“Coins?” Cyane reached behind her to pull out her wallet. “I guess my accent gives me away?”
“It does.”
She fished out some nickels and pennies. “I have some cash but credit works bet—”
He snatched the coins from her palm and pocketed them before she could finish. “I’m an avid collector. Come now, lest you’ve changed your mind. The clouds are gathering.”
Stunned, and yet filled with growing excitement, she stood with her hand still cupped in front of her, devoid of her money. She lowered it slowly as she watched Haros toss the last rope into the boat. He jumped over after it.
It was now or never.
Her palms dampened with sweat.
Now or never.
He reached out his hand to help her over the threshold. The step across was growing wider by the second. Cyane swallowed and leaped.
Haros pulled her in with a healthy jerk. The momentum pushed the sailboat away from the dock several feet. She released his leathery hand and turned back to see her decision finalized—the gap was too far to jump back across.
“Thank you,” she said, breathless. The whip of sails rising and wind-beating-tarp filled her ears. She licked her lips and settled herself down at the end of the sailboat, away from where Haros worked. She pulled off her pack. “How long will the trip be?” she asked as they slowly sailed through the harbor. Athens, new and old, cruised by her in a blur, blending industrial and crumbling stone into one.
“Not long.”
She waited for him to say more, but as he moved from one tie to the next, she realized he wasn’t going to. As the harbor left them behind, the silence continued. Captain Haros wasn’t a talker. Which was fine with her.
Taking out her phone again, she turned her attention to the views around her and took some pictures, the effort giving her peace with this unconventional transit. But that didn’t last long. The Grecian shore grew smaller in the distance, and the only thing left to photograph was gray, choppy water. The wind whipped the sails and pulled hair from her tie, lashing the strands across her cheeks and eyes.
They picked up speed.
Water sprayed her face, drawing her eyes to the sea. Ships, small and big, spotted the water. A man on a fishing skiff waved to her, and she waved back. A wave brought on by a nearby barge rocked the sailboat, making her grip the edge of her seat. Cyane put her phone and wallet in her backpack and tied it into a place where it wouldn’t get wet. Another wave crashed against the side, knocking her back and wetting her face.
She wiped the water from her eyes, blinking out the sudden salt invading them, and laughed. “I guess we’re in for a wet ride.”
“Yes.”
His voice was suddenly hollow, old, and everywhere at once.
Cyane looked at Haros, and her smile faded.
The wind stopped. The sounds of the world dimmed. The sails of the boat weregone,and now only a haggard old man with an oar in the crook of his arm stood across from her.
“Captain Haros?”
Flashing red eyes shot to hers—no longer blue. A white hand emerged from the sea to grab at his leg. Haros lashed at it with his oar and it fell away.
Startled, she drew back.That wasn’t a hand I saw. It couldn’t be.All other ships had vanished. She searched for the man on the fishing skiff, but he too was gone. She looked past Haros to the coast, but it too had disappeared. Her fingers tensed, and dread shot through her chest. She swallowed thickly. “What’s happening?”
She never got an answer. The sea opened up beneath them.
The boat gave way like smoke. Vertigo hit, and she lost orientation. Frigid, eternally cold waves consumed everything, forcing her to understand that death was assured.
The last thing she saw, as cold fingers grasped her ankle and dragged her down to hellish depths, was the black surface of the sea growing small far above and the glitter of coins falling ever farther under the waves with her.
She screamed, but water filled her mouth, her throat. In one breath, everything she knew vanished.
Cerberus finds a Mortal
Cerberus stood in the shadows,eyeing the gods and immortals flitting across the dance floor, clinging to one another. No one danced yet—it wasn’t time for that—but their clothes flowed like silk and oil, not caught up in breezes or wind, but in time itself.
