The Immortals Read online

“A bow like Apollo’s, but gold instead of silver.” I raise my arms into an archer’s stance, already feeling the weight of the bow in my hands. “To roam the wild and hunt all my days.” I glance around the marble courtyard with its careful mosaics and I yearn for escape.

  “Won’t you be lonely?” my mother asks gently.

  I scowl at her. “Of course not! I have wished for more epithets than any other Olympian. And when my own names cannot keep me company, Father has given me maiden nymphs to hunt at my side. And animals, too—a pack of lop-eared hounds to join in the chase and wide-antlered stags to pull my chariot.”

  My mother chuckles. “And what was your final wish, my little Huntress?”

  I do not hesitate.

  “To remain eternally chaste.”

  The distaff clatters to the ground. My mother’s soft turquoise eyes flash with unaccustomed anger. “You have chosen a hard life for yourself, child.”

  I cross my arms across my chest. “Harder than being forced into a loveless marriage, like Aphrodite’s to crippled Hephaestus? Harder than being chased across the world by a jealous wife, as you were?”

  “Aye, child.” My mother stands and looks down upon me. I try to stand up taller so I might look her in the eye, but her anger cows me. “I was chased,” she says. “Hounded mercilessly by Hera’s fury. But in the end, was not my struggle worth it? I knew the love of Zeus, King of the Gods, Lord of the Sky. I have you. And your brother. The greatest happiness a woman can ever experience. Will you give that up?”

  “I know what I’m doing, Mother. I give it up in return for a far greater joy.”

  “You’re only a child! What do you know of life’s pleasures?”

  “I am a goddess! An Olympian!”

  Mother bites her lip and sinks once more onto her stool. “Yes, an Olympian.” She picks up her distaff and slowly rewinds the unraveled thread. “And so, like your father, you’ll never question the rightness of your actions. You act for your own pleasure, your own whims, like the rest of them.” All the anger is gone from her voice. “I thought perhaps—as my daughter—you would be different.”

  I kneel at her feet and lean my head upon her knee. I will not ask for forgiveness and I do not regret what I have done—not for an instant. But her sadness strikes like an arrow in my breast. After a moment, her gentle hands brush the hair from my forehead, and she presses a kiss against my temple. “I see now you are your father’s child. I only hope you might remember that you are mine as well.”

  Now, so many years later, Selene couldn’t get the conversation out of her head. Leto had never alluded to it again, and her devotion to her daughter had never wavered. But deep in her heart, Selene always knew that she’d disappointed her mother in some fundamental way—not by remaining childless (her brother Apollo had provided plenty of grandchildren), but by denying herself love. Her mother had been right—when the nymphs and forests had been destroyed by an age of plastic and wavelengths, Selene was left to pass the centuries in solitude. But about one thing at least, Leto had been wrong. Selene did feel guilt. Sometimes it seemed it was all she could feel. And now, with Leto dying, that guilt only grew heavier. She had not made her mother proud. And now she never would.

  In the subway station, a stifled shriek ripped her from her memories. She spun toward the sound like a lioness catching the scent of prey. Nearly sixty feet away, on the far end of the opposite train platform, stood a thickset man in a Yankees sweatshirt. His bulk blocked her view, but she glimpsed a pair of delicate high heels just beyond him. Standing in the lee of a steel column, the man no doubt thought he was safe. They always did. Even an alert cop might not have noticed anything amiss.

  It was one in the afternoon. The station should have been packed with workers on break, rushing to lunch dates or doctor’s appointments or snatched moments at the gym. Instead, due to a lucky chance, the platform stood nearly empty. Even so, under normal circumstances, Selene would never hunt her prey in the light of day. Back alleys and darkened parks were her usual stomping grounds. But with her mother near death, the normal rules of Selene’s existence no longer applied. Her heart began to pound, banishing the cold fear that had settled in her gut back at the hospital. Maybe this morning wasn’t a fluke. Maybe I’m really the Punisher again, not just a counterfeit pretending to epithets I no longer deserve.

