesome. “The river people are afraid of Mom, Charon doesn’t like company, and I’m not allowed into the Land of the Dead.”

“Really? Why not?” I asked, more to Persephone than to him. My sisters and I had never been allowed there even when we lived in Hades, but I’d thought the prince would have such privileges.

“Only the King and Queen are allowed in the Land of the Dead,” said Persephone. “You know Hades wouldn’t even let me go there alone until after we’d been married for a few decades.”

“But the first summer after your wedding, you told me you’d already been there alone,” I recalled.

“What’s your point?” Persephone replied.

“You won’t let me go because I might find someone besides you and Dad to hang out with,” said Adonis.

What little patience Persephone had for her son was wearing thin. “They’re dead people! You know who hangs out with dead people? Other dead people. Do you want to be dead people?”

“You might give it a try. Could be fun,” I suggested.

“Thalia!” Apollo remonstrated.

“No, I mean like how I tried to sneak into the Elysian Fields all the time when I was kid,” was my innocent reply that I totally meant.

“He’s a demigod. You shouldn’t joke about that, and neither should he,” said Apollo. Really? Nothing about admiring my optimism or any other such pathetic attempt at mockery? Just jump to the poor baby’s defense and ignore Thalia? This was bad. Adonis was looking at Apollo like Apollo was the hero in an epic and Adonis was a princess being saved from a monster. Apollo was totally falling for it. I wanted to smack both of them with my shepherd’s crook and then kiss Apollo to make it better.

Adonis reached over me and took Apollo’s hand. “It doesn’t bother me,” he reassured him. Persephone pulled Adonis’ hand back.

“See? It doesn’t bother him,” I said.

“No one would harm the son of Hades,” said Adonis.

“Actually, a lot of people would,” said Apollo. I could think of one person off the top of my head.

“Listen to him,” said Persephone. Adonis evaded her grasp and gracefully moved to a floor cushion on the other end of the chaise.

“I’m a demigod, not a mortal,” Adonis reminded Apollo once he was comfortably leaning against his lap. Apollo looked somewhat less comfortable, but nonetheless captivated. “I know you’ve seen mortal men die in horrible ways,” said Adonis. “The Corybantes told me about Hyacinthus, your lover. They have the memories of the dead, you know.”

“And they told you about his memories?” Apollo was doing a good job keeping his composure, but I could tell the memory was affecting him. Brining up Hyacinthus was a pretty cheap trick. I didn’t know if I was more upset at Adonis for doing it or Apollo for falling for it.

“They did,” said Adonis. “They told me Hyacinthus died knowing you loved him. He didn’t blame you for the accident, even though he knew you’d blame yourself. He knew you would never hurt him.”

“It wasn’t an accident!” I interjected. “It was murder.”

“Thalia, it’s alright, he didn’t know,” Apollo tried to quiet me.

“Obviously, so I’m telling him,” I said. “Another god wanted Hyacinthus, but Hyacinthus wouldn’t cheat on Apollo. So one day while Apollo and Hyacinthus were throwing the discus, this other god turned invisible, caught Apollo’s discus in midair, and threw it at Hyacinthus’ head. Apollo didn’t do anything to cause it, and there was nothing he could’ve done to stop it.”

Adonis seemed less upset by the story than by the fact that he’d gotten it totally wrong. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I had no idea.”

“It’s fine,” Apollo comforted him. “Of course you didn’t.”

“How could you?” I said. “You weren’t even here.”

“Neither were you,” Apollo reminded me.

Touché. It’d happened when I was living with Triton, Son of Poseidon, Prince of the Ocean Realm. “I would’ve been there if I weren’t dealing with some issues of my own,” I said. “Like the fact that Hestia turned me into a mermaid and wouldn’t turn me back. I came home as soon as I was back to normal.”

“You came home because you broke up with Triton,” said Apollo. “The timing was a coincidence. You didn’t even know Hyacinthus was dead.”

