Carver shouted a warning too late, and Pan picked Bel uplike a plaything and threw her on top of Carver. The remaining satyrs scattered. Carver hissed in pain, her weight a blow to his aching body and the heat of her immense despite the bed of water.
Bel gasped and cut off her magic, sparing him a roasting. They stared at each other in shock, her on top and him half drowning beneath her. Carver’s heart banged against his ribs. Time seemed to slow, then sudden movement yanked his focus from Bel’s huge eyes and firm, slender body.
Pan lunged. He dropped low and bashed Bel in the back of the head with his metal gauntlet. Her magic-bright eyes dulled, turning hazy. A moan slid from her mouth, and fear punched through Carver as she pitched sideways. She oozed mostly off him, staying just conscious enough to use his body for elevation and turn her face out of the water.
Murderous rage erupted in Carver. He tensed for action, his fading strength returning with a vengeance. Pan turned yellow eyes on him. Carver stayed still and groaned, hoping the pathetic sound would trick the god into coming closer. Raw and blistered skin marred Pan’s bare chest and arms, but he’d heal quickly. Carver didn’t even see the hole he’d put in Pan’s thigh earlier. He had mere seconds before the god was at full capacity again and ready to finish what he’d started.
Carver slid his hand toward Bel’s belt under the water. Waves washed in and out, each one higher. Water splashed over both their faces. He wrapped his fingers around the hilt of her dagger, deadly calm settling over him as soon as he had a blade in his grasp again.
Pan dipped down, ready to knock him unconscious next to a sagging Bel, and Carver whipped out the blade, plunged it deep into the goat god’s throat, and ripped it violently sideways. Pan reared back, gurgling.
Carver surged to his feet, unable to see how Bel landed. He tore the blade in the other direction, leaving Pan’s head hanging by a thread, the bone exposed and vulnerable. The god fell with a splash, gushing blood. His golden ichor ran in rivulets toward the half-dozen satyrs still standing. Torchlight flickered. The creatures stared in disbelief, unmoving.
Carver took advantage of their shock and leaped for his sword before he lost sight of the glint of steel under the churning water. The remaining satyrs shook off their surprise and ran at him, but Bel abruptly pushed herself up and produced just enough magic to scare them into stopping. Knowing she was watching his back, Carver raced toward the god and brought his blade down hard on Pan’s open neck. Pan flailed, writhing in terror. Carver’s next hit sliced clear through the spine, separating Pan’s head from his body.
Carver exhaled sharply, his eyes widening. Victory drummed in his chest, and a wild sort of violence coursed through him. He kicked Pan’s lifeless body away from Bellanca. It sloshed across the chamber, the loose head swirling in the eddy, and Carver let out a sound that almost wasn’t human. He and Bel had survived—again—and he’d protected the only person who truly mattered to him on this godsforsaken island.
He turned on the creatures that hadn’t burned or fled, his chest heaving. Bloodlust was real, and he felt it rising inside him as fast as the water.
Bel struggled to her feet, the waves lapping at her thighs now. “We have to go before we’re trapped.” She gripped his arm, proving she wasn’t quite steady.
“What about them?” Carver’s voice resonated in the wave-washed cavern. He was ready to kill. Killing didn’t seem so hard or bad once you started, and this battle didn’t feel over—not with six satyrs inching their way toward freedom.
The satyrs made a sudden break for the tunnel and Carver lunged, grabbing the last one by the tail and whipping the creature back around to hold it at sword point. Bel came up beside him, her whole hand flaming in menace. The satyr froze, breathing harshly.
“What was Pan doing in Atlantis? Who’s his master and what are they after?” Carver demanded.
He saw the creature swallow. The satyr wouldn’t respond at first, but the prick of Carver’s blade convinced him. “The key. He was after the key. We served Pan. I don’t know who he served on Mount Olympus.”
“The key to rekindling magic?” Bel nearly touched the center of her chest, her fiery fingers hovering over her wet tunic, but she’d left her medallion at home for safekeeping. “How does it work?”
“I–I don’t know.” The satyr’s voice trembled as waves rolled in, crashing against the rock walls of the cavern. A first torch fizzled, flickering out. His eyes darted over the floating ash polluting the chamber and the body of his dead master, sinking below the water. “No one’s seen the Shard of Olympus in three thousand years.”
The Shard of Olympus.So the key had a name. Carver narrowed his eyes. “Then why did Pan think it was here?” The satyr shifted nervously but didn’t answer. Water covered their hips, and urgency rattled Carver. “Why?” He took a menacing step forward and dug deeper with the point of his sword, only stopping when a bead of dark-red blood welled on the creature’s chest.
The satyr halted. “All we know is that Athena found the shard in Attica and hid it here.”
Athena—Zeus’s daughter and ally. Core Olympians had been moving their pawns and weapons into place for monthsnow. There was a good chance Athena had planted the shard in Atlantis around the same time Persephone planted Bel here.
“Where is it?” Bel backed toward the swiftly closing exit, pulling Carver with her. He kept his sword up and his eyes on the creature, who struggled toward the tunnel with them.
The satyr shook his head. “Pan said you had it. O-or could get it. That’s why he lured you here.”
“The joke’s on him,” Carver said bitingly. And on them. They’d nearly lost their lives, and all they’d gained was a name for something they still had no idea how to locate or use.
A wave sloshed up the small of his back. Water already covered Bel’s midriff. Soon, they’d be swimming out against the tide, and he didn’t even know if that was possible.
“Go.” He pointed the creature out, his battle rage fading now. He didn’t want an enemy at their backs, and this one had earned his life with the information he’d shared.
The satyr took off without a second thought. Carver nudged Bel ahead of him. He’d take up the rear, and there was no way he was letting her out of his sight.
“Let’s go,” he urged sharply.
For once, she didn’t argue.
Hera
Hera paced the long marble terrace of her palace on Mount Olympus, waiting for news from Pan. She hadn’t imagined a lonelier existence than the one she’d already lived for the past two thousand years, but inhabiting this abandoned mountaintop had proved her wrong. Until now, no Olympian had set foot in Atlantis for so long that it felt like a disease had crept into the castle and killed off its living spark, room by room.
