Deep Water (6 page)

“I suppose the horses would make a lot of
racket on the road, of course,” Hermes mused as if Poseidon hadn’t spoken.
“Which leads me to suspect that you’re headed somewhere you don’t want anyone
to know about.” He smiled. “Now I
am
intrigued.”

For a moment Poseidon entertained the
thought of running his mouthy nephew through with the trident. But Hermes came
by his reputation for speed honestly. It would be annoying to fail at stabbing
the little bastard while he translocated and continued his commentary. “What is
it you want?”

“Help,” Hermes said promptly. “From
Bythos. He’s awfully clever with all that mortal science and technology, isn’t
he? I’d like to get him up here to consult with
Heph
and me.”

Poseidon felt a muscle jump in his cheek,
but controlled his irritation. “I’ll pass on your request. I warn you, though,
he’s very busy at the moment.”

“Yes, I heard. New consort and all that,
not to mention the unpleasant business with Thetis.” The Messenger God glanced down
the road at the dark forge. “You might not want to bring up that particular
subject with Hephaestus, by the way. You know how he feels about her.”

As well as being the smith of the Gods,
Hephaestus was also known as the Lame God due to his twisted leg. Thetis had
saved the infant Hephaestus’s life after his mother Hera had seen his deformity
for the first time and thrown him in horror from Olympus. Hephaestus considered
Thetis to be his foster mother and would undoubtedly be on the Nereid’s side in
any struggle.

“I understand the smith’s gentle feeling,
but he may not have that luxury for much longer,” Poseidon said. “The Thetis we
fight now is not the loving Nereid who raised him. Worse, she’s become
disturbingly powerful in her madness.”

Hermes pursed his lips. “Even so, if it
comes to choosing sides you’ll have a hard time convincing him to fight against
her, or indeed to do anything contributing to her downfall,” he said seriously.
“A word to the wise, Uncle.”

“Noted. And now, if you’ll excuse me?”

Hermes gave a florid bow, followed up by a
wink. “Don’t forget to speak to Bythos for me, will you? I’m getting very tired
of traipsing down to Earth every time I want to check my Twitter feed.”

Poseidon’s only response was a flat glare.
Hermes took the hint and sauntered back to his own mansion.

The sea god set off again, passing the
forge. At this point the road petered out, changing from unpolished white
marble into a worn but usable path in the turf. Poseidon followed it into a
stand of oak and cypress, taking care not to snag his trident on a low-handing
branch.

Eventually the path disappeared
completely, leaving him in the middle of a forest. He stopped for a moment and
extended his senses. The entirety of Mount Olympus flared to life in his head,
each being currently in residence picked out in a flickering aurora of light.
And ahead of him—
yes, up there and to the
right.

He pushed through the green,
sweet-smelling thicket until he wound up in a clearing that held a stone
cottage. Roses of every color swarmed up the cottage walls in wild proliferation,
their scent perfuming the air even in the coolness of dawn. On the cottage’s
far side was a well-tended garden, and a few industrious workers had already
emerged from a bee gum at the bottom of the garden in search of pollen.

In front of the cottage was a tidy
hard-packed courtyard, newly swept. A young woman with long black hair and
almond-shaped brown eyes sat there on a wooden stool. At her feet was a basket
full of shimmering golden fiber that she drew out with one hand, twisting it
into a fine thread. In her other hand she held a spindle, with the end of the
newly spun thread looped through a small hook in the top of the device. As
Poseidon watched, the girl deftly
unlooped
the golden
thread and wound what she had just spun on the spindle, then
relooped
it and began spinning out more of the gleaming
stuff.

He cleared his throat. The girl didn’t
look up from her work but lifted her head and smiled in his direction.
“Welcome, Lord Poseidon. Please pardon me—I’m trying to catch up on a backlog,”
she said.