  The faint vibrations in her feet told her that a downtown train was still at least a stop away, and she could hear an uptown train on the opposite track, even farther. Fifty yards down the platform, a security camera’s eye shone knowingly. She ducked behind a column and assembled her bow. She nocked a shaft to the string and stood so only the arrowhead peeked out from behind the column. She couldn’t see to aim. But unlike Selene DiSilva, the Far Shooter had never missed. Here goes, she thought, visualizing the camera. She breathed in, then out, to steady her hands, and let the arrow fly. A faint tinkling of glass was her reward. She jogged down the platform to retrieve the fallen arrow, unable to wipe the grin from her face, and stuffed the shaft and bow into her bag.

  A murmur of protest from across the track drew her attention. The thickset man stepped closer to his companion, who cringed before him. Selene leaped down onto the track. Deftly avoiding the electrified third rail, she crossed all four tracks in a few graceful leaps. Bracing one hand on the far platform, she swung onto it effortlessly, landing just out of the station agent’s sight. She sprinted silently toward the couple; she could already see the big man’s arm drawn back, ready to strike.

  In an instant, Selene was beside him, grabbing his fist with her own.

  He gave a grunt of surprise. His muscles bulged as he fought to free himself, but her grip held firm, her weakness in the face of Mario Velasquez a dim memory.

  Selene could see the woman clearly now, her mascara smeared under tired eyes, limp orange hair falling in choppy bangs across her forehead, tight tank top barely concealing her breasts. “Get out of here,” Selene commanded her. The woman hesitated for an instant, her eyes darting to the man. “Don’t worry about him. Just go.” High heels clicking on the concrete, she ran toward the exit.

  The Punisher turned back to the man in her grasp. Suddenly, a gust of warm wind from the tunnel. Then, the unmistakable clatter of the approaching uptown train.

  “I’m giving you two options: Swear to leave her alone, or refuse and I break your arm.” Reveling in her restored strength, Selene bent his arm backward until his eyes grew wide with pain. “I need an answer. Now.”

  “Fuck you, lady.”

  “Not one of the options.” She bent his arm a little more. His tendons strained beneath her grip, about to snap.

  “Okay, okay, option one! Option one!” he gasped. His eyes streamed as she released him. He stepped away, rubbing his arm. “You crazy cunt.” He spat at her feet. “You know she’s gonna come back to me anyway.”

  “Huh. Then I guess I’m going with option three.” The rest was a blur of motion. Selene lunged forward, the fat man scuttled backward, the roar of the oncoming subway drowned out any further conversation, and then he was tripping, falling, mouth wide open in silent astonishment as he tumbled off the platform edge—directly into the path of the uptown train.

  Chapter 12

  THE HIEROPHANT PART I

  The name written on the whiteboard beside the bed was “Sammi Mehra.” The girl was already on tranquilizers. The hierophant had only needed to adjust the IV drip to make sure she didn’t struggle when he lifted her into the wheelchair and rolled her to the elevator. When they’d strung her up, she’d woken long enough to begin sobbing in a language he didn’t know. From the chestnut color of her skin and the wave of her patchy black hair, he assumed she was from South Asia somewhere. India, maybe, or Bangladesh. It didn’t make any difference.

  She wasn’t an ideal choice. He’d have preferred someone healthier. This girl had been on chemo for a while. Still, she was pure. Young. Fourteen at most. She looked even younger, tiny and frail in her hospital gown.
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br />   As she hung there, limp and silent, her blood dripping into the container below and her chest moving almost imperceptibly, the hierophant considered the perfect symmetry of it all. One dies so another can be reborn. Balance. Harmony. These forces had always ruled the universe, and would again.

  He ordered his acolyte to lift the dead snake and wrap it around the girl’s throat, squeezing away her last few breaths. For the snake is a creature of the earth. It knows the dark secrets of the Underworld. It hisses them in the ears of those willing to hear.

  Tonight, sleeping beneath the gently swaying body of his sacrifice, the hierophant would pray for dreams of prophecy and healing. I will listen to the whispers of snakes, he thought with a shiver of excitement. And tomorrow, I will go forth once more into the city. The bringer of destruction. The father of creation.

