“That stone—” Phineus gestured toward her “—is the last piece. Through the years, it has been passed through the Children of Prometheus, along with the truth. The omphalos stone is the only true source of prophecy. There is no other way to divine the future. That shard is how we’ve managed to stay hidden from the Twelve. It is how I knew you would come to Delphi in my lifetime.”
This was not the story she’d been told. She had believed, like everyone else, that Prometheus had stolen one of Zeus’s thunderbolts and given it to mankind so they might rise up against their creator. But this was an even greater transgression. She thought of the ripple effect Hera’s revelation about Jason’s parentage had created. It touched the lives of all who traveled on theArgo, the islanders of Lemnos, the Doliones, potentially the entire city of Iolcos. So many mortals pulled by her puppet strings. The gift of foresight would give men a weapon against the gods’ manipulation. After all, what greater way to start a revolution than allowing people a glimpse of their future.
Carefully, she unwrapped the shard of omphalos stone, making sure not to touch it with her skin. It felt heavier than before. In the light from the doorway its corners looked tinged with red, like it was soaked with the blood of all those who’d carried it.
“So all the seers and priestesses lie about reading the omens?”
Phineus made a noise in the back of his throat. “They are either charlatans or fools who believe their own delusions. They can no more read the omens in animal intestines than I can fly.”
Phineus’s implication weighed heavily on her. If what he said was true, and the will of the gods could not be divined, the priestesses of Demeter had ordered the slaughter of Melia’s daughters and all those who’d gone before, based on lies. Her hands trembled as she rewrapped the stone and stuffed it into her bag.
“What is the point of feeding my life-threads to this stone, if I can’t even decipher the visions it shows me?”
“You must learn.”
The finality in his tone struck a chord inside her that had been stretched to breaking point. Before she knew what she was doing, she’d thrown her bag to the ground.
“The Children of Prometheus are a joke. Whispering your secrets to each other, waiting for the last daughter to change the world for you. Do you have any idea how it feels to be told you are destined to kill Zeus, the actual god that created mankind? And to have the rest of the Twelve hunt me like a boar—”
Phineus slammed the end of his staff into the ground.
“Enough!” He drew a breath. “You and the gods are not so different. They have the power to command the elements, so do you. They are not omnipotent, as they want us mortals to believe, and they make mistakes just like we do. You have a chance to make a real difference, to end the suffering of so many. Here’s my advice: stop feeling sorry for yourself, work it out and trust no one. Oh, and don’t get killed.”
Danae stared at him, her mouth slightly open.
Phineus twitched his head in the direction of the doorway. “Ah! Lunch, at last.” He pushed himself to his feet. “Stay here.” He tapped his way toward the entrance.
Then she heard it too. A rhythmic thumping, growing louder and louder.
Ignoring Phineus, she grabbed her bag and rushed out of the entrance, to see the sky darkened by the vast wings of a harpy.
She shrank back against the ruin, as Phineus staggered around beneath the creature, bony arms reaching for the cloth parcel dangling from its claws.
Her memory of the harpies’ attack on the ship was a blur of wings, talons and blood. Her legs threatened to buckle. It felt as though the ground was moving, like she was back on the deck, trapped in the memory of Manto’s death.
But she was no longer that terrified girl who’d fled Delphi. She forced herself to look at the harpy. Really look at it. Her eyes traced its arms fused to its leathery wings, the sagging breasts that hung from its scaly chest, the squashed, snarling face and the matted hair trailing down its back. Lastly, she made herself look at its taloned feet, from which sprang the claws that had ended Manto’s life.
It was monstrous, yes. But it was just flesh and bone. It could be killed.
The harpy landed, awkwardly, like a giant bird, and dropped its load. Phineus fell to his knees, scrabbling for the parcel. How could he? One of these creatures killed his child. Then she realized, he didn’t know. He couldn’t see the harpy.
She drew out her dagger.
The harpy sniffed the air. Then its grizzled head snapped toward her, indigo eyes narrowed. Danae’s fist tightened on the handle of her knife. She could feel the power of her life-force thrumming through her, but it was weak. She hadn’t replenished her threads.
Snarling, the harpy unfurled its wings, creating a gust of air that knocked Phineus to the ground. Then it launched itself toward her. In the moment before impact, she pictured Manto, standing on the deck of the ship, arms flung wide, nothing to fight with but their belief that Danae would bring about a reckoning that would shake the world.
She sprang toward the harpy. Metal clashed with bone. She twisted on impact, skidding underneath the harpy’s talons as she sliced upward. The creature wheeled around in midair, its vast wings propelling it round for another attack. But Danae was ready. She feigned to the right, nicking the beast’s thigh with her blade as it descended. It roared and lashed at her, but she dodged again.
Phineus cowered, his hands over his head. “What’s happening?”
She couldn’t spare the breath to answer. She darted around the thrashing claws, cutting the harpy’s legs where she could. But she was tiring, and each wound fed the harpy’s rage. It was learning to predict her movements and on the next jab, talons raked over her shoulder. The pain was excruciating.
She was going to die, just like Manto.
Gasping through the ache, she transferred the knife to her left hand. Instead of dodging the harpy’s next assault, she leaped into the air. Swinging her good arm around the creature’s scaly neck, she clung on as the harpy flapped into the sky, attempting to throw her off. Its breath was rancid, and its pointed teeth gnashed at her face.
With a spasm of pain that almost forced her to let go, Danae stretched out her arm and sliced. The harpy screamed as she hacked at its wing, tearing holes through the membrane. Unable to stay airborne, the beast tumbled down, spiraling back to earth.
