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  “He will not give up. He’ll die trying to return home.”

  “You know him better than the gods, who can read his thoughts? The thoughts of Odysseus are racked with despair these days.”

  “I fought beside him, my lord. He does not give in to despair.”

  Apollo said, “If I take Odysseus’s part, if I ensure that he is able to return to his home and wife, will you come willingly to my bed?”

  Sinon would have thrown himself off a cliff to help Odysseus. What Apollo asked—it was little enough. “Yes.”

  Voices volleyed around the theater. “I say he fights.”

  Another said, “I say he doesn’t!”

  “Enough!” Zeus stood. Now his voice thundered, echoing against the stony hillside. Everyone fell silent. The slaves cowered behind their masters’ chairs. Sinon was on his knees, head bowed. “I will not stay silent while you gamble on the lives of mortals. They are not our playthings, however much some of you might treat them as such. We destroyed one of the greatest human cities because of our rivalries. Isn’t that enough?”

  Apollo stood slowly, as if he had come to a momentous decision. “You are right, Father, of course. Our sister Athena is right. You should send Odysseus home.”

  Athena bowed to Apollo, but her gaze was narrowed, her brow creased with curiosity.

  Zeus said, “And you take this position because—?”

  “Because it wins us nothing to keep him away from home. I’m sure he prays to the gods daily for release. Why not answer his prayer and win a bit of faith?” He returned to his seat and rested his hand on his chin.

  Ares gripped his armrests. “I want to see if I win my bet!”

  “Ares, be quiet,” Zeus said. “Hermes!”

  The messenger god sprang from his seat and, moving so quickly he was a blur of light, crossed to Zeus’s dais and bowed. “Go to Calypso and tell her she must set Odysseus on the path home. No arguments.”

  “At once, Father.” In another flash of light, a breath of wind blowing with his passage, he was gone.

  Athena bowed. “Thank you, Father.”

  Zeus waved her away. “You should all know that as many mortals hate us as worship us. They know it was the jealousy of vain goddesses that destroyed Troy and ruined the kingdoms of Greece. A time will come when they find they do not need us. And if they do not love us, what will they do with us then? I’m tired of listening to you lot. Leave me now.”

  Thus the council ended. The gods and goddess rose, bowed to the King on his throne, and began to disperse.

  Apollo said quietly to Sinon, “Do you see the woman there in the white veil and sea-green gown? She is Ino, one of the sea goddesses. Go tell her I wish to speak with her.”

  Sinon blinked. “You want me to tell a goddess?”

  “I want you to deliver a message. Now, go.”

  The woman he had pointed out was leaving the stone benches, her two handmaidens accompanying her. Sinon had to slip around them, nearly leaping into the goddess’s path. Haughty, she stared at him through the misty fabric of her veil, which rippled in the sea air. One of the handmaidens lifted her gaze, her eyes widening.

  He recalled everything he had ever learned of manners and fine speech. He bowed deeply. “Great lady, my master, Phoebus Apollo of the Sun, wishes to speak words with you, if you would deign to linger for but a moment.”

  She might not even have been breathing, she stood so still, reacted so little. Then the veil rustled as she spoke. “Call him here. I will wait.”

  Sinon bowed yet again, then ran to tell Apollo. “She’s waiting for you.”

  “Good.”

  Sinon followed the Sun God. Apollo stood before Ino and merely inclined his head. “My lady. Thank you for staying.”

  “Your servant asked so nicely, how could I refuse?” She spared him a glance, the tiniest shifting of her head. Sinon wished he could see her without the veil.

  Wool, fog.

  “I need to ask a favor of you. Poseidon will hear of this. He will be angry. Watch over this Odysseus for me. See that he reaches the shore.”

  “You’ll owe me a favor, Phoebus Apollo.”

  “I believe that is how such arrangements work. You will have my thanks, at such time as you feel the need to call upon it.”

  They nodded politely to each other, and Apollo stepped aside to let her pass. The handmaiden who’d looked up before glanced over her shoulder at Sinon. She had red hair and green eyes that made his heart clench.

