The Immortals (2 page)

Hippolyta, her tail wagging noisily against the walls, met Selene at the door of her brownstone on West Eighty-eighth Street. The four-story building was half as wide as the usual Manhattan townhouse but still far too large for a single woman and a dog—even a dog as large as Hippo. The exterior walls were chipped and crumbling, the wrought iron detailing rusted through, and the interior didn’t look much better. Unlike many of her relatives, Selene had never bothered to accumulate vast sums of wealth over the centuries. But using her meager earnings from her time on the police force, she’d acquired the building in the 1970s, when few dared buy in the crime-ridden neighborhood. Now it was worth millions, and rather than hunting down drug dealers on her corner, she had to fight her way past torrents of young mothers blocking the sidewalk with their double-wide strollers. Sometimes, she missed the drug dealers. At least there’d been more work for her to do.

She paused in front of the age-speckled mirror in her front hall. The welt on her face remained red and swollen. A few centuries earlier, such injuries would’ve healed immediately. Now, even the uninjured parts of her face betrayed evidence of her
decline: Faint lines fanned from her eyes and nostrils, the skin above her eyelids sagged. She leaned closer to the mirror, stared at her forehead, and cursed. The deep crease between her brows, which she’d first noticed a few months before, was still there.
Too much scowling,
she thought, scowling once more. Angrily, she riffled through a drawer in the credenza until she found a compact of pale face powder. She hated the stuff, but she hated answering questions even more. She didn’t want anyone thinking she was the victim of domestic violence or barroom brawls. She patted the powder across the welts on her jaw and temple. The wrinkles she’d have to live with.

She lifted the hem of her sweatshirt and felt tentatively along her ribs. Bruised, but not broken. Her stomach remained lean and etched with muscle, a testament more to her all-protein diet and her demanding running regimen than to any supernatural hold on strength. She flexed her knee. Thankfully, the long walk home seemed to have helped rather than exacerbated the injury, and she could put her full weight on her leg.

“Nothing I won’t recover from,” she assured Hippo. “Eventually.” She leashed her dog, who scrambled eagerly toward the door. “Wait a sec,” she said, opening the hall closet. She stared down at the dusty backpack in the corner. She hadn’t opened it in years. “I don’t even deserve to use it,” she muttered to herself, “especially after tonight.” Yet something urged her forward, and she found herself reaching for the bag.

They trotted down the block, following a sloping pathway into Riverside Park. The waterfront always reminded her that she lived on an island. She’d been born on one—Delos, a dry drop in the turquoise Mediterranean, the only land brave enough to provide sanctuary to her exiled mother, Leto. Nearly three thousand years later, the Huntress had arrived with a boatload of Dutch merchants in what the Lenni Lenape called Mana-hatta—the Island of Many Hills—and she hadn’t left since. Back then,
there were forests and meadows, streams and swamps—sacred spaces for the spirits of the wild. Now, the slim stretches of green parkland tucked along the city’s margins and hiding between skyscrapers were the only places where she could escape from the world of men.

She often wondered why she stayed. What place was there for the Goddess of the Wilderness in a city of grids? Streets reached to the horizon. Towers stretched to the sky.
But beneath the glass and steel, the city’s heart still beats wild,
Selene thought, looking southward to the skyline rising along the riverfront. New York was untamed, a city of dissidents and immigrants, a multihued patchwork of humans refusing to conform, where even the strangest residents—like a six-foot-tall woman with eyes like the moon—rarely garnered more than a curious glance. In a small town, she would’ve been under constant scrutiny, forced to move every twenty years when her neighbors began to wonder why she aged barely one year for their fifty. Here, no one noticed. The city’s denizens ignored her, and she, for the most part, ignored them right back.

Usually, Selene found the park a welcome relief from the travails of her half-mortal life. But today it failed to cheer her. She couldn’t shake the memory of Mario’s knife above her face. She’d grown so weak that a mere mortal could threaten her. What sort of existence was that?

Hippo, oblivious to her mistress’s distress, pulled against her collar, her tongue lolling with exertion. Selene gave up telling her to heel and unclipped the leash. After all, they had the park to themselves. It was officially closed before dawn, but that had never stopped them.