“How was I supposed to? I lived in the ocean for months, and I got maybe two messages from you the whole time.”

“Sorry I only replied to two of the three I got from you,” said Apollo.

“Oh, I remember this now,” said Demeter. “Wasn’t that when Hestia had your sense of humor for a few months?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I accidentally traded her my sense of humor for a mermaid body. I can’t shapeshift.”

“I’m glad she traded back in the end,” said Demeter. “It was an interesting diversion, but she just wasn’t our Hestia that way.”

“I’m glad, too,” I said. I left it at that. But as far as I knew, Hestia actually hadn’t traded back. She’d refused when I’d asked her. I never did figure out the identity of my secret benefactor. I knew it had to be one of the children of the Titans since they were the only creatures powerful enough, but the only ones who’d known about my problem at the time had all denied it. “And,” I said to Apollo, “you know I would’ve come home as soon as I heard about Hyacinthus if I had heard. Even if I’d had to walk on my hands and drag my fishtail all the way to the funeral.”

“If I’d written you about it,” Apollo sighed, “that would’ve made it real.”

An impulse told me to take Apollo’s hand or put an arm around him or something. Slut Boy beat me to it. “Humans are so fragile,” Adonis rested his head on Apollo’s thigh. “And I can understand why you’d worry about me after seeing something like that. But it takes more than a stray discus to harm a demigod.”

Apollo gently raised Adonis’ head. “Demigods aren’t invulnerable,” he said. “All it takes is angering the wrong god who wields the right weapon.” Like maybe a shepherd’s crook? “Which is why you really should stay away from Aphrodite. You’ve already got Ares’ attention. The only reason he doesn’t commit more crimes of passion is that his ego blinds him to competition. If he sensed a true rival, especially in someone like you, he would find a way to hurt you.”

“Someone like me?” Adonis slowly blinked his eyelashes in that coy, affected way he had.

“Someone who doesn’t fit Ares’ idea of what a man should be,” Apollo took his dainty pink hand.

Adonis pressed Apollo’s hand to his cheek. “Ares has nothing to worry about,” he said. “When I’m with you, I hardly think of Aphrodite.”

“Oh, get a room,” I said.

“No one is getting a room,” said Persephone.

“Of course,” Apollo blushed, becoming mindful once more of other people’s presence. “Persephone, I hope you know, I would never do anything to take advantage of your son.” Yeah, Apollo taking advantage of Adonis was not the scenario I was worried about here. “But do you mind if we take a walk on the grounds? We’ll stay where you can see us.” An incoherent jumble of thoughts and images rolled around in my head, with the phrases MY house, MY grounds, bitchwhoreskank, and kill it with fire!!! featuring prominently among them.

“Aw,” Demeter cooed with a sentimental smile. “You’re just as cute as when you gave that speech to me all those centuries ago.”

“And I turned him down flat all by myself,” Persephone reminded her.

“You made him cry,” Demeter reminisced.

“I did not cry! I didn’t cry,” he assured Adonis.

He’d cried.

“Honey, let them go. What could possibly happen?” Demeter chided.

“He’s nine months old!” said Persephone.

“Remind me, how old were you when I so foolishly took you with me on a fateful visit to the Underworld?” Demeter asked.

“Ten months, and I was very mature for my age,” said Persephone. She had been. That was when my sisters and I first met her. We were still living at Lake Mnemosyne at the time. I’d liked Persephone. She was snarky, sarcastic, and awesome. Then she met Hades and turned into a lovestruck mental case right before my eyes. I contemplated how glad I was that that had never happened to me.

“And did my mature little princess listen to me when I told her to stay away from Hades, or did she just invent ways to court him behind my back for a couple of decades?” Demeter queried.

“Whatever,” Persephone gave up. “You two go ahead. But you will stay where I can see you. And think about the host of monsters in Tartarus who would give half their teeth and tentacles for a day pass.”

“You be careful,” Calliope sighed, the words Here we go again written all over her face.