  Apollo said, “Poseidon will send Odysseus storms. Ino will protect him. Satisfied?”

  “Yes.” He looked away, feeling suddenly tired. He would never see Odysseus home and happy. But he would know his friend was safe.

  “Quick now, stand behind me and look submissive.”

  Sinon looked up—Athena stood before them. She studied every inch of him, and he knew that she saw inside him, saw everything about him, knew who he was and what he had done.

  If she knew what he’d done for Odysseus, would she care?

  “Can I help you, Sister?” Apollo said.

  She turned her cold gaze to the god. “I only wanted to discover what you’re getting by taking my side. Now I know.” She smiled at Sinon and walked away.

  “Come on,” Apollo said, tipping his head as he turned to indicate that Sinon should follow.

  Sinon didn’t see the doorway that exited Olympus. He followed Apollo to the edge of the stone theater and found himself back in the Sun Palace. After the sun and breeze of the theater, the light and air here seemed harsh and artificial.

  Apollo said, “So. What did you think of the Gods of Olympus?”

  Olympus hadn’t been what he expected. Sinon chuckled while he decided how best to say what he wished. The Council of the Gods had reminded him of the meeting in Agamemnon’s tent as they planned the destruction of Troy. Powerful, arrogant men trying to compromise. No one willing to let go of his pride. Achilles sulking because of a perceived insult.

  Ten years ago.

  He said, “You’re human. As human as I am. At least, you used to be.”

  “Very good. As clever as Odysseus. We were mortal magicians who became powerful enough to make ourselves gods. And the only things that amuse us anymore are the lives of mortals. It’s ironic, don’t you think?”

  Sinon crossed his arms and stalked toward the god—the man. Apollo was shorter than Sinon. The Sun God grinned up at him, smug and playful. Like the whole thing was a joke he enjoyed telling again and again. The gods and their human passions. So much became clear.

  He stopped just short of touching Apollo, so they could feel the heat of each other’s skin.

  “You’re a fucking bastard,” Sinon said, and kissed Apollo on the mouth.

  Apollo held his face and pressed himself against Sinon. Pausing to take a breath, he said, “Yes. Yes, I am.”

  9

  By the time Evie and Alex carried Frank to the kitchen door, he could stand again and pulled away from them.

  “It’s just a pain I get sometimes.” His mouth was locked in a grimace, his voice harsh.

  “How often is sometimes? How long has this been happening?” Evie demanded.

  “Never mind.”

  “Dad—” Over and over again, Evie made the word a plea. Tell me what’s happening, tell me what’s wrong, I don’t understand.

  “I just need to rest.”

  He kept saying that.

  Alex let him go as they entered the kitchen, but Evie clung to his arm. She trailed beside him, helpless.

  Finally, in the living room, her father stopped and took hold of her shoulders. “Evie. I’m going to go to my room, take some painkillers, and lie down. I’ll call you if I need anything.”

  She didn’t believe him. His voice never sounded like that, on the edge of breaking, harsh with stifled emotion. He would suffer in silence until he curled up and disappeared into the pain.

  “Promise?” she said, her voice small.

  Nodding, he gav
e her arms a final squeeze. He let go, went into his room, limping, and closed the door.

  “I should help him,” she murmured. “I don’t know how to help him.”

  “I’ll leave,” Alex said softly, and turned.

  “No.” She winced and looked away, floundering for words, wondering what she was doing. “I mean, you don’t have to. Do you have a place to stay? Mr. Alvarez said you weren’t at the motel.”

  He shrugged. “I’ve been here and there. I’ll find a place. I always do. But if you think you could use a friend just now . . .”

  If she asked him to stay and he did, she might find out more about him, she rationalized. Once again she asked herself, If the sword was Excalibur, and the woman was Hera . . . who was he?

  “I could use the company.” That sounded a little more honest.

  “All right.”

  They stared at each other across the living room for a moment. Evie, tense and shaken, rubbed her hands and tried to keep her shoulders from bunching. Mab had settled down between the bedroom doors, lying with her head resting on her paws, looking dejected.

