Page 9

Chapter Eight

Prometheus

O nce we’re out of sight of the village, I pull the horses to a halt.

Atum sags against the edge of the chariot. Then he plucks up the sack I’ve been lugging around for him.

“I’m going to go change into something less conspicuous,” Atum announces before sliding off the chariot. He stumbles toward a cluster of trees growing by a ravine.

Hebe turns to me, her curls even more askew from our brief ride. I half expect them to summon Chaos herself. “Shouldn’t you assist him?”

“No.” Atum does this to himself. He can suffer the consequences. I certainly won’t. Once we reach the temple and I learn what secret knowledge Sia has stolen, I can defect to Zeus.

My new bride purses her lips, making her already angular face look sharper. If she has any thoughts about my refusal, she doesn’t voice them. Instead, her gaze drops.

I follow it and find that the amber around my neck has stolen her focus. “Do you want it?” Not that I care to give it to her. But if I can use it as leverage, that would be good to know.

Hebe recoils at my words like I struck her. “Absolutely not!”

“Why?” I pick it up and study it. “Is it cursed?”

“No, but your giving it to me would represent the dissolution of our marriage.”

Mortals and their strange symbolisms. “Oh, so now you desire to be wed to me?”

“Absolutely not. But I’d rather not bear the shame of my husband divorcing me after one day, either!”

I fiddle with the amber and smirk when Hebe jumps backward off the chariot. Then I slide the necklace beneath my chiton . “There, now you don’t have to concern yourself with troublesome jewels. That is, not until I assuage my curiosity about Atum’s mad scheme. Then I can decide whether or not to rid myself of your presence.”

Hebe studies me warily, like I might suddenly throw the amber at her, anyway. “You don’t intend to keep me if I don’t become divine?”

“What use have I for a mortal? Especially one who doesn’t have the good sense to either beg for mercy from her people or to grovel for favor at my feet?”

“Your kind really hates it when mine possesses even a shred of hubris.”

“Well, you don’t live long enough to do anything worthy of pride.”

Before Hebe can counter or— less likely but more preferably— acquiesce, Atum emerges from the behind the trees. He’s wearing a plain white chiton now with all the symbols of his Guardianship stashed in the sack.

Since my traveling companions are both essentially mortals, having the appearance of a Primordial will just attract enemies from both sides. Calling on the shapeshifting abilities all Primordials share, I shrink my height several fingerbreadths so that the most noticeable thing about me is my unique eye color. But our eyes are the one thing no Primordial can change. Atum’s are the same soft brown filled with far too much compassion no matter what form he wears.

Hebe watches until Atum reaches us. Then she turns back to me and frowns.

I groan. “What now?”

“I’m sorry, but are you . . . shorter than before?”

“Yes.” Well, at least she can detect obvious things.

Hebe looks me up and down. “That is something that your people can do?”

“Among other things. You may discover them yourself soon enough if Atum’s theory bears fruit.” I’m not sure I like the thought of losing any portion of my power to a mortal, but I cannot help but be curious. Though the best outcome would be for it to come to nothing. Then I can continue focusing on the far too arduous task of keeping myself alive.

Atum grasps the edge of the chariot. “It will work. Have some faith.”

I fight the grimace that would reveal I lost faith in Atum long ago.

It doesn’t help when he sags against the chariot. “Sweet Hebe, do you mind riding closer to your husband? I would like to stretch out on the chariot as much as possible, if I may.”

Hebe stiffens and glances at me, obviously as disgusted by the idea as I am.

However, these next few days are too important to pretend like they will last forever. There is secret knowledge to learn, experiments to explore, and my life to preserve. No time to complain about having to inhale my wife’s mortal stench or to worry about breaking mortal traditions to stay separate from their spouse.

“Come,” I say, taking Hebe’s arm and guiding her to the front of the chariot. Then I wrap around her as I grab the reins.

Behind me, Atum enjoys my obedience for perhaps the last time as he situates himself in the chariot. He grasps an ornamental fixture to keep from rolling off when I urge the horses forward.

Hebe, however, seems to have forgotten how to breathe, which is alarming because mortals require air even more than Primordials do.

I can still breathe just fine. There is still a trace of wine, but it isn’t so overpowering as to disguise all other scents— smoke, leather, and soap. The mixture isn’t as repulsive as when we first met.

But she’s still not breathing. Did Hebe perish in the last few moments since I saw her face? Moving the reins to one hand, I bring my other to her neck, where she showed me her second pulse.

It thrums beneath my touch right before she jumps.

I frown. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I thought for a moment you might have been stolen away to Hades.”

“Why? Do women often perish from your touch? Is there a tragic list of paramours who died in your arms?”

“No.” But if mortals dying in each other’s arms are a real concern, I must keep that top in mind. I do not care to become the next Primordial sacrifice to death should Hebe decide to be the one on the other side of the altar for once.

My fingers return to her pulse to monitor it. It is beating more erratically than before, which is strange since all Hebe is doing is standing stiffly before me. Her rigid stature resembles the statue I’m sure her people will craft in her honor.

That is until the chariot runs over a rock on this uneven dirt path.

Atum grunts behind me, reminding me he’s still with us. Then I all thoughts desert me when Hebe stumbles backward into me.

I keep my balance, of course, because I am becoming accustomed to her missteps. However, I find myself once again confused at the softness I feel when she is pressed against me, despite the sharp lines of her face and form. I cannot say that I am not intrigued by the secrets behind the dichotomy.

“Sorry,” Hebe mumbles, pulling away again.

“All is well. Your spear did not stab me.”

“What a tragic misfortune.”

“Your wit has also left me unscathed, I’m afraid.”

Hebe glance up at me over her shoulder. When her sharp brown gaze meets mine, I find that she has found a way to spear me at last.

I think about the amused look in her eyes long after she turns away.