“I won’t let anything happen to him,” Apollo laughed.

“Right, him too,” Calliope nodded. “Thalia, you want to come on home with me?”

“Sure.” I jumped up to follow her home. I’d seen enough.

I forgot all about filling Calliope in on the Callisto situation until long after everyone was in bed. I decided the conversation could wait. I didn’t want to wake Calliope, nor did I want to be late for the next stage in my plan.

At midnight I paced my floor, fully awake and dressed for company. The instructions in my secret message to Aphrodite had been clear enough. That was, alas, no guarantee that Aphrodite would follow them.

Sure enough, instead of teleporting to my room as I’d asked, Aphrodite summoned me to her quarters on Olympus. I answered her summons and hoped very, very much that she was alone. No such luck. Upon glimpsing figures in Aphrodite’s sumptuous canopy bed, I quickly shielded my eyes. “It’s okay,” she laughed. “We haven’t even started.” With much trepidation, I took my hands away from my face.

I stared dumbfounded at the sight of Aphrodite nestled into Adonis’ shoulder, her head resting on his pecs, his arm shielding her bare breasts. This was not the boy I had seen sitting at Apollo’s knee less than twelve hours earlier. This was the man who had swept the Goddess of Love off her feet and challenged the God of War for mating privileges.

“Wha…?”

“It’s alright, Apollo knows,” said Adonis in that voice that sent vibrations from my chest to my ankles and threatened to collapse everything in between.

“Okay,” I managed.

“I’d have invited him to join us, but Aphrodite says he’ll only do one at a time,” he half-apologized, absently petting his companion.

“It’s true, isn’t it?” said Aphrodite.

“Um, I don’t, what, you. Lady. Goddess person. I really need to talk to you in private.”

“I’ll just be a minute,” she gave Adonis her regrets. “Don’t start without me.” She got out of bed without bothering to cover up, and led me through a doorway to a room with a large heated pool. She closed the door behind us. “What’s so important that you have to talk to me about it alone in the middle of the night when I have company?”

“When don’t you have ‘company’?”

“Do you need me or not?”

“I do,” I admitted.

“You want me to make Apollo fall in love with you!” she clasped her hands in eager delight. “So in love that he won’t even look at another woman or man! It’ll be the easiest thing in the world. The feelings are already there. I just need to push them to the forefront and remove the obstacles in his mind. It’ll only take a second. When you get  back to Parnassus, he’ll be waiting for you.”

“No! No, no, no! That’s not at all why I’m here. Where is this coming from? Look, I just need some information.”

“I can’t show you anyone else’s files,” she said.

“It’s about you.”

“Oh. Well in that case, your curiosity isn’t my problem.” She turned to go.

“It’s about Artemis.”

She turned back.

“Callisto, one of Artemis’ hunters, believes Artemis slept with her and got her pregnant,” I said. “I don’t.”

Peals of laughter followed. “Why not? I’ve never heard of a goddess getting a woman pregnant, but Artemis would be the one to do it,” she said between gasps for air. “I’ve always wondered how much alike those twins are under the chitons, haven’t you?”

“No, I haven’t, ever.” Ew. “And you know what I’m getting at.”

“Do I?”

“You’re a shapeshifter and a fertility goddess,” I said. “Your ego was bruised when you couldn’t grant Athena’s request. This has your fingerprints all over it.”

“My fingers haven’t been anywhere near Artemis or her hunters,” Aphrodite dismissed.

“No one has to know except me, Artemis, and Athena,” I persisted.

“But I didn’t do it.”

“You’re the prime suspect,” I said.

“But why would I lie about this?” she argued. “I wish I did think of it, but I didn’t. It was probably a male shapeshifter playing out some goddess-on-girl fantasy.”

“Callisto said she was perfect. Every mole, every birthmark. What man could have seen that much of Artemis?”

“I haven’t seen that much of Artemis. She won’t bathe on Olympus. Just in her own river. If you ask me, Athena’s the ‘prime suspect’.”

