The Immortals (25 page)

“Enough!” gasped the hierophant from his position by the wall. “This is not the time. Leave her and get me out of here!”

Abruptly, the men stopped their attack. Jenny’s murderer and the drummer hurried to their hierophant and lifted him in their arms. Theo’s assailant retrieved the man Selene had shot. As they continued down the staircase toward the basement shopping concourse and subway entrance, Selene dragged herself unsteadily to her feet.

“Are you all right?” Theo asked from the corner, where he stood clutching his stomach.

“We can’t let them—”

A faint moan interrupted her. Jenny lay slumped on the landing where the
mystai
had left her. Theo crawled toward her. “She’s alive, Selene!”

Ignoring him, Selene turned to follow the initiates.

“Leave them!” Theo cried. “If you don’t go get help, she’ll die!” He cradled Jenny’s torso in his arms, pressing vainly against the flow of blood from her neck. Selene stood frozen, torn between her desire for revenge and the desperation in Theo’s voice. “Hurry, Selene! What’s wrong with you?” he shouted, breaking through her paralysis.

What’s wrong with me, indeed?
She fled out the nearest door, nearly bowling over a young policewoman. “I found her. She’s in the stairwell. Hurry!” She didn’t warn them to stop the subway trains leaving Rock Center. Didn’t tell them to block off the entire concourse level. This was still her fight. Her hunt.

Selene dashed back down the stairs into the underground concourse, flying by the shuttered Starbucks, the newsstand, the Ben & Jerry’s. No sign of her twin. No sign of his
mystai
. Then to the subway station. No MTA worker manned the entrance booth this time of night, just MetroCard machines and man-high turnstiles. It would have been hard to get two wounded men through, but not impossible.

She sprinted from one train platform to another, fighting the late-night crowds of theatergoers and tourists. “Have you seen a group of men in yellow cloaks? Or a tall man in purple robes?” she begged as she ran. But people mostly shook their heads and stepped away, alarmed by her battered face and the piece of twisted gold metal in her hands.

She heard a downtown F train rumble out of the station before she could get down the stairs, then watched in frustration as an uptown B departed while she was on the downtown track. She cursed loudly and slumped over, breathing heavily and wincing at the pain in her slashed abdomen. They were gone. No sign of blood on the ground; no smell of fear or triumph in the air.
She thrust the broken piece of her bow angrily into her pack and stumbled as fast as she could back out of the subway, up the stairs, and toward the landing where she’d left Theo and the girl.

Just then, she felt a strange jolt of adrenaline pump through her veins. The unbearable pain in her stomach grew a little less fierce, as if the healing process had already begun. Last night in the shower she’d felt a similar rush of energy—just before the sudden healing of the cut on her face. On that same night—probably at that same instant—Sammi Mehra stopped breathing.

Selene felt a wave of despair as she realized what had just happened: The human sacrifice
was
making her stronger. And Jenny Thomason was dead.

Someone had gotten the lights back on. Selene watched over the heads of the EMTs as they pried Theo’s bloody hands from Jenny’s body. “I tried,” Selene heard him say. “I tried to save her.” A young policewoman gently helped Theo to his feet and led him through the crowd of medical personnel.

As they passed Selene, the policewoman said to her, “We’ll need to ask you some questions after an EMT looks at your neck, okay?” Selene nodded, putting a tentative hand to the nick on her throat. It came away bright with blood. When the policewoman turned away, Selene lifted her shirt to glance quickly at the larger wound across her abdomen. Not as bad as she imagined; she’d stopped losing blood in the rush of power after Jenny died, and a wide scab already covered half the gash. The remaining wound, three inches long and glistening red, had missed her organs, but still sent waves of stabbing pain through her side. She pulled her leather jacket tighter to conceal it. Made with Apollo’s divine arrow, the injury wouldn’t respond to the paramedic’s interventions anyway.

As she followed Theo and the policewoman toward the lobby, Selene leaned in toward her partner, her mouth a hairbreadth
from his ear. “You don’t know me,” she whispered. “There were no arrows, and I’m not a PI.” He turned toward her, his eyes red-rimmed and dazed. He looked like he might protest, but something in her face must have stopped him. He nodded wearily then hung his head and allowed himself to be led away.

