“Then what’s the point of any of our jobs at all? What’s the point of this specific job? If the Fates have already decided who ‘Ben’ will fall for and how long they’ll be together, then why take five weeks on this guy? Why not just stick him already?”
I frown. Why am I spending so much time on this assignment? I think of the boy, Ben, and the way he focuses on his notebook when he’s writing lyrics, as if the world has ceased to exist. I think of how he checked his phone for hours after he texted his dad last week, waiting for a response that never came, and how he channeled that disappointment into a new song that’s so close to being just right. I think of how he saw some kids making fun of a freshman girl after choir and how he interrupted them to tell the freshman how much he liked her solo.
He’s a good person. He’s walled himself off from love, but when love breaks through that wall and allows the real Ben to emerge, he’ll become more than he ever thought possible. He needs it.
So why haven’t I stuck him, already?
The answer hits me. “The Fates.”
“Huh?”
“They made me this way. I’m just their mindless pawn.”
“And here I thought the Oracle was the root of all your problems for making you an Erote.”
“Don’t get me wrong, she sucks, too, but at least she was just doing what the Fates told her.”
She takes a large step away from me, hissing, “Are you thanatotic or something?”
Maybe I am thanatotic. I certainly seem to have a death wish, blaspheming like this. But herein lies the problem: my parents may have given me my immortal body, but the Fates wove the thread of my existence. They gave me my personality, the core of who I am. How can they blast me when they made me this way in the first place? Everything I do is ultimately their responsibility. We’re all just pawns in their twisted game. It infuriates me. “I’m not thanatotic. But if I am, it’s the Fates’ cursing fault.”
And with that, Deya is sprinting away from me, a blur of chiton trying to outrun the lightning bolt she seems sure is coming my way. I huff, but I can’t blame her.
I am tempting the Fates, after all.
***
I give Deya fifteen minutes before I catch up to her. She’s at the Port, talking to our friend Teresa, whose mortie nurse outfit flashes back into her chiton as she returns from a reaping. Of course, because she’s a psychopomp—a reaper—her sensible nurse’s shoes happen to be steel-toed. She’s hardcore like that. She has to be.
When souls separate from their body, the happy ones are happy. The confused ones are confused. And the wicked ones are bundles of boundless, angry energy. They learn fast that no one messes with Teresa. Because she’s so tough, it’s easy to overlook the fact that she’s several inches shorter than me. She’s the daughter of Thanatos, the personification of death, and Macaria, who is Hades and Persephone’s daughter. So most people give her a very wide berth. All they see when they look at her is death and more death. But I see my no-nonsense, tough-love friend who doesn’t take crap from anyone, but who would go to Hades and back for the people she loves.
The chiton looks amazing against the obsidian skin Teresa inherited from her primordial grandparents, Nyx and Erebos. But the look in her eyes tells me she’s not planning to talk fashion with me. Not that she ever has.
She nudges Deya, and they both eye me. Deya leans farther back the closer I get.
I hold up my hands. “Truce?”
Deya purses her lips but nods.
Teresa looks unfazed. “So are you done calling down lightning on yourself, or do you need me to knock some sense into you?”
Before I can even frown, Thrax, the god of sexual harassment marches into the clearing. As the son of Ares, the God of war, Thrax comes by his bad boy looks and generally berserk state naturally. He ignores Teresa, like most everyone does, and leers at Deya and me as if we couldn’t shoot an arrow through his face. His dad is obsessed with Deya’s mom.
“You ladies seeing any trouble down there? Security has asked Demi-Dork to look into some disturbances at the holy sites. Wouldn’t surprise me to learn that people are setting up temples to worship your bodies.”
Deya balls her fists, not because of what Thrax said about her, but about Cosmo. Calling him a demi isn’t just inaccurate, it’s wildly offensive. Deya may flirt with Cosmo to get her own way, but she doesn’t let anyone talk badly about him.
“Jump in the Styx, Thrax, or I’ll drown you in it,” she warns. Her threat only seems to excite him. Unruffled, he glances at me.
“What about you, Blondie?” His eyes roam over me, and I want to bleach my soul. “You’re not revealing any Olympian secrets, are you?”
“Thrax,” I say sweetly and slowly, so he can keep up, “the only secret around here is how your enormous head could hold such a tiny brain.”
Teresa and Deya both laugh as Thrax puts both hands to his forehead and storms away.
“Okay, are you ready to fix Beach Rat so we can match Ben already?” Deya asks, still huffing in Thrax’s direction.
I’m too high on solidarity to be annoyed that she’s acting like my boss again. “Let’s go.”
We each grab our identical long, bronze necklaces bearing a heart, an arrow, and a single wing. We wave to Teresa, look at each other, and in a blink, we’re gone.
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