“Athena?”

“Everyone knows she and Artemis swim together. You don’t think Athena’s paid attention during their little splashfests? Getting Artemis to believe Callisto made up something like this would be the perfect way to get rid of her. And, sure, Artemis wears the man’s chiton, but Athena’s the one with the huge sword. Now, go on back to your lonely little bed in your lonely little room and leave me to my company.”

Moments after I’d fallen asleep the night of Persephone’s feast, I woke up on the floor of a dark tower at the top of the universe. The only lights were from the stars outside the high windows, and from the glowing white robes of the three goddesses who towered over me, cackling.

“Hey, you guys want to hear a joke?” I deadpanned. “How do you make the Fates laugh?”

“How do you make the Fates laugh?” Lachesis asked the question back in her hollow, sonorous voice, prodding me to my feet with her measuring rod.

“Tell them your plans,” I delivered the punch line.

“Like your plans for Athena and Artemis to ‘live happily ever after’?” Clotho gloated. “Since you avoided choosing a new test subject for so long, we arranged for one to choose you. Athena, you see, is a special case.” She placed her hand on top of my head and turned me so I faced her spinning wheel. “When Athena was called into being,” she went on, “we had a specific purpose for her. We needed this Goddess of Wisdom to dedicate her life to that purpose and not be distracted by such vain, judgment-clouding elements as love. So I decreed that she would never be wife nor mother. She was fated from birth never to desire the love of man.”

“And you didn’t see any loophole in that at all?” A tiny snicker eluded my most valiant efforts at solemnity.

“Not until we saw Athena invent the aulos,” Clotho said.

“I remember that,” I said. “One day we invited the Goddesses of the Twelve to a picnic at Helicon, and-”

“We are telling the story,” Lachesis interrupted. She waved her hand. A magnificent tapestry as long as time itself appeared on the wall behind the spinning wheel. The tapestry scrolled down so fast that it became a blur of light. Atropos poked me with her shears and shoved me into it.

The next thing I knew, I was in a scene that had taken place ages ago. It was, as I’d said, an informal feast on Helicon. All nine Muses including my past self were seated on the lawn. So were Apollo, Artemis, Aphrodite, Athena, and Hera. We’d invited Demeter and Hestia too, but Hestia didn’t like to leave Olympus, and Demeter had spent the day with Poseidon, King of Ocean Realm. This was before Poseidon had married Amphitrite. Back then, Demeter actually admitted to their on-again-off-again relationship.

Storytelling logic seemed to dictate that I was a mere observer, seeing but unseen. I crept up behind my past self and dangled my fingers in her face to test this theory. It was correct. My past self was sitting next to Apollo on a picnic blanket. Though the guest list was supposed to be goddesses only, we’d made an exception for Apollo as usual since he was kind of an honorary Muse. A mascot, if you will. Little did we know back then that someday he would be our appointed governor.

“I wish I’d been allowed to bring Coronis,” Apollo was telling Past Me. “I don’t know why Artemis and Calliope don’t like her.”

“Because they care about you and they know Coronis doesn’t,” Real Me replied unheard as Past Me sat in incredulous silence.

“I couldn’t ask for a more perfect girlfriend,” Apollo went on. “Of course, I’ve never really had a girlfriend before, so I don’t have anything to compare her to, but Coronis is truly incomparable. Did I tell you she loves music?”

“Only about a thousand times,” Past Me replied indifferently.

“She loves music almost as much as she loves cheating on you with her mortal ex,” Real Me shouted in Apollo’s unseeing face. “Don’t worry, though. The baby you don’t know about yet is yours. She’ll be faithful just long enough to get knocked up with a demigod.”

“And I mean real music, not that cheap crowd-pleasing drivel,” said Apollo.

“The inability to please a crowd isn’t an automatic mark of quality,” Past Me argued.

“Coronis knows quality when she hears it. She says my singing is the best she’s ever heard,” Apollo boasted.