The dog bounded ahead with unrestrained joy, chasing an errant squirrel. She’d been a shelter rescue puppy, starved and brindled, sporting huge paws and elephantine ears, growling and snapping at everything in sight.
A kindred spirit,
Selene had
known from the first time she saw her. The fierce Amazonian queen Hippolyta made a fitting namesake; although, after overindulging in Selene’s carnivorous diet for the past five years, the nickname “Hippo” seemed far more appropriate.

With a shift in the wind, some of the warm humidity dropped away, leaving only the bracing chill of approaching autumn. “Hello, Boreas,” she greeted the god of the North Wind, knowing full well he’d never hear her—if he even still existed. Selene pulled off her leather jacket and sweatshirt, letting the cold air rush against her bare arms and through her tank top, and jogged down the stairs leading to the boardwalk.

Having lost the squirrel to an arboreal escape, Hippo waited for her mistress at the river’s edge, her tail pounding the asphalt. Together, they headed north along the shoreline. A single barge floated far out in the Hudson, but Selene had no interest in the boat. She scanned the water closer in, squinting in the dark, until a low
woof
from Hippo drew her attention farther upriver. She hadn’t bothered hunting any prey besides men in a very long time, but her dog sensed her desire.

“Good girl.” Selene scratched briefly beneath Hippo’s chin. The dog stood, tail high and quivering—when she wanted to, she could be an exemplary hunting companion. Selene opened her backpack and pulled out two graceful lengths of curving gold—pieces of a bow almost as old as she. Quickly, she screwed the upper limb into the handgrip, then braced the bow between her legs so she could slip the string on more easily. She plucked the string once; it gave a satisfying thrum. Even after so long, it still felt like an extension of her arm.

Before she and the other gods had left Greece during the Olympian Diaspora, Hephaestus the Smith had made the bow detachable. “So you can hide it more easily,” her stepbrother had said. “You carry around a bow and arrows in plain sight and the mortals are liable to think you’re a witch, or something worse.”
He’d been right. Even with her bow hidden away, she’d never fit easily into the patriarchal constraints of the Middle Ages. Or of the Renaissance, or really of any time in the last fifteen hundred years. She’d been accused of witchcraft on three different occasions, burned at the stake one and a half times, and exiled from more towns and villages than she cared to remember. Even in the live-and-let-live tumult of twenty-first-century Manhattan, flaunting her status as the erstwhile Bearer of the Bow would be ill-advised. Accusations of witchcraft would pale in comparison to suspicions of terrorism.

Selene nocked an arrow to her bowstring and aimed at the large Canada goose blithely paddling by. Without a second’s hesitation, she loosed the arrow toward the bird.

The shaft flew right past, two feet off target, and disappeared beneath the river water.

“Styx,” Selene cursed under her breath. She tried again. This time, as the arrow passed harmlessly by, the goose squawked and flapped into the air for a few moments before settling down once more.

She lowered her bow, suddenly very weary. “What?” she demanded of her panting dog. “I know I shouldn’t be wasting the arrows. I’m just still not used to missing.” The arrows were only wood, after all. She’d used up her gold ones centuries before. Not that it mattered. Only divine prey required divine weapons—and this goose was anything but godly.

With a loud splash and a spray of dirty water, Hippo jumped into the river. The goose took to the air, honking angrily, and flew off toward Jersey. Hippo, the tips of her long ears floating on the water, paddled happily, a look of pure innocence on her face.

“There goes dinner. Thanks,” Selene grumbled. She whistled for the dog to get out of the water, but Hippo didn’t respond.

Despite Selene’s increasingly frustrated commands, the dog
started paddling away. A hundred yards upriver, where the boardwalk ended, she clambered out onto the rocks with a whimper. The dog looked back toward her mistress and gave a sharp bark of alarm, then began to sniff the ground.

Slinging her bow over her shoulder, Selene jogged toward her dog. “If you’re sniffing someone’s picnic leftovers, I’m going to shoot
you
next. And this time, I promise not to miss.” But she stopped scolding when a sudden gust of wind carried the scent to her. Death. Human flesh in the first stages of decomposition.

Hippo disappeared for a moment behind the rocks, only to reappear dragging a corpse by its long, pale blue leg.

