The fourth of their party sat a little ways off from the table, out of the light coming through the room’s only window. He was young looking, handsome in a tie and dark jacket, his short hair combed back. The Wanderer was the oldest of them, apart from Hera herself. Through sheer experience, he had
gained insight. He could see patterns of the past and how they would play into the future. He could look at a man sitting perfectly still with a blank expression, and predict what that man was thinking or might do next. He had become, by the stubborn nature of his existence, a seer.
“It isn’t worse,” he said. He spoke slowly, with a quiet certainty that the others would wait to listen to him. “No worse than it’s ever been. Perhaps better in some ways. Always, there has been chaos. The world has broken and re-formed many times—I have seen it many, many times. It does so against the will of people, and without our guidance.”
Hera said, “How many times have you wanted to take control—you can see what must be done, your wisdom tells you when you see madness, when the world is run by fools. Even you, Wanderer, don’t remember. There was a time when the world was not ruled by shortsighted mortal whim. I remember.”
“Can you bring that time again?” he said flatly, like he didn’t believe her.
If she had been able to act even a few hundred years ago, she would have gathered a very different looking army: witches, mediums, saints, prophets. People who knew magic for what it was, people who feared the dark it could do, but worshipped its strength, whether they called it God or nature or alchemy. These people before her—they felt the power, they touched it, they identified some destiny in their skills, the strength of their knowledge of what lay underneath the surface of emotions like love and hate. But they didn’t call it magic. Even the Marquis preferred to think of the power as a science that could be codified.
“I can,” she said.
“Then I will follow you, for it has been two thousand years since I have seen one with such a power.”
She nodded respectfully, though the Wanderer might have caught the flicker in her expression, the surge of anticipation at once again having followers and servants. He tasted his martini and watched her over the rim of his glass.
Soon, she would be able to break this world over her knee.
The door slammed open and Robin burst into the room. She’d told him to knock first. She’d have to do something about his irreverence. The imp claimed to admire Hermes, but Hermes had never been so impertinent.
Entering behind him, slouching in a felt coat, was the Greek slave who’d been at the Walker house.
Hera gave him a welcoming smile. “Good evening. Please come in and make yourself comfortable.”
Walking slowly, cautiously, the Greek approached. He pulled a chair away from a different table than the others and sat. He eyed the others carefully, as if memorizing their features.
Robin stood apart, arms crossed and grinning, like he’d brought home the golden fleece all by himself.
She continued. “How much of our little endeavor did Robin explain to you?”
The Greek glanced at Robin and shrugged deeper into his coat. “Is that his name?”
“I’ll take that to mean none, then. Would you like something to drink?”
He shook his head. Not one for social niceties, it seemed. But then, she couldn’t blame him for being wary. He’d had experience with the old gods. What exactly had Apollo done to the lad to terrify him so?
She stepped before him. “I’m prepared to make a deal with you. I need access to the Storeroom in the Walker house.”
“What makes you think I have it?” he said with a half grin.
“One step at a time. I’m a patient woman.”
“I can imagine. It’s taken you a long time to get here.”
He may not have had any power of his own, but she’d do well not to underestimate him. He was old, and age alone would give him a great deal of knowledge, perhaps even wisdom. “You as well. We might be able to help each other. What do you want from the Storeroom? What are you looking for?”
“Hasn’t your spy told you?”
Hera made a noncommittal sigh. “The only reason any of us—people like us—are interested in the Walker house is the Storeroom. I believe you’re trying to get into it through the girl. I would only like to propose that when you reach your goal, you keep my interests in mind. I could make it worth your while.”
“How?”
Here came the problem in dealing with immortals: What could she offer to someone who’d been alive for so long? What experience could she give him that he didn’t already have, what wealth that he hadn’t already collected and squandered a dozen times over? Immortals were so jaded.
“Name a price,” she said, shrugging.
“I want to hear what you’re offering.”