An EMT led Selene to the lobby and sat her on a bench as he dabbed at the wound on her neck. Selene looked at the TVs mounted on the wall, each tuned to a different NBC affiliate. On every station, newscasters hovered outside 30 Rock, their faces creased with concern. And over and over, they ran the footage of Jenny Thomason in the hierophant’s arms. They didn’t show the stabbing, but Selene couldn’t help replaying it in her own mind.

She died so I might grow stronger. Can I ever forgive myself for that?
Once, she might not have cared about the life of a mortal. She found thanatoi frustrating, confusing, and annoying in equal measure. But over the millennia she’d come to admit that without their worship, their faith, their need, she might not exist in the first place. Mankind might tell stories of how Zeus commanded the gods to mold the first human beings, but in truth, the creation stories themselves came from the minds of men. So thanatoi created Athanatoi who created thanatoi… an Ouroboros, a snake eating its tail, no end, no beginning. Selene’s entire life, her very being, lay entwined with those who worshiped her. And now she knew that without the deaths of three innocent women, she would still be weak, vulnerable, an Athanatos with no power at all.
And without Theo,
she realized,
I would have died tonight.

The EMT covered the wound on her throat with gauze. “From all the blood, I figured you really got hurt,” he said. “But it’s barely a scratch. Still, keep it covered for a while until it heals completely. Anything else hurt?”

“No.”

“You sure? You’re sitting funny.”

“I’m sure.”

“Why don’t you just take off your jacket and let me have a peek?”

“You come near me and I’ll rip your hands off.”

“Whoa!” He stood up. “I’m just trying to help, miss.”

Selene stood, then caught the edge of the bench when a wave of dizziness passed through her. Instinctively, the EMT reached out to her. She snapped her teeth at him like a rabid dog.

He backed up, eyes wide. “Can I get some help over here?” he called across the lobby.

“What’s going on?” demanded a croaking voice.

Selene turned toward the approaching woman, instantly recognizing her narrow-hipped stride.

The EMT gestured toward Selene. “This woman was present at the scene—”

But her old friend Geraldine Hansen wasn’t listening. Mouth slightly agape, the captain just stared at Selene.

“You look—my God—just like…” She shook her head slightly, as if to clear it. The EMT stopped speaking. He glanced from one woman to the other, confused.

Selene fought the urge to flee, forcing her mouth into a polite, bewildered smile.

The gray-haired captain blinked twice, and Selene noticed her chest heave slightly with a suppressed sigh. Geraldine looked away. Suddenly, she was all business. With calm, cordial authority, she told the EMT to check the actors and crew in the dressing rooms for signs of shock. Then she gestured for a weedy, olive-skinned cop to come join her, saying, “Get out a pen, Officer, and take down this woman’s statement.”

When she finally turned back to Selene, she acted as if nothing unusual had occurred. “You must be the woman who attacked the perpetrators.” Geraldine introduced herself as a member of the Counterterrorism Division, and Selene nodded warily. The captain hadn’t seen “Cynthia Forrester” in nearly
forty years. Hopefully, she’d blame her sense of recognition on foggy memories.

“Counterterrorism? Do you think terrorists are involved?” Selene asked with an attempt at wide-eyed innocence.

“I’d say killing a woman on TV in front of ten million viewers qualifies as terrorism, wouldn’t you?” She put her hands on her hips. “Although exactly what kind of terrorism remains to be seen. We still don’t know what language they were speaking.”

“It was Greek,” said the weedy cop at her side. Selene glanced at his badge: Officer Christopoulos. “I only made out a few words here and there, and the pronunciation was weird. Sounded like Ancient Greek maybe.”

The captain grimaced. “Then there’re going to be a lot of questions asked at the Greek Consulate tonight. Now, Ms. DiSilva, I understand you were up on the eighth floor when the murder took place. Tell us what happened.”

I just wanted to see the show,
Selene decided.
When I saw what had happened on the TVs in the lobby, I wanted to help. I pursued the murderers while a tall guy in glasses tried to save the actress, but it was too late and they got away.
But before she could begin, the captain continued, “And we’ll need to get some fingerprints, if you don’t mind, to compare against those at the crime scene.”

