It doesn’t matter. All gods must die. Whether I love them or not.
Loud, almost clanging footsteps snapped her out of her thoughts. Beside her, Calypso smiled and gestured for the figure in the doorway to come closer. After a second of staring at him, Cassandra did, too, with a slight nod of her head. Come on. It’s safe. I won’t put my hands on you and turn you into mutton. And she wouldn’t unless he gave her real cause. He was only a satyr. Not a god. Not even a nymph like Calypso. His death was probably so accelerated that he only had a few more years anyway.
As he hugged Calypso and kissed her cheek, Cassandra studied his body and every inch of exposed skin. All seemed healthy and California tan. His olive undertones made his brown T-shirt look green.
“David. This is Cassandra.”
Cassandra held her hand out, and watched him debate whether to touch her or to risk pissing her off by not touching her.
“It’s okay,” she said, and put her hand back on the bar.
“Sorry I’m late.” He gave no excuse as to why, and signaled to the bartender for a beer. “Should we get a table?”
They moved to the back, out of the shaft of sunlight and into the dusty yellow of the billiard lamp. David slid into a chair and tossed a small manila envelope onto the table. Calypso opened it and took out a stack of fake passports and driver’s licenses. The way she flipped through them so casually made Cassandra glance back to check the bartender. But he had his eyes where they should be, on the glasses he was washing. He knew what it meant when his patrons retreated to the back corner.
Calypso frowned.
“You made me twenty-seven.”
David shrugged. “The photos you sent looked twenty-seven. It’s a good age. You want them to last, don’t you?”
Calypso passed Cassandra hers.
“He made you twenty-one.”
“And that was a stretch.” David took a drink. “You look all of about fifteen.”
All of about fifteen. But she was almost seventeen. And could have killed him by caressing his cheek. She tucked the IDs into her pocket and looked David over, noting the faint lines around his mouth and the looseness of his skin. A burly patch of chest hair was visible at his collar, shot through with gray. Cassandra scrutinized his head. That black hair of his wasn’t quite so naturally black anymore. Poor David. He would be sleeping with and not calling fewer and fewer girls in the coming months.
“So. Ladies. Is that it? Because not that it isn’t a kick to see you, Cally, but…”
“No, that’s not it.” Cassandra interjected. “What have you heard of the other gods? And—don’t lie. And don’t make me ‘bad cop’ you either. I’d feel ridiculous.”
David paused. He looked sort of amused, but no less nervous.
“I’m just a satyr,” he said. “A lower being. Why would I know anything?”
Cassandra glanced at Calypso. As a nymph, she was half a lower being herself. And the farther down you were on the godly ladder, the closer you paid attention. Lowers minded the uppers, in case the uppers decided to cause trouble.
“What have you heard?” Cassandra asked again.
“What have I heard?” David snorted. “What have you heard?”
“I’ve heard that Artemis is dead,” Cassandra said. “Not by my hand. And Poseidon is dead. Not mine either. Aidan—” she swallowed. “Apollo is dead. Hera is dead. She was mine. Athena’s probably dead, too.” She couldn’t tell if any of it surprised or saddened David. He wore his masks well.
“Who do you want?” he asked.
“I want Aphrodite. And Ares, since he’ll probably be there anyway.”
David shook his head. “Not a chance. Those two took off so fast they left behind a dust trail. Nobody’s heard a thing from them. Besides, by all accounts, Aphrodite’s in pretty bad shape. She’ll probably die on her own. Save you the trouble.”