Instincts honed by a long-ago career on the police force took over as Selene rushed forward. She ran along the asphalt path, avoiding the soft ground. In her youth, they’d called her She Who Leaves No Trace; her powers of stealth might be sadly diminished, but she still knew better than to add her footprints to a crime scene. As she sprinted, she scanned both sides of the walkway, the surrounding trees, the boulders crowding the river’s edge—it wasn’t unusual for criminals to remain near the murder scene to watch the police. But the only observers this morning were a red-tailed hawk circling above and a cloud of flies already swarming over Hippo’s head.

The wake of the passing barge sloshed rhythmically upon the shore as Selene leaped across the grass and landed next to her dog on the boulders.

With a curt gesture, she commanded Hippo to drop the leg. The dog looked up quizzically, wagging her tail. “I said drop it,” Selene insisted, staring her straight in the eye and pitching her body forward. For once, Hippo obeyed. The dog took a few steps backward to shake a fine mist of water across the body. It lay half out of the river, with its legs and pelvis on land and its torso floating in the shallows. With each wave, the dead woman’s head thudded against the rocks with the hollow clunk of a rotten pumpkin. She lay facedown, her torso wrapped in a
sodden yellow bed sheet, her outstretched arms the delicate blue of a robin’s egg, not yet marbled green and black.

Long blond hair floated around the woman’s head in a nest of matted braids, catching between the rocks as another swell of water washed the body farther ashore. As Hippo lunged forward to retrieve the corpse, Selene grabbed the dog’s collar to stop her.

Looking at the dead woman, Selene forced herself to set aside her rising anger and to summon the detachment of a detective instead. Never her strong suit. Pulling on the black leather gloves stowed in her backpack, she crouched beside the body. The woman couldn’t have been dead long. Less than twelve hours judging by the tautness and color of her skin and by the limberness of her leg. Four or five days later, her waterlogged skin would tear or slough off at the merest touch. Lucky for Selene, the body was still in good enough shape to withstand a little rough handling. Carefully, she lifted the corpse’s shoulder, checking for the purple-red stain of pooled blood in the woman’s breasts or face. An old policeman’s trick. If she turned the corpse and the lividity moved with it, then she’d been dead for less than eight hours. But the woman had no lividity at all; the flesh on her chest was as perfectly blue as that on her back. Impossible—unless all the blood had been drained from her body before she’d been tossed into the river.

Gingerly, Selene pulled the body out of the water. It was lighter than she’d expected—the woman’s lungs must still be largely full of air. No wonder she’d floated so quickly. Drowning victims inhaled so much water that they wouldn’t float until their own digestive acids began to decompose the body, filling it with buoyant gas.
Someone killed this woman before putting her in the river,
Selene decided, turning the body over for a better look. She raised a hand instinctively to her mouth.

Sea lice had already eaten away the woman’s eyelids. The bare orbs stared upward at the starless sky. Hazel once. Now
filmy. Perfect, straight teeth winked through the swarm of tiny crustaceans devouring her lips. She must have been quite pretty once.

Other insects appeared. Already, the flies smelled the feast. Selene wanted desperately to swat them away, but she needed them to guide her. The flies landed on the woman’s pelvis, a dark, pulsating girdle.

Selene moved the sheet aside, knowing what she might find. A woman’s flesh was delicate, and a man’s instrument blunt. But she hadn’t seen anything like this since the sacked city of Troy. This was a mutilation. Where the woman’s genitals should be, only a gaping hole remained. The sea lice had done their work and were doing it still, feasting on her womb. But no crustacean could’ve formed such perfect slices in her flesh. Someone had cut her apart with a blade. Four incisions, a perfect diamond of meat.

She faltered. For a long moment, she stayed crouched, catching her breath, before she found the strength to continue searching the body.

No blood smeared the sheet. Either the woman had been wrapped after the mutilation, or her attacker had protected the sheet from staining. A scrupulous killer. The kind seeking not just bloodlust but ritual. No defensive wounds marked the woman’s palms, but thin red welts snaked across her wrists and ankles, perhaps from a narrow rope. On the ring finger of her left hand, a narrow indentation, as if from a too-tight band. Selene bent close. The ring’s shadow still remained, pale against tanned flesh, wrapping the finger in the familiar geometric pattern of the
meandros
—the Greek key. She sucked in a breath. Such rings weren’t unusual. Still, Selene couldn’t help looking at the ravaged corpse with new eyes.