“Coronis says a lot of things. A few of them might actually be true,” Real Me smacked him upside the head. My hand went through his unaffected skull.

“It probably is the best she’s heard,” said Past Me. “To her ears, you’re competing with mortals. If she ever heard another god or even a satyr or nymph sing, that might make a difference.”

“But I’m a music god,” Apollo defended himself. “And besides Hermes, I’m the only non-Muse who’s invented a musical instrument.”

Athena clinked her goblet with a fork. “Hey, everyone,” she announced. “I want to show you this instrument I invented.”

Past Me was pleased. “I wish you’d brought Coronis, too,” she said.

“I didn’t know you were a musician,” Artemis said, interested and a little impressed. I moved closer to Athena so I could see the main action.

“I thought I’d try branching out,” Athena said with an unmistakably flirty smile as she produced a two-pronged flute. Hera watched with condescension, and Aphrodite with amusement.

“It looks like two-” Aphrodite started.

“Flutes,” Athena cut her off. “See? With it having two prongs and one mouthpiece, a single flautist can harmonize with herself.”

“If she’s such a good flautist, why is she single?” Aphrodite smirked.

“Because shut your face,” Real Me said. This was fun.

“Because no man can tempt me, not even the Sons of Hera,” was Athena’s cool reply.

“Show me how you hold it?” Hera requested. Athena demonstrated. “Aphrodite is entirely wrong about the resemblance,” Hera concluded. Athena was pleased. Aphrodite wasn’t. Both Past and Real Me were thoroughly amused at Hera’s observation.

Athena began playing a song on her instrument before any further heckling could delay her debut. True to her word, she was able to play both melody and harmony at once. Artemis listened with her eyes closed. A peaceful smile spread on her face. Her tawny head swayed gently to the rhythm.

Hera and Aphrodite started snickering. Athena ignored them and kept playing. Artemis ignored them and kept listening. Aphrodite elbowed Artemis. Artemis opened her eyes to discern the source of the jab and exact retribution accordingly, but Aphrodite directed her attention to Athena.

Past Me was doing everything she could to keep a straight face. She was, to my credit, succeeding. Since no one could hear Real Me, I went ahead and laughed. Not a mean-spirited cackle like Hera and Aphrodite were verging on, but a friendly, good-natured laugh at a genuinely funny scene. Athena always looks so regal and fabulous and dignified, never a gown rumpled, a hair out of place, or a piece of armor smudged. However, at the moment, playing the aulos was making the goddess’ face look like a puffer fish. Her inflated, reddened cheeks were reducing her fierce grey eyes to tiny slits. Her exquisite nose was changing shape with every puff. I still laugh when I think about it, though I don’t dare tell Athena.

No wonder Artemis couldn’t help letting a giggle escape.

Athena wrenched the aulos from her mouth in exasperation. “What?” she demanded.

“Athena, come here.” Artemis led her closer to the Springs. “Watch yourself in the water. You’ll laugh too, I promise,”

Athena watched her own reflection as she played about a measure and a half. She watched Artemis’ amused reflection beside hers. Her arms went limp, the aulos dangling in her right hand. She stared at Artemis, hurt and betrayal in her countenance. Hera and Aphrodite just laughed harder. Artemis put her arm around Athena. I remembered that Artemis was about to whisper something, and that I’d never found out what it was. I got right up next to her so I could hear this time.

“It’s alright,” she murmured to Athena in soft, comforting tones. “Ignore them. You don’t have to be pretty all the time.”

Ah. That explained what came next.

Athena furiously pulled away from Artemis and cast away the aulos, sending it flying over the horizon. “You know what? Screw this. The Muses and your prettyboy brother can keep this music crap. I’m sticking to wisdom, strategy, and crafting. Unless you want to come by and laugh at me next time one of Ares’ goons gets blood on my armor.”

“Athena, I wasn’t-”

“Just forget it,” said Athena. “Damn that stupid instrument and damn the next person stupid enough to pick it up.”

