The Tower of Nero (The Trials of Apollo #5)(91)

She gently extricated herself from my arms. Not a cuddler, my sister, but she did allow me to hold her hands. Her stillness helped me stop trembling.

We were sitting together on a Greek-style sofa bed, in a white marble chamber with a columned terrace that opened onto a view of Olympus: the sprawling mountaintop city of the gods, high above Manhattan. The scent of jasmine and honeysuckle wafted in from the gardens. I heard the heavenly singing of the Nine Muses in the distance—probably their daily lunchtime concert in the agora. I really was back.

I examined myself. I wore nothing but a bedsheet from the waist down. My chest was bronze and perfectly sculpted. My muscular arms bore no scars or fiery lines glowing beneath the surface. I was gorgeous, which made me feel melancholy. I had worked hard for those scars and bruises. All the suffering my friends and I had been through…

My sister’s words suddenly sank in: Took you long enough.

I choked on despair. “How long?”

Artemis’s silver eyes scanned my face, as if trying to determine what damage my time as a human had done to my mind. “What do you mean?”

I knew immortals could not have panic attacks. Yet my chest constricted. The ichor in my heart pumped much too fast. I had no idea how long it had taken me to become a god again. I’d lost half a year from the time Zeus zapped me at the Parthenon to the time I plummeted to Manhattan as a mortal. For all I knew, my restorative siesta had taken years, decades, centuries. Everyone I’d known on Earth might be dead.

I could not bear that. “How long was I out? What century is this?”

Artemis processed this question. Knowing her as well as I did, I gathered she was tempted to laugh, but hearing the degree of hurt in my voice, she kindly thought better of it.

“Not to worry, Brother,” she said. “Since you fought Python, only two weeks have passed.”

Boreas the North Wind could not have exhaled more powerfully than I did.

I sat upright, throwing aside my sheet. “But what about my friends? They’ll think I’m dead!”

Artemis studiously regarded the ceiling. “Not to worry. We—I—sent them clear omens of your success. They know you have ascended to Olympus again. Now, please, put on some clothing. I’m your sister, but I would not wish this sight on anyone.”

“Hmph.” I knew very well she was just teasing me. Godly bodies are expressions of perfection. That’s why we appear naked in ancient statuary, because you simply do not cover up such flawlessness with clothing.

Nevertheless, her comment resonated with me. I felt awkward and uncomfortable in this form, as if I’d been given a Rolls-Royce to drive but no car insurance to go with it. I’d felt so much more comfortable in my economy-compact Lester.

“I, um…Yes.” I gazed around the room. “Is there a closet, or—?”

Her laughter finally escaped. “A closet. That’s adorable. You can just wish yourself into clothes, Little Brother.”

“I…ah…” I knew she was right, but I felt so flustered I even ignored her little brother comment. It had been too long since I’d relied on my divine power. I feared I might try and fail. I might accidentally turn myself into a camel.

“Oh, fine,” Artemis said. “Allow me.”

A wave of her hand, and suddenly I was wearing a knee-length silver dress—the kind my sister’s followers wore—complete with thigh-laced sandals. I suspected I was also wearing a tiara.

“Um. Perhaps something less Huntery?”

“I think you look lovely.” Her mouth twitched at the corner. “But very well.”

A flash of silver light, and I was dressed in a man’s white chiton. Come to think of it, that piece of clothing was pretty much identical to a Hunter’s gown. The sandals were the same. I seemed to be wearing a crown of laurels instead of a tiara, but those weren’t very different, either. Conventions of gender were strange. But I decided that was a mystery for another time.

“Thank you,” I said.

She nodded. “The others are waiting in the throne room. Are you ready?”

I shivered, though it should not have been possible for me to feel cold.

The others.

I remembered my dream of the throne room—the other Olympians gambling on my success or failure. I wondered how much money they’d lost.

What could I possibly say to them? I no longer felt like one of them. I wasn’t one of them.

“In a moment,” I told my sister. “Would you mind…?”

She seemed to understand. “I’ll let you compose yourself. I’ll tell them you’ll be right in.” She kissed me lightly on the cheek. “I am glad you’re back. I hope I won’t regret saying that.”

“Me, too,” I agreed.

She shimmered and vanished.

I took off the laurel wreath. I did not feel comfortable wearing such a symbol of victory. I ran my finger across the gilded leaves, thinking of Daphne, whom I had treated so horribly. Whether Aphrodite had cursed me or not, it was still my fault that the blameless naiad had turned herself into a laurel tree just to escape me.

I walked to the balcony. I set the wreath on the edge of the railing, then ran my hand across the hyacinth that grew along the lattice—another reminder of tragic love. My poor Hyacinthus. Had I really created these flowers to commemorate him, or just to wallow in my own grief and guilt? I found myself questioning many things I had done over the centuries. Strangely enough, this uneasiness felt somewhat reassuring.