  “You hungry?” Evie said abruptly, making a dash for the kitchen. “I’ll make sandwiches.”

  “Can I help?”

  “No, just sit down, make yourself at home.”

  She got as far as getting the bread out when her mobile phone rang. She ran to the living room, grabbed the phone off the coffee table, glanced apologetically at Alex, and answered the phone as she returned to the kitchen.

  “Hi, Bruce.”

  “Have you had a chance to watch the news yet, or should I just tell you how world politics are fucking with our storyline?”

  She didn’t mean for her sigh to sound as forlorn as it probably did. “Things have been a little crazy here. I still haven’t seen the news.”

  Bruce waited a second before asking, “How’s your dad?”

  She almost used her father’s line: Fine, okay. Just like Frank’s daughter. But Bruce was her friend—she should have been talking to him all along. She should have called him, instead of him calling her all the time.

  “Not good. He isn’t getting treatment, he’s in pain, and there’s nothing I can do. He won’t talk, he’s pretending like nothing’s wrong—” Her voice cracked, and she shut her mouth to keep from breaking into a full-blown sob.

  “Evie, I’m sorry. If there’s anything—”

  “I know, I know. Thanks, Bruce. I think I just need to keep working. Keep busy.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. So tell me, what’s the President done now?”

  “Well. Russia came up with proof that China’s been funding the rebels. So the E.U. is siding with Russia and India. The U.S. is still waffling. Britain is waffling, and the E.U. is threatening sanctions on them for siding with the U.S.”

  “And we’ve got a whole storyline with the U.S. and Russia being friends. That’ll never fly.”

  “This whole mess is playing like someone’s idea of a fucked-up war game. It’s just so unreasonable.”

  “Is it ever reasonable?” Evie said. She knew what he meant, though. She couldn’t help but conjure this image of stern generals and power-mad heads of states standing around tables with tactical displays, shuffling around troops and weapons, with no thought to the people on the ground—the real lives their decisions impacted. “Do we wait and see what happens?”

  Bruce said, “We could be waiting for ages. I say we just keep going with what we have—the new stuff that you just sent—and play it by ear.”

  “Do you want me to keep e-mailing scripts?”

  “You know—I haven’t been working much. You can if you want. Definitely keep writing. Write anything. We’ll do something with it, at some point.” He sounded tired.

  “How are things there?”

  “Citywide curfew, but that’s nothing new. Callie finally got out of West Hollywood. It’s not too bad.”

  “Hang in there.”

  “You, too. Call me if you need anything.”

  She needed to reverse time and live in last month, before her life had run away from her.

  She made ham-and-cheese sandwiches, but her heart and appetite weren’t really in it. Eating would give her and Alex something to do while they stared at each other. She brought two plates with the sandwiches into the living room.

  She had her work spread all over the coffee table: her laptop, powered down; pages of handwritten notes she’d collected when ideas hit her late at night, in bed, in the car, and the like; and a few back issues of Eagle Eye Commandos she used as reference.

  Alex, sitting on the armchair, was reading one of these.

  The faces staring back at her on the front cover belonged to Tracker and Talon. He was about to fall off a cliff; she was holding on to him, grimacing. Eagle Eye Commandos number 42. She wanted to snatch it out of his hands and hide it away, apologize for it. It wasn’t that she wasn’t proud of her work. It was—well, sometimes she felt guilty for being proud of it. It wasn’t exactly high literature.

  “What do you think?” she asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

  He smirked. “I like how the flying bullets leave trails.”

  She set down the plates, slumped onto the sofa, and smirked right back at him.

  He said, “You write as E. L. Walker. Why don’t you use your full name?”

  “Thirteen-year-old boys wouldn’t take the book seriously if they knew a girl wrote it.”

  “But—” He opened to a page featuring Tracker. At Evie’s insistence, Bruce didn’t draw her in the stereotypical comic book manner of portraying women in skintight clothing, antigravity breasts and all. She wore functional black fatigues, had a reasonably normal athletic figure, and most of the time—splicing wire in the middle of a jungle, for example—looked downright scruffy. “—this is you, isn’t it? This isn’t about thirteen-year-old boys’ fantasies. It’s about thirteen-year-old girls’ fantasies.”