“You want to leave the party and go shoot something?” Artemis offered in an awkward attempt to make peace. “That always makes me feel better.”

“Just leave me alone.” Athena disappeared.

Aphrodite, delighted as always to see a fellow Olympian goddess humiliated, laughed, “I don’t know why she’s so obsessed with her looks, anyway. She’s made it clear enough that she doesn’t want a man. Why else would she care?”

A disembodied hand grabbed me by the shoulder and pulled me back into the Fates’ Tower. Clotho spoke. “Why else indeed, when I had ruled that Athena would be a virgin for eternity, knowing neither marriage nor motherhood? Though Athena’s heart knew not the desire for man, she had come to long for the favor of Leto’s daughter. However, we had made Artemis, as Hestia before her and Athena after her, immune to Aphrodite’s powers.”

Wait. Twelve times one is twelve, twelve times two is twenty-four, twelve times three is thirty-six, I chanted in my head, trying to mask my true thoughts from the Fates as I untangled them. How old was Aphrodite? No one, including Aphrodite herself, knew. No one knew who her parents were or where she’d come from, either. She had simply appeared, fully grown, with no memories whatsoever. She called herself Aphrodite, but she couldn’t even remember if she’d made up the name herself or if someone had given it to her. This had happened over fifteen years after Artemis’ birth and Athena’s creation, and over a hundred years after the Titans created Hestia. But Clotho had just said that she had fated all three goddesses to be immune to Aphrodite’s powers. Did that mean Aphrodite was born before any of them? Or did it mean Clotho had seen Aphrodite in the future? But if Clotho could see the future, why did Athena’s love for Artemis take her by surprise?

“What are you doing?” Atropos asked.

“I have a question.” I concentrated on my words for a moment rather than the multiplication table I was reciting. I scrambled for a random question unrelated to the chain of questions I was trying to hide from the Fates.

“Then ask it,” said Atropos.

“Can a sufficiently powerful goddess impregnate a woman?” I asked.

“What you really want to know is whether Artemis truly begat a child with Callisto,” Lachesis observed.

“That too.” I said, deciding to go with this line of inquiry. “No, see, you’ve basically established that Artemis and Athena have never gotten together because you decreed that Athena would never be married or bear children. Both of those seem kind of irrelevant. People, especially gods, live as lovers without a marriage contract all the time. Calliope and Oegrus did until he died. There’s no reason to assume Athena would want to marry Artemis if they became lovers. And one would assume that two females can’t conceive a child together. So, is there something different about this female? Would Artemis make Athena pregnant if they ever got it on?”

“Does Artemis know you cannot conceive alone as your mother did?” asked Clotho.

“Not unless Apollo told her.”

“Does she need to know?”

“I guess not,” I conceded.

“Likewise, what business of yours is the nature of her fertility?” Clotho concluded.

“What business do I have with any of this?” I complained.

“Perhaps now you will know your true measure,” said Lachesis. “You have gone against the direct will of the Fates, and already your blessing begins to fail. Athena does not believe for certain that Callisto’s story is true, but she doubts that it is false, which is even more detrimental. Athena’s own heart, which led her to defy our will in the first place, will lead her back to our will.”

Twelve times four is forty-eight, twelve times five is sixty, twelve times six is seventy-two, I resumed my chant. If they needed Athena to doubt Artemis’ story, why not just send me back with the news that Callisto was, in fact, pregnant with Artemis’ baby? So the story must not be true after all. Either Callisto was lying or her baby daddy – baby mama – baby co-producer – was a shapeshifter. I kept up my multiplication tables as I went over a mental list of suspects topped by the men of Olympus. Then I remembered someone who, on the very day I’d met Callisto, had shapeshifted into an uncanny replica of Artemis with the intent of seduction.

