‘You’re making wraiths.’ The words spill out of me. ‘This world was never fraught with them; they’re your creation, a way to scare the crowds into obedience.’
‘You!’ Shepherd’s furious roar makes my skin shiver. ‘How are you back? How many times do I have to get rid of you?’ She shoves the wraith aside and it retreats, as if fearing her touch. ‘You and that sister of yours, with that tiny spark of Zeus inside you … Do you think you could defeat me? I already feasted on his favourite son. Maybe your heart will be dessert.’
Shepherd jumps from the table, launching herself on me.
Or – she tries.
A flock of ravens intercept her in mid-air, hundreds of beaks and talons sinking into flesh, pulling in all directions until Shepherd is suspended, arms and legs spread out diagonally, mouth stretched into a horrible grimace. ‘Help me, you fool!’ she screams, and the shadow that was onceHercules approaches, ghostly arms outstretched, golden lion roaring.
I won’t let him hurt Anassa, or free Shepherd. Torn between these two goals, I am distracted by the bitter sting of metal on my chest. My cloak has spat out my knife, not a moment too soon. I grab it, and Clotho’s words come to me. ‘Make sure to keep it by your side, always.’ I am about to toss the cloak aside, launch an attack on Shepherd and her wraith, but Clotho’s voice persists in my memory. ‘Danger, yes, always … Nothing the two of you together cannot face.’
What am I missing? What do I need to do besides tear this beast’s throat?
‘You and that sister of yours,’ Shepherd had said … Helene was trying to tell me something earlier, pointing to my chest, where I held my –
My cloak. How could a cloak kill a goddess? I’d wondered. Time to find out.
I bring the knife’s hilt to my mouth, biting down to hold it steady. With both hands free, I unfold the scarlet fabric that’s been drenched in so much blood, Shakespeare’s and mine and whatever murk was in that cave I had to crawl through, the cave Clotho insisted we must cross.
Shepherd’s eyes widen as I approach.You know what your mistake was?I think at her, my mouth occupied with my blade but my thoughts clear. I know she can hear me, and that makes this moment all the more delicious.You reminded me of that poor sod’s name, his ancestry, his fate. Herakles, son of Zeus. Demigod, almost unkillable.I am now close enough to feel her scalding breath on my face.Until he died from a poisoned cloak.
I wrap the fabric round Shepherd’s head and twist its edges, cutting off all air, not letting go until I choke her.
The wraith screams, mighty lion claws slashing my arms; the ravens caw; a rain of onyx feathers falls on my hair, but I can’t stop, I mustn’t stop.
It’s only when Shepherd finally stops fighting, when her head falls down and I can trust my strength to hold my cloak around it with one hand, that I spit my knife from my mouth.
And with a scream that sounds like booming thunder, I plunge it deep into her heart.
Lightning erupts all around then, everything sizzling, shaking. This time I don’t have to wonder where it stems from; the lightning and the tremors both sing to my heart, beat by furious heartbeat as I push the knife into Shepherd’s body, twisting, turning, burning, delivering a storm so long overdue, until everything thirsty in this world cracks open.
I take a step back, dizzy with war and rain and divine justice. And I see.
My cloak was always meant to be a shroud – only not mine.
A river of red drips down on Shepherd’s shoulders, as the fabric that so deftly suffocated her now unweaves, expands, errant threads meeting my knife lodged in her chest and wrapping it in place. More threads cover her hands, her legs, some finding key pendants in her necklace and plucking them out, detaching them from her body. The golden keys fall on the floor like pollen from a flower, and are immediately snatched by ribbon snakes, who circle them protectively, slithering them away. My own key also falls in the process, remaining unclaimed for now. I should pick it up, maybe, but I am mesmerized by this, by this sentient series of events my actions started, the coral reef ofmy cloak claiming the empty rock of Shepherd’s body inch by inch. I’m watching something monumental, the catch of a millennium, the ultimate prey for a cosmic spider to wrap a goddess tight in her web, to slowly consume as needed. I never thought Shepherd would be the fly.
So lost I am, witnessing all this, I miss the other things that happen. It’s the sudden lack of screaming, the lack of fluttering that alerts me.
I turn, and see a scene surprisingly mundane. The wraith that was once Hercules has disappeared. On the floor, a battered tome remains, leathery and red, looking exactly like that thing that came out of the wraith I stabbed at sea. I didn’t know what that object was then, but I can guess now. This is a story;a book, Shakespeare had called it.
And Anassa, human and whole and mostly unscathed – barring some scratches on her neck and hands, some tufts of hair missing – picks it up and starts reading. ‘The twelve labours of Herakles … Herakles, son of Zeus and Alkmene, a demigod, was the strongest man alive –’ she stops. Rolls her eyes. ‘This book exaggerates.’ Lost in her own intricate thoughts, she places the book on the table, softly, giving it a small pat. ‘He did put up a good fight. Although I wonder how much of this was his own volition, and how much was Shepherd puppeteering shadows.’
She has been mumbling to herself. ‘Anassa,’ I say, with as much softness I can muster.
My voice startles her. Eyes still on the book, she asks, quiet and hesitant, ‘Is it over? Is it done? Is Shepherd –’ But as she turns around to take in the strange sight of Shepherd, who’s still suspended in the air while my cloak’s threads finish their weaving, Anassa’s rosebud of a mouthpurses in concentration. ‘No … There’s something else we need to do, isn’t there?’
‘Gods, I hope not.’ I’m completely spent, can barely stand. It’s a good thing I don’t hold my knife any more, because with how my hands are shaking I would only cut myself – this time by accident. I want to lie down somewhere, anywhere, curl up amid broken earth, shards of stone and singed clay, ignore any remains of horrific slaughter, and have Anassa hold me.
But my love only has eyes for Shepherd’s mummified body, her head tilting in an extremely avian manner. Then, she scowls. ‘You can come out now. There’s no reason to continue this charade, my ravens can sense you.’
‘Anassa, who are you talking to?’
‘Well, them, obviously.’ She points to Shepherd’s head.
I blink, and three more heads emerge behind it.
‘Hand over your cloak, dear!’