  Chapter 13

  UNWITHERING

  Selene sat on the floor of her tub, her arms curled around her knees, sucking at the steamy air as water dripped off the end of her nose in a thin stream. The joy she’d taken in her sudden return to strength had drained away the moment she’d fled the station. Killing that bastard on the subway hadn’t helped Leto.

  She could’ve just talked to the guy. Broken his arm, like she’d threatened. Maybe called the police or taken the woman somewhere safe. But killing him? Since the Diaspora, Selene had developed her own code of justice. The days when she killed any man who looked at her wrong were long over—even she couldn’t cover up that many bodies. Instead, Selene usually settled for commensurate punishment, plus a little extra to drive home the point. So a man who slapped his girlfriend got beaten unconscious. One who raped a woman—well, he’d be lucky to get past her with his penis intact, much less his testicles. But a murderer could have no punishment but death. Of course, murders were a tricky thing. They usually drew police attention. Thankfully, since Selene usually only concerned herself with women who asked directly for her protection, she rarely dealt with killings—her clients didn’t die on her watch.

  But tonight she’d murdered a man just for looking like he was going to hit his girlfriend. What would her mother think? Is this what it meant to get her powers back? Vengeance killing like in days of old? Paul had reminded her that the Huntress’s swift arrows had brought down mortals, not stags. They’d called her Stormy, Untamed, Relentless. Was she ready to embrace those names once more?

  Was I always so reckless? she wondered, remembering her stunt with the security camera. If her abilities had miraculously returned, all the more reason not to draw attention to herself. Hopefully, the police would think the big man only slipped, but if they tracked down his girlfriend, she’d undoubtedly mention the strange, tall woman to the cops. That was the last thing Selene needed. If they found her, they’d ask an awful lot of unanswerable questions (including why her fingerprints identified her as a former police officer discharged in 1975 and currently wanted for murder) that would probably land her in jail for a very long time. With a groan, Selene buried her face in her hands and concentrated on the hot water pouring over her back.

  Then, a sudden wave of adrenaline rushed through her, and she bolted upright. The energy felt as tangible as heat, nearly sexual, and completely unexpected. She stood and, dizzy with the sensation, leaned her hands against the wall. She had no idea what could cause such a feeling.

  Flexing first one foot against the bottom of the tub and then the other, she stretched her long toes, cracking the joints. She shifted her weight, noticing the coolness of the tile on her palms. Her heart drummed in her ears. Every inch of her body, every sensation, felt more precious than it had for a very long time. She felt her flesh, usually so cold, grow hot as the blood rushed to the surface.

  Selene opened her eyes to stare at her skin, as bright pink as a newborn babe’s. She made a fist, watching the play of muscle along her arm, then ran her hands along the sides of her body, enjoying the taut flesh. Other gods may be fading, but I’m stronger than I’ve been in years. Why chastise myself for enjoying it a little? Tentatively, she moved her hand between her legs, surprised by the sudden tightening pull. She hadn’t bothered with her own sexuality in centuries—she’d almost forgotten it existed. But chastity hadn’t always been so easy. Memory pulled at her like a coaxing lover, and she let herself fall into its embrace.

  The boar we chase leaps ahead of us, its tusks glinting in the moonlight. Orion keeps pace beside me, his footsteps pounding in counterpoint to my own in a hunt as graceful as music, as dance. I pull forth an arrow without slowing my speed, and my shot sends the boar tumbling headfirst into the ground. My companion severs its throat with his sword. We stand beside our kill. Orion pants. I do not. He looks up from the carcass and our eyes meet. His are dark, deep, and I fight the urge to look away. Suddenly, the only prey I want to hunt is him.

  I dip my fingers into the boar’s blood and reach for him. I draw a line down the strong bone of his nose and another across his brow. Finally, I dot his lips with red. “You are my acolyte now,” I tell him.

  “I worship only you.” He sucks the blood from my finger and the moment is sanctified. I can feel the heat rising from his body—I can hear the blood thrumming in his veins. He grabs my arms and pulls me close. I taste the blood on his lips. The boar lies forgotten at our feet.