  In another life, a parallel universe, Evie had enlisted in the military. Army, air force, whatever. She didn’t know what she would have done as a private or an airman. Administration, probably. Mostly, she’d wanted to have a bit of an adventure—basic training, for instance—and it seemed an easy way to go about it. Never mind that adventures weren’t supposed to be easy. College and independence diverted her. To this day, she wondered if she could have hacked it, and wondered if she should have tried, just to see.

  When she didn’t answer, he turned back to the book, flipping pages without reading. “The presence of a nominally talented, self-sufficient woman hasn’t seemed to hinder sales.”

  Alex was right. Evie never wanted Tracker to be a sex symbol. She wanted her to be a role model.

  She stared at the page, her words in the speech balloons, and smiled fondly. “If just one girl out there picks up the book, and it makes her think she can do anything, I’d be happy.”

  Evie looked at the old covers. Tracker featured on all of them. One of the ongoing storylines focused on her, her coming-of-age, her increasing confidence in herself and her abilities. Through all the other storylines—Talon’s insubordination, the unit’s rebelliousness, the fight against terrorism—Tracker’s personal development played a part. Often, the progress was uncertain—two steps forward, one step back as some tragedy undermined her faith in herself. At this rate, the storyline could go on forever, with Tracker never developing much beyond where she was now.

  No, Evie ought to do something about that. Tracker needed to become independent. She needed to become a leader. Talon’s equal, not his hero-worshipping subordinate.

  “Is Bruce your boyfriend?”

  “Hm?” Evie glanced up. Alex had a sandwich in hand, but he hadn’t taken a bite. He looked at her questioningly.

  “The phone call. I was just curious.”

  Evie rubbed her forehead. Not that it was any of his business. “No, he’s my partner. The artist.” She pointed at the comics.

  “Ah, of course. That Bruc
e.”

  “He’s called me almost every day. The book deals so much in current events, we try to tie in as much as we can. But things have gotten volatile. It’s impossible to predict what might happen anymore. We’ve had a couple of major storylines yanked out from under us in the last year. He’s mad at me because I haven’t been watching the news.”

  “You’ve been busy.”

  “Yeah,” she said with a painful chuckle. That was without telling Bruce about hypothetical Greek goddesses showing up on the doorstep, the basement full of mythical artifacts, or the strange man in the pea coat.

  There’d been so much news to keep up with over the last few days. All of it bad, the conflicts so much greater than the third world clashes that had preoccupied current events over the last half a century or so. No one had to wonder if Russia had nuclear weapons or not.

  “It’s so surreal,” she said. She shook her head, rearranging her thoughts. “Bruce was saying that this is playing like some messed-up war game. It’s like there are people—the people in power—moving pieces around on a game board. It makes you wonder how much of history is just people in power manipulating a game.”

  Alex said softly, “That isn’t far from wrong.”

  She stared at him. “How do you know?”

  He shrugged and wouldn’t meet her gaze.

  “Then what about Discord? What about that apple? What does it do?”

  “One shudders to think,” he said.

  Mab raised her head, her tail thumping the floor as it wagged. A moment later, her father’s door opened, and Frank himself appeared in the doorway. His hand clutched his side, but nonchalantly, as if he had put it there and forgotten it.

  His brow lined quizzically, he said, “I forgot to ask: What are you doing here?”

  Alex hesitated a moment, a stricken look briefly crossing his features before he lifted the sandwich and said, “Having lunch.”

  Evie stood. “Dad—you don’t look good.”

  He waved her away. “I’m fine. Is he bothering you?”

  “No.” She debated about what to tell him. She didn’t want him to worry. He shouldn’t have to worry about anything but getting well. Or rather, not dying. But she could deny that anything was wrong, and he wouldn’t believe her, any more than she believed it when he insisted he was fine. So she didn’t say anything.