Fire & Flood (Mythverse #1)

Chapter 28

Chapter 28

Ocypete takes pity on me and makes me a cup of tea, gently asking me to put my wings away when I accidentally break a Precious Moments she had resting on the coffee table. I take the tea, apologize for the figurine, and lean back in my chair.

“So…you’re telling me the gods are bad?” I ask.

Pity nods, her head moving rapidly up and down in the way that all the bird-shifters have. “Of course they would say the monsters are bad. War is a matter of perspective, dear.”

“I really don’t need a philosophy lesson,” I tell her, spitting out a mouthful of too-hot tea.

“Alright, then how about some history?” she asks, and I nod.

“Many of the monsters were made for the sport of the gods—some of them as a direct result of the gods at their own sport. You know about the Minotaur, right?”

I shudder a little. That story had made me a little ill when they taught it in history class. The nymph Pasiphaë—the daughter of a god—had been as sexually fluid as Hermes, and thought some fun with a bull might make her happy. Whether or not she had any fun, she did get a kid out of it—the Minotaur. Except we also learned that she loved her misbegotten child. He was the one who turned on her.

“And Scylla?” Pity asks.

“Uh…” I wrack my brain, but can’t come up with anything.

“Circe—another nymph, the daughter of a god, and a powerful witch as well—she envied Scylla her beauty.”

I shake my head. “Wait, no, I checked out a book from the library called The History of Monsters. Scylla was a horribly ugly, awful monster. She hates Circe. And all witches, too.”

“No,” the harpy shakes her head. “Scylla was a beauty, loved by many—and by a man that Circe wanted for herself. So she turned her rival into the monster we know today. Very few people remember what Scylla was…only what she’s become.”

Ocypete hops to a windowsill and perches, watching the sun as it starts to sink. “I could go on. There are many monsters, Edie. Most of them owe their creation to the gods either as playthings or pets, bastards or by-blows, all discarded once they ceased to be interesting. This war has been going on for centuries, with the gods not even fighting their own battles. No.” She shakes her head, and turns back to me. “Why would they? They get you to do it for them.”

“A pawn.” I repeat her words from earlier. “You think we’re all just being trained to fight for the gods, because they can’t be bothered to fight for themselves?”

“Oh, they could be bothered,” she says. “That’s part of what makes it so infuriating. They can’t die; they’re immortal. But they’re also a bunch of gods-damned d**k weeds.”

I spit out my tea again, this time in shock. Hearing that kind of language from Pity is sort of like hearing it from my grandma—somehow fitting, and absolutely hilarious.

“Honestly,” she insists. “They can’t stand to get hurt. Even the smallest little trifle and they go hide in caves, and cry, and act like someone lopped their whole arm off. When you spend an immortal life free of pain, even the smallest amount is terrifying.”

I nod, thinking. “So, the gods are using us like…human shields?”

She wiggles one clawed hand in the air. “Sort of human shields. Paranormal shields.”

“And you’re telling me because…” I let my words trail off, watching her face for a clues, when it hits me—hard.

“Oh my gods.” I’m on my feet in a second, tea spilling everywhere. “You’re working for them, aren’t you? You’re…you’re…”

“A spy.” She nods, and takes a prim sip of tea. “And I’d like for you to be one, too.”

My foot slips in spilled tea, and I hit the floor in a flash of plaid skirt, my wings popping out—now an alarmed yellow—knocking over a lamp.

“Maybe not a very good spy,” she says, eyeing me over the edge of her cup. “Based on that display.”

“I…you…” I’m shaking, my butt is soaked in tea, and there’s hardly any light left in Ocypete’s house now that the sun is setting and I broke the only lamp.

“You need to think about it a little,” she says, leaning forward and resting her tea on the slightly skewed coffee table. “I understand.”

“I need to think a lot,” I correct. “You just dropped a bomb on me. I don’t know if I believe you.”

“Of course,” she agrees, rising to help me to my feet. “Which is why I’m not going to pressure you. But, Edie, you realize I must ask you to keep all this to yourself?”

“Right,” I nod, as she guides me to the door, stopping only when another thought occurs to me. “Wait—you didn’t kill Jenn, did you? Or the one bat boy? Or burn Fern, or—”

“Those were all mine,” she says quickly, an edge to her voice.

“Yours!” I jerk my arm from her grasp.

“Mine,” she says again, quietly this time, with a hint of affection. “They were my spies.”

“Oh,” I say.

“So you see, Edie,” she goes on, leading me to the edge of her platform. “I don’t have to threaten you at all to keep you from going to the gods with news of my treachery. You’re in danger just by knowing.”

And with that, she pushes me off the edge.