He nodded. “Lady Clotho.” The youngest of
the three Fates, Clotho was responsible for spinning the life threads used in
the Tapestry, the massive, never-ending textile that detailed the lives of every
individual on the planet. “I apologize for interrupting, but might I speak with
you and your sisters?”

Clotho glanced up at him then. Her lips
curved up in a tiny, amused smile as she wound the spun thread again, before
lowering the loaded spindle into the basket. “Lachesis and Atropos had a bet on
how long it would take you to come here for clarification,” she said, glancing
over her shoulder into the cottage. “Lachesis won.”

Poseidon gritted his teeth at that. “How
charming. I’m glad I was able to provide you with some amusement.”

“And we thank you for that,
Earthshaker
,” Clotho said easily. “It does get rather dull
around here at times.” Standing up, the Fate brushed golden threads off a deep
blue tunic trimmed with red. Her feet were shapely but bare, and somewhat dusty
from the courtyard. “Come in, then. The tea should be ready.”

He followed her into the cottage. The whitewashed
great room that took up the majority of the building was rustic but clean,
well-lit by oil lamps set into niches in the walls. The dawn light came through
an east-facing window, adding its lambent glow to the illumination.

In the center of the great room a willowy
blonde in a green tunic sat before a massive tapestry loom, long fingers
passing a shuttle between the loom’s threads. The picture she wove was a
stunningly complex array of images that seemed to move in the tapestry as he
watched, making the rich cloth look alive. Which, Poseidon thought, it was
after a fashion.

The Weaver glanced over her shoulder and
beamed at his approach. “Lord Poseidon. And it hasn’t been twenty-four hours
yet, Atropos. I won.”

“So I see, Lachesis,” the other occupant
of the room said, her tone starchy but amused. Unlike her sisters, Atropos’s
gown was floor-length and woven from a rainbow of color. Tightly curling silver
hair lay close-cropped to her round skull, and while her face was heavily lined
with age Poseidon could still see her beauty. She held up a tray bearing a
teapot sculpted to look like driftwood, with four matching cups. “You’re more
eager than I anticipated, Lord Poseidon.”

“Recent events have prompted me to
accelerate my investigation, Lady Atropos,” Poseidon said. “For instance, I now
know that the soul of Medusa has been reincarnated in the body of a mortal
named Griffin Moore.”

The third Fate’s eyes narrowed as she set the
tray down on a low table next to the loom. “Ah, you’ve already met him. Good. I
was worried you might be distracted by one of Thetis’s tantrums.” She poured
out fragrant tea into one of the cups, offering it to him.

“Thank you,” he said, accepting it. “Since
you know my sons and I are busy battling Thetis, may I ask why you decided to
reweave Medusa’s soul back into the Tapestry now?”

“Rather than at a time when you would be
at leisure to court her, you mean?” Lachesis said, laying down her shuttle and accepting
a cup from her sister. “Lord Poseidon, you know as well as we do that the
Tapestry is a complex device. We are partially responsible for shaping it, yes,
but every individual’s lifeline plays its part in how the threads interact with
each other. Sometimes a section holds together quite well on its own, but other
times it may require reinforcing. In those situations, I have the option to
reuse threads that were previously cut from the Tapestry.”

Atropos picked up what looked like a large
leather-bound folio. When she opened it, however, Poseidon saw that it was
filled with page after page of pockets sewn to stiff vellum. Shimmering threads
poked from the top of each pocket.

“These are the life threads of those souls
who did not fulfill their destinies while on earth,” Atropos said. “I collect
them after I snip them free from the Tapestry and store them here until
Lachesis finds a spot where they can be rewoven back into the Tapestry.”

Lachesis nodded in agreement. “As for
Medusa, she had a very specific fate, one that she did not fulfill,” the Weaver
said. “Thus her thread went into Atropos’s book. At this moment you and your
immediate circle are entering into a period of grave danger. That section of
the Tapestry is severely kinked, so much so that I feared that it might cause
the entire Tapestry to unravel.”

