There were mortals who would agree, but being a god did not make them all-powerful, and perhaps that was for the best. It allowed for balance, for cycles to continue when they would otherwise stop. The Kallikantzaroi were part of that—a necessary, albeit annoying, representation of the passage of time and a threat to the order they were trying to restore.
“If someone had kept his promise, we wouldn’t need to,” said Hecate.
Ares raised his brows. “You promised? Fuck.”
“I was tired! I battled all day!”
“Why doesn’t matter,” said Niko, interpreting Ajax’s signing. “Nothing changes what has happened. We need a plan for the mortals.”
“Don’t these creatures hate the sun?” asked Poseidon. “Perhaps we should simply suspend dusk.”
“Until Christmas?” Athena said, her tone was flat, displeased. “That is out of the question. Humans rely on the cycle of day and night for their well-being.”
“Besides, the mortals look forward to nighttime during the holidays,” Hestia said. “They decorate for it.”
The Goddess of Hearth and Home was right. Mortals covered their houses and yards and streets in lights. They went out after sunset to walk bright, festive parks and drink hot chocolate. It was an important ritual in post-war life.
“Athena and Hestia are right,” said Hades. “We cannot disrupt their lives more than we already are.”
“We will have to advise the mortals to ward their homes,” said Hecate. “I can prepare a list, but they must choose at least three methods. These spirits are crafty.”
“I thought the Kallikantzaroi were stupid,” said Artemis.
“I suppose they can appear a little dull,” Hecate said. “But they are spirits, made for one purpose. Chaos is all they know, and chaos is all they will create.”
“What is on your list?” Hephaestus asked. “I think it is best we provide the supplies. Families are already stretched thin during the holidays.”
Ajax agreed and thanked Hephaestus for saying so.
“We will need an abundance of old shoes, garlands of holly and garlic, colanders and frankincense, and a few pig jaws.”
“Pig jaws?” Hermes repeated, scrunching his nose.
“Yes,” said Hecate. Every time she looked at the god, she glared.
“Is what you have already listed not enough?” Aphrodite asked. “Perhaps we do not need them.”
“Kallikantzaroi will not cross a threshold where a pig jaw hangs,” she said. “They are valuable wards.”
“It seems difficult to procure an abundance of pig jaws,” Athena pointed out.
“It certainly sounds that way,” said Hecate. “Luckily, Circe has more than enough.”
Circe was a bit of an enigma. She was a Goddess of Sorcery, a master of plants and potions. She lived on the island of Aeaea, having been taken there by her father, Helios, thousands of years ago. Since then, she’d trapped many men, transforming them into pigs.
Dionysus chuckled at the thought of Hermes as a rooting swine.
“Are you suggesting we slaughter her drove?” Hestia asked, a note of disapproval in her voice.
“Of course not,” said Hecate. “I am suggesting we dig up her graveyard…and by we, I mean Hermes.”
The god’s mouth fell open. “Me? You know Circe hates me! She’s never forgiven me for the Odysseus thing.”
The Odysseus thing was Hermes’s interception of the hero before he could approach the witch’s home. The messenger god warned Odysseus that he would not escape the goddess’s clutches and gave him a magic plant which countered her own poisonous drink.
“I do know,” said Hecate. “A fitting punishment for your betrayal.”
“Hecate,” Hermes tried again, desperate, lowering to his knees. “I’ll do anything?—”