Was it possible? Aphrodite was, after all, a fertility goddess…

“We believe we now have all the data we need,” said Atropos. “Conclusion: your ability to influence fate only works in conjunction with a love god or another Muse. Withdraw your blessing now, and we will not trouble you again.”

“I won’t do it,” I quickly answered. “I gave Athena my word. Even if my blessing fails in the end, I have to see it through with all the power I have, whatever that is.” Twelve times seven is eighty-four, twelve times eight is ninety-six, twelve times nine is one hundred eight, I kept up my empty chant. The questions wouldn’t stop, and I didn’t want the Fates to hear them.

“Let her go anyway,” Lachesis stifled a yawn. “Looking too long and too deep into the mysteries of fate is beginning to addle her brain.”

Twelve times eleven is one hundred thirty-two…

“She is an artist. How can you tell?” said Clotho.

Twelve times twelve is one hundred forty-four…

“Your time here is ended,” Atropos slashed her shears shut. “Wake up.”

I did wake up. Much earlier than I’d intended. The sun still hadn’t risen, but the sky hinted that it would soon. With a couple snaps of my fingers, I traded my nightgown for a simple dress. I then floated out to the stable and located Pegasus.

Only the Twelve Olympians can teleport wherever they want. The rest of us are limited to sacred places. If we want to get to a profane place, we have to rely on other modes of transportation. Like Pegasus, my awesome, one-of-a-kind winged stallion. “My hollow,” I ordered him from astride his bare back as I took hold of his mane.

Pegasus walked out the open stable door, cantered about a dozen strides on the dancing lawn, and took flight. I held tight as he flew to the idyllic little hollow that I felt had been carved out of the side of Parnassus just for me. I and I alone knew about this splendidly isolated spot. Well, I guess Eros and Psyche did, too.

And the pale, platinum-haired nymph who had first introduced me to the hollow: Echo.

It could be argued that Echo, not Hephaestus and Aphrodite, was my first challenge with the Fates. When I’d first met Echo over two years ago, she was under a curse. My attempt to break her curse led to her death. I refused to accept that. Apollo brought her back to life with the Cure for Death that his son had invented against both Zeus and Hades’ law. I still wasn’t sure how much I’d had to do with Echo’s resurrection. Apollo remained convinced that he couldn’t have done it without my unrelenting pursuit of a happy ending to Echo’s story.

And here Echo was in my hollow, where I hadn’t seen her since the day we first met. She approached me as I landed Pegasus in a small clearing amidst a ring of trees. “What are you doing here?” I asked as soon as I’d dismounted. “Is everything going okay with Pan?” Pan was Echo’s satyr boyfriend, or had been the last time I checked. Satyrs and nymphs usually take to domesticity like a fish takes to the desert. But Echo and Pan had set up house together in his cave early in their relationship, and both seemed happy with that arrangement.

“Oh, yes, Pan’s great,” Echo assured me. “We’re together. I mean, we’re still living together. Well, we’re still together together, too. But we have to have our own lives, you know. It’s so important for people in a relationship to maintain their own identities. Who wants to be another person’s shadow, right? Pan has his stuff and I have mine. I still hang out with Artemis and the girls when they’re off duty. Pan’s totally supportive. I’m sort of an honorary huntress, even though I’ve been off the payroll for awhile because, you know, Pan. Can’t pretend to be a virgin anymore!”

“Do you come here often?” I asked as she finally stopped for a breath. As much as I liked Echo and was glad to catch up with her, I hoped the answer would be “no”. This hollow was the best place for me to be completely alone, what with eight sisters and an intrusive governor hanging around the Museum all the time.

“Not very often, and I’ve never brought anyone else here before, not even Pan. But, I hate to ask you this, because you’ve done so, so, so much for me already, and I just want to help someone else the way you and your family helped me, and-”

“What is it?” I doubted the answer would include anything peaceful, easy, or trouble-free.