Poseidon felt a chill at the words. “So
Thetis does threaten all life on earth.”

“Oh, yes. Your people are the only ones
who can stop her. That is why I chose to reweave Medusa’s thread back into the
pattern now, to reinforce your thread and Amphitrite’s. So far it seems to be
holding.” She glanced at the Tapestry. “That being said, I wouldn’t dawdle with
your wooing, Lord Poseidon. The Mad Nereid is unpredictable and may strike
again at any time.”

The thought of Thetis attacking his lost
agapetos
made Poseidon’s hands clench
into fists. “How long is Medusa’s remaining life thread?”

Clotho and Lachesis looked to the Shearer,
who lifted her chin. “Fifty years, sea lord.”

He recalled Griffin’s appearance, the
lines around the mortal’s eyes,
all
the signs of
middle age. “How old is Griffin Moore?”

Atropos gazed at him steadily. “Fifty
years old.”

“No.” The earlier chill now spread
throughout Poseidon’s body, searing like deadly frost. “He can’t die. Not now.
Not—”
Just as I’ve found him.

The Shearer shook her head. “He can and
will. The manner of his death, however, is yet to be determined.”

Poseidon’s hand tightened on his trident. “Then
add more thread,” he demanded. “Splice a new life onto his.”

Clotho paled. “It doesn’t work that way,
Lord Poseidon,” she said, appalled. “To do that would take life from another
soul. It’s anathema.”

“She’s quite right, you know,” Lachesis
said with a disapproving frown. “A life thread may be cut short, but not
lengthened.” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter, though. The time Medusa
has remaining on earth should be enough to bring you and Amphitrite back
together again.”

“It doesn’t
matter
? You dare say that to my face?” Poseidon’s fear transmuted
into anger. The tea in the cups began to tremble faintly, and fine motes of
dust fell from the thatched roof. “You can’t kill Medusa—Griffin. I won’t allow
it, Lady Atropos.”

The Shearer’s dark eyes were chips of
black ice. “I do not kill mortals, Lord Poseidon,” she said. “My responsibility
is to the Tapestry and making sure that its pattern abides. Sometimes a thread
must be snipped in order to maintain the pattern. Other times, it simply runs
out. That is the case here.”

“Medusa’s destiny lies with Amphitrite and
me—”

“Which she still has time to fulfill,”
Atropos pointed out. “But she was never meant to be with you forever, Lord
Poseidon. Medusa was mortal, after all. So I would suggest that you move
quickly before her thread ends.”

He lifted his trident, overwhelmed with a
blinding urge to lay waste to the cottage and its inhabitants. “You will
not—
”

Poseidon.

An immense presence surrounded him,
wrapping him in invisible bonds. He knew what—who—it was, but struggled until
his muscles bulged and sweat broke out on his skin.

It held him as easily as a mother held a
baby.

Finally he stopped, panting.
Grandmother
,
please, don’t let them kill her. I’ll do whatever you ask, but let
Medusa live.

The presence around him warmed.
The Fates must fulfill their duties, just as
you must, my child,
Gaia said in his mind.
But even they cannot see all of the Tapestry.

Poseidon went still.
What are you saying, Grandmother?

There was a gentle increase of the
pressure holding him, Gaia’s equivalent of a hug.
Return to earth and court your
agapetos
, both of them, and I will consider your plea. But move quickly before
Thetis can strike again.

The force disappeared, causing him to
stumble a bit. Catching himself on the trident, he straightened and glared at
the imperturbable Fates. “This will be remembered, ladies.”

The two younger Fates pursed their lips as
if to hide smiles. Atropos merely raised an impassive eyebrow. “By us as well,
sea lord,” she said.

Gathering the remnants of his shredded
dignity around him, Poseidon stalked out of the cottage. He would deal with the
terrible trio later. Right now, he had a pair of
agapetos
to win back.

