In Dreams (24 page)

“He had no idea you were
the
Aphrodite?”

“There never seemed to be a good time to tell him.”

“You take care of him.” I leave Aphrodite and Nico, and run out of the house.

Morpheus and Epiales are still fighting fiercely. A layer of icy fog surrounds our lawn, shielding the fight from the neighbors in a mist, thank goodness. But I stare up at the sky. Thunder rumbles, and strange flashes cross the blackness. I see a star shoot in an arc across the sky—which should be impossible because we’re so close to Manhattan’s lights.

I hold my breath, shivering in the December air. Epiales rushes headlong into my father’s chest.

I feel helpless. I am also terrified that something will happen to Morpheus before I can tell him I didn’t mean what I said. I hope that he knows, that he figured out what I was doing. Grandpa comes and puts his arm around me.

“Your father isn’t stupid, Iris. He’s an immortal god who has seen everything. He knows.”

I lean my head against his shoulder. Grandpa always knows what I’m thinking. Sebastian looks at
me from across the way. His eyes say the same thing as Grandpa’s.

The battle between the two gods rages, and I start wondering what anyone looking at the night sky will think. Inwardly groaning, I know this is going to make the news. The clouds flash the way my father’s eyes do. The way Aphrodite’s do. People will think the end of the world is coming. If they only knew the strange truth—that it’s the gods.

My father and Epiales are both battered and bloody. Aphrodite and a wobbly Nico come out the front door.

I look up at the strange sky again.

I blink.

There, in among the lightning, is a woman hiding behind a cloud.

20

All men whilst they are awake are in one common

world; but each of them, when he is asleep,

is in a world of his own.

PLUTARCH

D
istracted for a moment by the woman in the sky, I look back at my father and uncle. Morpheus has Epiales by the throat. And then, in Epiales’s hand, I see a blade.

“Dad, watch! He has a knife!” The blade’s brilliant silver arcs through the air. My father raises his arm—and I hear his scream as the blade rips into his flesh. My father staggers backward, stumbles, and falls to the ground.

I run toward them, as Epiales lifts his knife high, ready to stab my father in the chest. I know my father is a god, but he has already told me that his and Epiales’s powers are weaker here.

I fling myself at Epiales. He’s done everything he can to destroy me, my father, Sebastian, my life here. I catch him off guard, and he whirls around, the knife dropping from his hand. He takes a swing at me, but I duck and throw myself to the ground, as if I’m sliding into base, and scramble for the knife.

Epiales kicks my arm, and I roll over, pain shooting up toward my shoulder. He grabs the knife, even as I see my father is back on his feet. But Epiales raises the blade again. “It would have been so much simpler if my brother had just given up his kingdom.”

I stare up at my uncle, seeing the hatred he has for me in his eyes, the blade’s sharp edge, Epiales’s mouth twisted into one of his grins. I saved my father. Now he has to know I do love him. But is this really how my life is going to end?

But in a flash, Sebastian comes between Epiales and me.

“No, Iris!”

Sebastian rushes headlong at Epiales. In the same moment, I see the blade aimed straight for Sebastian’s chest. And from the sky, a jagged bolt of lightning strikes the earth with a deafening boom right next to me, throwing everyone to the cold ground. I feel the
frozen leaves beneath me. The night is bitter and icy. But I cannot see a thing. I cannot hear any sounds. It’s as if the world has gone silent and turned to a dark primordial fog.

I smell burned grass and leaves pressed to my face, and when the smoke clears, the woman from the cloud stands in our midst. I turn my head. My father is climbing to his feet. Epiales is, too.

I lift my head, a throbbing pain in my temples. And then I see him. Sebastian is lying . . . dead. The knife in his chest.

“No!” I scream. I clamber up, clawing in his direction. I fling myself down on his body and lay my head on his stomach, which is eerily still. “No! No! No!” I scream until I am hoarse. I feel Aphrodite’s hands on my shoulder, trying to pull me away.

“No!” I sob, looking up at her. “No!”

Then I whisper a silent prayer over and over.

Let this be a dream. Let this be a dream. Please, please, let this be a dream
.

Everyone is silent around me. Aphrodite waits, but after several moments, she pulls me from his body. “Come here, Iris. Come here.”

I stand, my legs wobbly, and bury my head against her shoulder. She whispers, “Maybe all hope is not
lost. It’s Nyx, your grandmother. Perhaps the most powerful woman in the Underworld.” She positions me so I can see my grandmother. My father and Epiales are kneeling before her.

I still can’t take it all in. My father rises, clutching his bleeding arm. Epiales is silent.