“One of Artemis’ hunters got fired because she’s pregnant. She’s my friend. She doesn’t have anywhere to go, so I’ve been keeping her here. But I haven’t told anyone, not even Pan, or Artemis. She’s kind of scared of Artemis right now because, well, it’s a long story. You won’t tell Apollo, will you? He and Artemis tell each other everything.”

“I don’t think they do,” I said. Actually, I knew they didn’t. Apollo was good at hiding information from Artemis if he thought it might hurt her, and I suspected she reciprocated. “But I won’t tell him. I would like to talk to your friend, though.”

“That’s fair,” Echo accepted. “Come on, she’s in the gazebo.”

Echo took me there. Callisto was reclining against a sapling pillar of the opulent, cushion-strewn gazebo, staring longingly at the moon. A sad melody played on a nearby wind harp. “Callisto?” Echo softly broke her reverie. “This is Thalia the Muse. She wants to talk to you. It’s okay, she’ll help us.”

Callisto turned to face us. Her hunter’s chiton just barely hid her pregnant belly. She probably had about a week before that was no longer true. Either way, the garment only accentuated the change in her breasts. “I remember you,” she said to me. “From the Cronia festival. You’re Artemis’ friend. Could you please talk to her for me? I don’t know why she’s treating me like this.”

“We’re not all that close,” I hastily disclaimed.

“She told you I’m spreading lies about her, didn’t she?” Callisto’s eyes started to mist. “I wouldn’t do that to her. I couldn’t. I just can’t believe she’s doing this to me.”

“What is she doing, exactly?” I asked. “I didn’t get very much of the story.”

“She made love to me and now I’m pregnant,” Callisto replied. “I can understand her doubting that it’s her baby, but she swears we were never even together. Of course it didn’t mean as much to her as it did to me. Why should it? She can have anyone she wants. She could say the word and Athena would be in her bed before she finished saying it. But to tell me it never even happened, and to accuse me of lying when I say it did?”

“And you’re absolutely sure it was her and not a shapeshifter?” I suggested with gentle trepidation.

“We hunters bathe together in the river all the time,” Callisto said, looking rather guilty. “Artemis says it’s safer that way. I’ve…believe me, I know what she looks like. I know some satyrs can shapeshift, but satyrs don’t see that much of her and live. Every mole, every birthmark…it was definitely her.” Well, that ruled out any man on Olympus. Any man in existence, really. My Aphrodite theory was looking more and more plausible. “In fact, that’s how Artemis figured out I was pregnant. I hadn’t told her because I wanted to keep hunting. I think she noticed earlier and was ignoring it as long as she could. My chiton hid it well enough, but naked, it was getting so obvious it was ridiculous. When we’d finished bathing and dressing that day, she took me aside, said she’d noticed I was gaining a little weight, and asked if there was anything I wanted to tell her. She was so nice about it at first. Smiling. Teasing.”

“Other girls have been discovered the same way,” said Echo. “Artemis prefers the hunters to resign before they get pregnant, because we’re supposed to be ‘virgins,’ but she’s still good about it when they don’t. And if it wasn’t their choice, she kills the father whenever it’s possible.”

“I told Artemis the truth,” Callisto continued. “I said, ‘The baby’s yours.’ She’d been acting so warm and maternal, I thought for sure she’d already guessed. But then she seemed confused. She said maybe, if it was a girl and wanted to join her when it grew up. I told her, no, she was the only one I’d ever been with. I hadn’t known it was possible, but the baby had to be hers. Ours.

“She acted like she didn’t know what I was talking about. I didn’t want to cry in front of her, but I couldn’t help it. Like an idiot, I told her how grateful I was she’d chosen me, and that even though I couldn’t expect her to feel as much for me as I did for her, I’d hoped this meant she loved me just a little. I’d never seen her as angry as she got after that, not even the times she’s killed satyrs for watching her bathe.” Callisto leaned into the sapling post and rested her arm around it. “She called me a liar and said she never wanted to see me again.”

I didn’t know what to say. I believed Callisto was telling the truth about what she saw. But in our world, what you see isn’t always what you get.