Chapter Three

Griffin untied the sailboat’s mooring
rope, wrapping it for stowage before moving to the boat’s stern. He took the seat
next to the small outboard motor. It was only needed to move the boat out of
the cove and into open water. Then he could let the sails take over.

He paused, tilting his face up and letting
the Florida sun warm his skin. He’d slathered on his usual sunscreen that
morning, then wondered why he was bothering.
Not like you’re going to be around long enough to develop skin cancer.

Common sense kicked in.
But a sunburn still hurts like a bastard.

The weather was definitely a huge
improvement on the rain currently soaking Southampton, according to Weather
Underground. His NOC colleagues knew about his sun worshiper tendencies, so
none of them had been surprised that he was going somewhere warm for two weeks.
The only shocker had been that he was going all the way to Florida. “I can
understand wanting some fun in the sun,” an oceanographer named Danny with an
ever-rotating carousel of girlfriends had said. “But Ibiza’s a hell of a lot
closer. You know, just in case…”

Danny had trailed off, then, looking
embarrassed. Nobody wanted to mention the elephant in the room. Griffin didn’t particularly
want to look at it himself.

Hence his decision to take his holiday far
from his well-meaning colleagues, friends, and the few family members he still
spoke to. For two weeks he wouldn’t have to listen to the refrain of “Have You
Heard
About
Griffin, Poor Sod?” In Florida he could be
an anonymous tourist, spending his days out on the boat and his nights in a
cottage drinking all the beer he could stomach, eating things that were
horrible for him, and indulging himself in a read-through of the works of
J.R.R. Tolkien.

And after that—the hospice was a good one,
he’d made sure of that. The brochure was in his luggage now, all pastel rooms,
well-kept grounds, and nurses with kindly expressions and gentle hands. With
any luck, he wouldn’t be there long.

Enough
of that.
He turned his focus on starting the engine. It took a few pulls, but the
outboard finally coughed to life, settling down to a cheerful rumble. He cracked
the throttle and moved the boat away from the dock, guiding it out into the
cove proper.

The breeze blew into his face, and he
grinned at it. This was where he belonged, out on the wide blue water he loved
more than practically anything else in his life.
Just you and me for a bit more, girl. The way it ought to be.

Unfortunately, his boat had other plans.
As he approached the cove exit the outboard started coughing, then died.
Bloody engines.
He leaned over and
grabbed the starter cord, giving it a yank.

The world abruptly started spinning around
him, and his stomach knotted with nausea. Swallowing hard, he let go of the
cord handle and sat back, willing himself to breathe slowly.
Not now, God, please. Just two more weeks,
that’s all I’m asking. Two bloody weeks.

“Problems?” a voice called.

Startled,
Griffin opened his eyes. A tall bearded man stood on the sloping
headland of the cove, dressed incongruously in linen slacks and a short-sleeved
Oxford shirt. He lifted a hand in a wave.

Griffin blinked again, trying to kick his
brain into gear.
Holy Christ. It’s the
big ginger rugby player.
He firmly squelched the ping of desire that fired
at sight of the man.

Instead, he waved back. “Engine stalled, I
think,” he called. “Dunn, right?”

“Yes. Need any help?”

“Nah, I—” He stopped, clutching the
gunwale as another dizzy spell hit him. All he could do was breathe slowly and
deeply and wait for the buggering thing to pass.

When it did, he looked blearily back up at
the headland. Dunn was gone.

“Hello.”

He flinched as a drenched ginger head
popped up over the gunwale, one muscled arm casually thrown over the wood. “Thought
this would be faster,” Dunn said easily.

Griffin gawped at him. “Jesus. You jumped
in fully dressed?”

“The nice thing about tropical weight
clothing is that it dries quickly. But I’m afraid that will never happen if I
have to stay in the water.” Dunn tapped the gunwale. “Permission to come
aboard, captain?”

