Danae closed her eyes and took comfort in the familiar rocking of the boat. When she cast her mind too far ahead, her chest tightened and breathing became difficult, so she focused on what would happen next. They would land at Myconos and find shelter for the night. Tomorrow was a problem she would face with the dawn.
‘We’ve got company.’
Danae’s eyes snapped open. She looked to where Atalanta pointed, and her heart tripped.
A sleek black penteconter with a billowing white sail was heading towards them.
Had the Olympians already sent reinforcements after Poseidon?
Telamon stilled the oars, his hand travelling to the sword lying beside him on the bench. ‘Looks like it’s heading to Delos.’
The ship was a little larger than theArgo, with space for around fifty rowers. No figurehead presided over its prow, but the all-seeing eye of the Twelve was painted on either hull, and a row of bronze shields lined its sides. The benches only seemed to be half full, but from their armour, the occupants appeared to be soldiers.
‘The shields,’ whispered Atalanta, ‘they’re Ithacan.’
Danae knew little of Ithaca, only that it was an island far from Naxos, located on the other side of mainland Greece in the Ionian Sea.
‘Danae …’ said Telamon in a low voice, his green eyes fixed on the penteconter.
‘I’ve got enough strength to use my powers if I must.’ She set her jaw, gathering her life-threads into her hands.
Telamon kept his sword hidden below the lip of their boat, likewise Atalanta readied her bow out of sight. They were at a disadvantage to the larger vessel, but if it came to it, Danae was sure she could hold the men off long enough for her comrades to climb aboard and subdue the crew. That is, if there wasn’t an Olympian on board.
Their little tub bobbed violently in the swell as the ship drew closer. The penteconter’s rowers hauled in their oars as they approached, several men clustering to the starboard side of the deck.
‘You there!’ called a plain-clothed man in a teal tunic and grey cloak, as he gestured towards Delos. ‘Have you come from that land, yonder?’ He was of medium build, and his features were ordinary, forgettable even. He was neither tall nor short, and looked to be around his fortieth year. His wavy hair was the hue of a walnut, his weather-creased skin richly tanned as though he spent much of his days outdoors. He didn’t look threatening, yet Danae had survived too much strife to take anything at face value.
‘Who’s asking?’ replied Atalanta, her nonchalant tone at odds with the concealed arrow that could pierce the man’s jugular in the space of two breaths.
As she spoke another man appeared beside the first. He too wore a plain tunic, rather than armour, but Danae assumed he must also be a soldier. He leant upon a wooden crutch, his arms covered in prominent scars, his face partially obscured by long chestnut curls buffeted by the breeze.
At the sight of them, the second man stiffened. Then he whispered into the first man’s ear. As she watched the fervent exchange, Danae’s skin prickled like an animal sensing rain before the first drop has fallen. The man who had called to them grew very still, focusing on Danae as though she had suddenly swallowed the sun.
Pulse thumping, she realized she barely had moments to act. If this man knew who she was, and what she could do, they had lost the crucial element of surprise.
She flung her arms out, throwing her shimmering life-threads into the sea. Taking her cue, Atalanta rose to standing, an arrow drawn at her cheek. But before either of them could attack, Telamon sprang to his feet, tipping their boat into a violent sway.
‘By the fates!’
‘What?’ Danae hissed, threads snapping back inside her as she stumbled.
Telamon ignored her, lowering his sword as he stared in slack-jawed amazement at the scarred man.
Danae’s eyes snapped to the stranger. His gaze met hers. Familiarity blossomed at the corners of her mind. They looked at each other for a breath, then her heart imploded. It felt as though she’d been punched backwards through time, falling into an endless cascade of memory.
A ghost. A friend who had fought by her side, who had tried to kiss her then saved her life before he was ripped from the deck of theArgoby an Earthborn’s vicious claws. A companion whose death she’d imagined over and over again. The man whose name she had given to her winged steed.
But she had imagined a fate that had never come to pass.
Atalanta’s bow clattered to the floor of their little boat. ‘Hylas!’
Danae could not move, heart thundering against her ribs as a swell of emotion coursed through her. She was afraid to blink, as though at any moment the mirage of her friend would disappear.
‘It seems the fates have indeed been weaving their webs,’ said the man in the teal tunic, watching the exchange with an air of controlled calm. ‘Come aboard, friends of Hylas.’
No one moved.
‘Who are these men?’ Telamon called to Hylas.
