Page 14 of The Mortal Trials

When Ares wasn’t waiting to cut us down the moment we crossed into the Greek realm, I was happy to follow Morrigan’s raven without asking questions. “I don’t know.”

Whatever the reason, I can’t fight the feeling of dread mingling with the delicious food in my stomach.

Daedalus sends another delivery as the sun sets. One of still-steaming lamb souvlaki, spiced chickpeas, and several pieces of soft pita. A nest of loukoumades, deep fried dough balls drizzled with sweet honey, rests beside the feast in the crate along with more corked bottles of cool water and milk.

“Why’s he providing all this? He got what he wanted from Morrigan,” Niall muses.

I glare at him. “Because some people are kind and don’t need a motive to bestow kindness upon others.”

He sinks back in his chair with a sigh, and I look at him – really look at him – and try to understand how I ever thought he and I might be a good match.

When I came home from war, I asked Abuela how I’d so wrongly judged his character. I wasn’t sure I could trust myself not to do it again. She said mortals see the best in others until they show us their worst. And once we learn that truth, we can no longer believe the lies we told ourselves about them.

I wondered who taught her such a painful lesson as she walked outside to tend her garden, sprinkling crumbs for her precious quetzals.

4

The raven arrives the following morning with a separate missive for each of us pinched in its beak. He spits them onto the floor.

Niall collects them, warily watching the bird as it lingers in the doorway as he hands mine over. I sit up straighter on the hard wooden chair, studying the folded parchment. I don’t recognize the symbol on the seal, and judging by the crease between Niall’s eyes, neither does he.

At the bottom of a gold wax circle, two laurel branches part and arc upward.

I break the wax before Niall bothers to.

The dreadful feeling in my stomach increases a hundred-fold, because… What?

I flip the card over, then read it again. It’s written in Greek. And though I’m not fluent, I think I’m interpreting it right.

“We’ve been invited to a… a party? Gathering? Is that what this word means?” he stammers, pointing to the one he’s having trouble deciphering.

“I think so.”

He checks the back like I did. “It doesn’t say who’s hosting or what it’s for.”

I think back to Morrigan’s warning. When you face him, she said. Ares didn’t send this invitation, but I wager he’ll be attending this party.

Niall studies the raven still perched in the doorway, tilting its head back and forth, watching us. “Who sent this?” he asks it.

It caws at him, beats its wings, and flies away.

He growls. “Not helpful in the least.”

The paper is thick and imperfect. Pressed by hand. Each of the gods has their own sigil. This isn’t one I’m familiar with, and I’ve never known of a god to change their revered symbol.

“Do you mind if I go out for a walk and try to find the address?” he asks.

I shake my head.

“Do you want to come along?” He glances down at my repaired leg, which had cured overnight and operated more smoothly than it ever had.

There’s a tinge of hope in his voice that I want to squash. I will be civil, but I will not be friendly with him.

“No.”

He plucks at the shirt of his uniform. “I guess we wear what we have?”

I shrug. “If it mattered, she’d tell us.”