“Huh? Oh, right, yeah.” Griffin leaned
back to counterbalance the action.

Dunn clambered into the boat, dripping
unconcernedly into the bilges. “Shall I see if I can get the motor started?” he
offered. “I’ve been told I have a touch with temperamental things.”

“Be my guest,” Griffin said, sliding over.
Dunn squeezed in closer to the motor, checking the ports and settings, then
grabbed the handle and gave it a measured yank. It roared into life before
settling down into a steady rumble. “I’ll be damned. You’re hired.”

Dunn chuckled. “I don’t suppose you could
maneuver a bit closer to the headland, could you? I might be able to step out
onto it if we’re careful.”

The reality of the situation smacked into
Griffin. He couldn’t go out today, not if he was having dizzy spells. “No need.
I’m heading back to the dock,” he said. “You can ride back with me if you
like.”

Dunn frowned. “You’re going back already?
But it’s a perfect day for sailing.”

“Yeah, I know.” Griffin didn’t want to see
the look of pity that was guaranteed to bloom if he explained. “I get vertigo
sometimes,” he lied. “Makes me dizzy. It’s hard to sail when the world’s
spinning around you.”

“Ah, I see. Is it constant?”

“It comes and goes.”

“Well, in that case, may I offer my
services as first mate? That way you don’t miss out on the day.”

A polite rejection had already formed on
Griffin’s lips. He preferred to sail by himself, something that neither of his
ex-wives had understood or appreciated. For some reason, however, the big man
with his dripping clothes and dignified attitude didn’t rub on him like other
people did. And he really did want to take advantage of the day. “Yeah, all right,”
he said, grateful he’d decided to pack the extra beer just in case. “Uh, do you
know how to handle a sailboat?”

One thick red eyebrow rose in amusement.
“I do.”

“Well, then.” He jerked his chin at the
mast and the still-furled sail. “Let’s get out of the cove, and then you can go
to work.”

Dunn gave him a crisp salute. “Aye aye,
captain.”

As his unexpected passenger worked the
rigging, Griffin took the opportunity to study him. The twins with the odd
names had said he was their father, but Dunn didn’t look old enough to have
kids their age. There was no grey whatsoever in the man’s auburn hair, and his
beard was just as glint-free.

Lucky
bastard.
Griffin ran a hand through his short hair, aware that the same couldn’t be said
of him. It had finally started growing back after the last round of radiation,
but the dark hair was now thickly thatched with silver. After he’d gotten over
the initial shock he found he kind of liked it. It gave him a sense of
authority that had worked in his favor at the institute. Plus he’d heard a
couple of the interns whispering something about a “silver fox” when he’d
passed them in the hallways.

Wonder
how I would’ve looked with all of it grey.

He pushed the thought away firmly. He
still had two weeks to himself, dammit. No drugs beyond what was absolutely
necessary to keep the pain and dizziness at bay, no nurses hovering over him,
no hospital walls or reminders that he had maybe two months left at the
outside, and they would be extremely unpleasant ones. While he still could, he
intended to live.

The triangular sail came up and bellied,
filled with a brisk wind. Griffin shut off the engine and took the tiller,
guiding the boat into the open water.

The day was as clear and warm as promised
and the breeze was steady, pushing the
Seabird
smoothly across the waves. Once Griffin was sure of Dunn’s sailing competency
they started taking turns at the tiller, guiding the sailboat around the
barrier island chains lining the shore.

The next time Dunn took the tiller Griffin
opened the cooler, pulling out two beer bottles coated with condensation.
“Here,” he said, handing one over. “Hope you don’t mind—it’s not the usual
diabetic cat urine they pass off as beer over here.”

“Thank the gods for that,” Dunn said
appreciatively.

Griffin noted the odd phrase, but ignored
it as they opened their bottles, flicking the caps into the cooler. He watched
Dunn take a deep swig, eyebrows rising in appreciation. “Not bad at all,” the
other man said.