  When we return to my nymphs with no carcass across our shoulders, they laugh and wink. Merope, my beloved friend, silences the others with a frown. “Artemis,” she whispers to me as the sun rises over our grotto and Orion sleeps at my side. “You court danger, my dearest. To be free of men is a gift. Would you throw that away? Would you bind yourself to a man?”

  “I do not bind myself,” I demur. “Orion is the companion of my freedom.”

  “You have vowed to be chaste.”

  I rise and drag Merope away from our sleeping companions. “You dare to remind me of my most sacred oath? I have no intention of breaking it. You should not think it of me.”

  “You may not think of it,” she protests, forging ahead despite my rage. Such is her love for me that she will risk my wrath to speak the truth. “But he will. He is a man.”

  “Orion is no man. He is the son of my uncle, Poseidon.”

  Merope nods solemnly. “But he is half-mortal as well. He is a thanatos and will die someday. He must seize life while he can. And no male, whether god or mortal, or something in between, is free from a man’s desires. Your own father, your brothers and cousins—you’ve seen the way they chase our kind, and all the mortal women, too. We are never free of them.”

  “Do not speak ill of my friend,” I hiss. “You shame him. You shame yourself.”

  But as I lie down once more beside Orion, I cannot find sleep. He rolls over and stretches a heavy arm across my shoulders, resting his head against my breast and his leg upon mine. I have slept thus entwined with my nymphs many times. But this is different. I don’t know what scares me more—the hardness I feel pressing against my thigh, or the answering quickening in my own body.

  It was a long time before Hippo’s scratching on the bathroom door finally dragged Selene from the shower. She let the dog in while she toweled off, trying not to resent the interruption. Hippo took up most of the tiny bathroom, her thwacking tail threatening to knock Selene back over the lip of the tub.

  She glanced in the mirror to check the bruises on her jaw and temple from her fight with Mario. To her astonishment, they were gone. No swelling, no discolored flesh. Just flawless skin.

  Am I dreaming this? she wondered, realizing how little sleep she’d gotten in the last two days. Somehow, the rush of power she’d felt in the shower had healed her injuries at a pace she hadn’t experienced for a very long time.

  She pulled on a T-shirt and moved to the bedroom, although she knew her racing mind would preclude sleep. There were too many questions to be answered. She opened the window wide and knelt before the sill, looking up at the sky above the rooftops. Even now, at the darkest hour before dawn, it shone with an unearthly glow.r />
  Selene knew it was just light pollution bouncing off the clouds above, but sometimes she imagined the city possessed the sort of divine radiance once reserved for the gods. Just as in ancient times the Olympians had chosen to walk among mortals in disguise rather than reveal themselves in all their terrible glory, so New York clothed itself in dirt and noise and stench. Its true power would be too much for mortal eyes to bear.

  “Imagine, Hippo,” she said as the dog rested her chin on the windowsill. “Once I was the Lady of the Starry Host.” She’d placed her victims in the heavens as eternal reminders of her rage and mercy. First Ursa Major—a nymph who broke her vows of chastity and was metamorphosed into a bear by Artemis’s uncompromising justice. Then Ursa Minor—the son of that illicit union who met the same fate. “But now, even the strongest Athanatoi no longer possess the ability to make men into stars. Especially not here, where the stars themselves are hidden from view. New York’s radiance outshines my own.”

  Over the centuries she’d watched the city’s lights quench heaven’s fire. With the constellations’ disappearance, the history written in their outlines—her own history—dimmed alongside. She’d always imagined herself fading as well. Slowly, imperceptibly, disappearing into myth. But now, for the first time in an age, she felt hope.

  She knew the most obvious explanation for her strengthening, and she didn’t want to face it. She could barely admit it to herself. It was possible that her mother’s decline was adding to her own strength. With one fewer god to siphon away the limited worship man still provided, the remaining Athanatoi might benefit.

  Father, she prayed silently. Mighty Zeus, who once granted me six wishes, grant me one more. Help me find the answers I seek. Let my rebirth not come from my mother’s death. And if you ever loved gentle Leto, help me save her. She closed her eyes and imagined her words reaching up to the vault of heaven, then soaring past the city, over the vast ocean, all the way to Zeus’s lair on the island of Crete. And there the prayer died. Because her father could no longer hear.