Nyx is beautiful. Her hair is long and gleaming black, and her gown is night itself, a cloak of stars and midnight that seems to have a life of its own.

Nyx glares at Epiales. She waves her hand as if dismissing him, as she floats toward me, in a walking motion, though I can see her feet do not touch the ground.

“You are Iris,” she says, her voice as lyrical as the wind. She touches my cheek, and where her fingertips caress my skin, I feel almost a tingling. Then she puts her fingers beneath my chin, tilts my face upward until I am looking her in the eyes, though tears are still flowing and I am certain I look like a sloppy mess.

“You have my cheekbones.” She smiles at me and wipes at my tears. Her touch is electric.

Sweeping away from me, she approaches her two sons.

“Hades is most displeased. Zeus is furious.”

Epiales snarls, “Iris should not exist. That has been our agreement for centuries. Morpheus is the one who broke the covenant.”

Nyx appears to ponder this.

Above us the sky still rumbles. Clouds roll. Stars shoot.

“But Iris does exist,” she says calmly. “What is done, Epiales, is done.”

“He should give up his realm. He should give up his realm because he has betrayed his claim to it. His throne should be mine.”

“Epiales, you have your realm.” The sky grows even more fierce, as if night itself is in turmoil. “This power play is forbidden!
Both of you
will call off your armies. Call off this war between brothers. Immediately.”

Epiales’s eyes flash.

“You will appear before Hades to answer for this. Both of you. But Epiales, the fault lies at your feet. Any punishment is yours alone to bear.”

Morpheus glares at his brother.

He looks back at me, his eyes still wounded. He asks his mother, “Can you bring Asclepius?”

Nyx casts her eyes at Sebastian’s body. I don’t know what this means. Who is Asclepius?

“Sebastian died defending Iris, defending me,” my father says. “He became mortal only to protect your granddaughter.”

Nyx floats on the night and hovers over Sebastian. She nods.

“I will summon him.”

I look at Aphrodite. She just hushes me. “Wait . . . ,” she whispers.

The skies roil, and emerging from the fog is a man in a toga, with a thick, graying blond beard. His face is chiseled, and like Aphrodite and Morpheus—and Nyx and Epiales—his complexion is ageless. I glance at Aphrodite, questioningly.

Aphrodite leans closer to me, and whispers, “He is the god of healing.”

Asclepius stares down at Sebastian and intones, “I will heal him, but if the boy has departed with the Ferryman, there will be nothing I can do.” He shakes his head. “Such a waste of life, Epiales.”

Epiales sulks, arms crossed.

Asclepius unbuttons Sebastian’s shirt. He pulls the knife from his chest, then lays his hands on the wound. I hold my breath for what seems like minutes.

Asclepius lifts his hand. The wound has closed as if
it never existed. Sebastian’s chest is unmarked. Then Asclepius leans close to him. He inhales and blows—it is as strong as a gale wind.

We all watch—even Epiales—but Sebastian does not move.

Asclepius does it again.

Sebastian lies, still dead. Inside I am wailing, but I want to be quiet, to let this god concentrate.
Please
, I plead the unseen gods of Olympus.

Asclepius leans closer still and blows.

And this time, I can see Sebastian’s eyes move behind his lids. He rolls on his side and coughs violently, then inhales in gasps, before sitting up.

“The Ferryman!” he shouts, eyes wide.

“No,” Asclepius says calmly. “Not this night, child. Not this night.” He offers Epiales a disapproving look.

I sink to my knees and sob in relief.

Nyx rises. “Come, Morpheus. Come, Epiales.”

Along with Asclepius, they ascend toward the sky—before I can tell my father I didn’t mean what I said. Nyx raises her cloak, shrouding them all with stars.

They blend into the night . . . and are gone.

I kneel beside Sebastian and kiss his forehead.
“You came back to me,” I say, through tears.

“Neither the River of Sorrows nor death itself can keep me from you, Iris.”

I lean down and kiss him once more. The man of my dreams is here with me again.

21

We are such stuff

As dreams are made on, and our little life

Is rounded with a sleep.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE,
THE TEMPEST

M
y life is so much different now.

For one thing, I sleep. Peacefully. Like normal people. Six or seven hours a night. Though every once in a while, I toss and turn.

For another, my family is a
lot
bigger.

Aphrodite and Nico are expecting a baby. They sold his bakery and her building in Queens and bought a café on Main Street. They serve Greek food and the most
amazing
pastries. People drive from other towns for Nico’s baklava after a food critic from the
New York Times
stopped there for a bite to eat and wrote about it. He said Nico was a “baking god.” If the critic only knew.