“I packed some lunch, too.” Feeling
optimistic, Griffin had stopped off at a Publix the day before to pick up
groceries, and was delighted to find a British section in the international
food aisle with his favorite condiment. Unfortunately the deli counter didn’t
have the white Cheshire cheese he preferred, but he figured cheddar would do in
a pinch. “Like cheese and pickle sandwiches?”

To his surprise, Dunn’s face lit up with
enthusiasm. “
Branston
pickle?”

“None other.”

“Original or sandwich style?”

“Original, sorry. They didn’t have
sandwich style.”

Dunn waved it off. “I’m not complaining. I
prefer the original version. It doesn’t seem right if it’s not chunky.”

Griffin grinned at that. “Bloke after my
own heart. Let’s eat.”

****

Poseidon accepted the sandwich and a
handful of salt and vinegar potato chips from a large bag. It was utterly
unlike his usual meals at Olympus, and all the more enjoyable for that. He bit
into the sandwich, wondering why he hadn’t ordered the
daimons
to stock his larder with
the delicious British chutney.

“So what about you?”

He paused in mid-chew. “I beg your
pardon?” he said after swallowing.

Griffin grinned at him. “Well, I know
you’ve got the two lads that you apparently had while you were in middle
school, but that’s really all I know about you,” he said. “So tell me some more
about Dunn Seaton—the man, the myth, the legend.”

Poseidon grinned back. It felt
surprisingly good. “There’s not much to tell,” he said. “I own an environmental
remediation company that I operate with my sons. When I’m not working, I like
to putter around the house or read. All rather boring, I’m afraid.”

“Not much for the
telly
,
then?”

“Not really. Sometimes I get out on the
water for pleasure, but that tends to be rare. I suppose I’m a bit of a
workaholic.”

“Yeah, I understand,” Griffin said. “My
last ex-wife got so hacked off at me working all the time, she mailed the
divorce decree stuffed in a fish. Said it was the only way she’d be sure I’d
read the damned thing.”

“You were married?”

“Twice. More fool me.”

Poseidon tried to show sympathy, but all
he could feel was relief. “Bad?”

“Nah, just…” Griffin shrugged. “I don’t
know. I met Miranda in
uni.
We were together for two
years before she got finally fed up with me never being home and packed it in.
Ten years later I met Leilani at a Sea Shepherds fundraiser. Gorgeous girl, had
a mouth on her that could make a sailor blush. A real firecracker.”

“She was the fish mailer?”

Griffin smirked. “Yeah. They’re both better
off without me, I suppose.” He took a quick sip of his beer. “So what about
you? I assume there’s a missus somewhere, what with sons and all.”

There was something almost painfully
ironic about Griffin asking that particular question. “We’re separated,”
Poseidon said.

“Not divorced?”

He wondered if that mortal practice even
applied to gods. “It’s complicated.”

“Marriage usually is.”

That was the understatement of the
millennium. Poseidon searched for a way to turn the conversation onto happier
topics. “I noticed your Sea Shepherds shirt last night,” he said. “I take it
you’re a supporter?”

Griffin brightened. “Definitely. You can’t
be afraid to kick
arse
now and then, you know?”

With relief, Poseidon allowed himself to
be pulled into a spirited discussion about marine conservation projects, which
led onto Griffin’s work at the institute. The mortal had Poseidon laughing with
a story about an octopus that had learned how to break out of his tank,
wandering across a hallway to another tank full of shrimp and helping himself
to the occupants. “All he needs is some sort of reverse scuba gear, and he could
knock over a jewelry store,” Griffin said, shaking his head in admiration.

“I could have told you that,” Poseidon
said. “Never turn your back on an octopus or they’ll pick you clean.”

“Too right, mate.” Griffin lifted a bottle
in salute, and Poseidon joined him. “To octopuses, the best damn sneak thieves
in the world.”