He lifts a hand. “Take her away.”
Four burly immortals clasp me by the arms, having suddenly materialized around me. My pulse leaps, and their grips tighten. I struggle to no avail.
“By the gods, let the girl speak.”
My head swings in the direction of the voice. A towering, buxom goddess wrapped in an elegant dress cuts an impressive silhouette where she lounges at the end of the table, one hand propped on her hip, the other pressed to the tabletop.
“You would think, after millennia of this shit, you would have better things to do than claw for petty wins against mortals.” She speaks in a soft, rolling purr, her yellow cat eyes slitted against the sun. “Pathetic.”
Whoever this goddess is, I decide she is someone I would absolutely love to know.
The lightning god does not share the sentiment. He sighs and lifts his eyes to the vaulted ceiling, long blond hair falling in waves across his chest. “Do you have something to say, Demi?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
There is a round of groans from the table. A few pour themselves another drink. The goddess with the owl perched on the back of her chair plucks a cherry from a bowl and feeds it to the raptor, gray wings folded across its back.
Lifting her arms in a dramatic display of passion, the goddess Demi exclaims, “I know we love to think ourselves courageous, worldly, resolute. But this woman has obviously traveled far to speak with us. Not only that, but she hascrossed realms, a feat few mortals have accomplished.”
“Yes,” snaps a pointy-chinned goddess with luscious black locks, “because it isforbidden.”
Demi’s head whips toward the other woman. “When was the last time you did anything so heroic, love? And no, gazing into the mirror without face paint doesn’t count.”
A round of snickers sweeps the table. The black-haired goddess sneers, arms crossed in defiance.
“At the very least,” Demi goes on, “we should hear her plight.”
“Smells like a mortal sympathizer,” someone mutters.
She ignores the comment. “Why punish bravery when we can reward it? The girl doesn’t ask for much. She just wants the opportunity to speak.”
With a loud sigh, the lightning god bows his head, the bridge of his nose pinched between two tattooed fingers. No one is more surprised than me when he lifts a broad hand and says, “Speak then.” His attention cuts to the goddess. “Sit down, Demi.”
Her yellow eyes capture mine, and she winks at me before taking her seat.
With her performance complete, everyone turns to face me. I release a slow, inaudible exhalation. Now or never, do or die.
“I’ve come to save the life of the South Wind,” I proclaim. “He was pierced by Sleep’s own dagger, and will not wake.”
A hollow wind slithers between the pillars.“South Wind?”someone whispers. The wine-addled god pours his eighth—ninth?—glass of wine with a muttered, “And the day keeps getting better.”
The lightning god leans forward in his seat, perhaps considering whether to hurl one of those jagged bolts through my chest. The council members look between us nervously, a few avoiding eye contact.
“Unfortunately,” the lightning god thunders disdainfully, “we no longer recognize the South Wind in the City of Gods. You have wasted your time.”
I anticipated this. I am aware of Notus’ banishment. He told me his story, just once. I have not forgotten. Following their banishment, the Four Winds were struck from the books. Their titles were stripped. To the Council of Gods, they no longer exist.
I’m not normally one to yield, but this is no ordinary meeting. I am a mortal woman who has come to beseech these highest deities for their assistance. Argument will not get me far. My pleas will not sway them. There exists only one thing I can offer: myself.
“Where is the god Apollo?” I call. My voice echoes against the stone and flees beyond the temple, into the sunlit greenery.
A handful of the council members descend into fits of laughter. A dark-skinned goddess with a braid crowning the top of her skull manages, “Who does this mortal think she is, making demands?” Her hazel eyes lock onto mine in revulsion. So strong an emotion for someone she has never met and knows nothing about.
“You misunderstand,” I say once the commotion has calmed down. “I ask because I wish to offer him a gift.”
The council members lean inward over the table while speaking in hushed tones, darting occasional glances in my direction. As mortals, we beseech, we pray, we plea. Demand, we do not. Eventually, someone pushes back their chair and comes forward.
This god possesses a fair complexion and is dressed in a flowing white robe that hits mid-thigh. A circlet graces his brow, glinting against the threads of his yellow hair. Apollo: god of sun, music, and light.