Selene’s heart did a quick somersault. In all the commotion, she’d forgotten to wear her gloves. Even if they didn’t match her prints to the old 1970s police database, the new computerized system would store them for perpetuity, making her life of anonymity nearly impossible going forward. Her only option was to prevent them from fingerprinting her in the first place. She briefly considered making a run for it, but discarded that idea for about a dozen reasons, mostly to avoid getting shot. Instead, she thought of the way Theo had breezily talked their way out of any number of difficult situations. She squinted at the captain’s nametag. “Did you say
Hansen
? Not
Geraldine
Hansen, by any chance?”

“That’s right.”

“Oh! I’ve always wanted to meet you.” She thrust out her hand and tried her best to dazzle the captain with a wide smile. “Cynthia Forrester was my mother.”

Geraldine gave a tiny gasp. Christopoulos looked at the captain in alarm, as if he’d never seen her show surprise. “That’s remarkable,” she said finally, taking a step closer to Selene as if to get a better view. “I knew you looked familiar. You could be her twin.”

“I get that a lot.”

The captain took Selene’s proffered hand. Her grip was as strong and sure as Selene remembered it. Christopoulos began to click his pen compulsively, ready to take her statement, but Geraldine waved him away and instead motioned Selene to sit beside her on the bench.

“Your mother was the best shot in the Policewomen’s Bureau.” Her stern face dissolved for a moment into that of the excited young girl the Huntress had known so well. “Make that the best shot in the whole damn department, and you know back in the seventies they barely let us ladies practice on the shooting range. She’s the reason I joined the force in the first place.”

“So you remember her,” Selene said. “I wasn’t sure you would.”

“How could I forget? She was an inspiration to all of us. When they kicked her off the force, well, I don’t mind telling you, a lot of us thought about quitting in solidarity.”

Usually, Selene tried not to think about the ignominious dismissal. But she’d never forgotten the looks on the faces of her fellow policewomen when she’d walked out of her captain’s office without her badge. A few might have thought she deserved what she got, but most couldn’t bear to think ill of Cynthia. She was a hero among them; they followed her not unlike the nymphs had followed the Far Shooter. Young Geraldine Hansen had clutched Cynthia in a brief, tight embrace. “Don’t you let them do this to you,” she whispered fiercely. Back then, her voice had
been high and light. “If you’re not good enough for them, then how can any of us be?”

“You’re a good cop, Gerry,” Cynthia had whispered back, surprised by the desperation in her young friend’s voice. “Better than me. Don’t give up.” At the time, she didn’t realize that she spoke in a voice long unused—that of a goddess commanding her worshiper. Now, forty years later, Selene knew Geraldine had obeyed.

Time had carved deep creases between her brows and beside her thin mouth, but her eyes still gleamed a bright, steely gray, undimmed by the hard years of fighting crime and sexism. Despite her sternness, Gerry reminded Selene a little bit of her mother. They’d both grown old dedicating their lives to causes far greater than themselves. “You’re a captain now?” she said softly. “I’m sure my mother would’ve been very proud of you.”

“You’re talking about her in the past tense.”

“My mother died years ago.” Selene shuddered involuntarily at the palimpsest of images: Leto on her deathbed, herself as an old woman.
This is the problem with lying,
she thought,
reality alone is hard enough to grasp.

Geraldine sucked at her upper lip for a moment, the only concession she’d give to grief. She’d never been demonstrative.
Hard as nails,
the men had called her. “Poor Cynthia. After she left, I tried to find her, looked everywhere, staked out her apartment. They’d indicted her by then and there was a warrant out for her, of course, but I wasn’t going to arrest her, just talk to her.” She spoke nonchalantly, but Selene noticed the way she scratched angrily at the callouses on her palm. Even after so many years, this was a fresh wound. “But she’d disappeared completely. Like she’d never existed in the first place. How’d she die, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Selene wanted to give Cynthia a heroic death. But that seemed like the biggest lie of all. “The doctors never really knew what was wrong. A slow fading away.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Geraldine patted the breast pocket of her suit, as if searching for the comfort of a smoke, and then dropped her hand limply back onto her lap. “I’m sorry if I’m staring at you,” she continued with a slight, uncomfortable laugh. “You look the same age your mom was when I knew her. You’re so like her. Mannerisms, voice, everything. It’s uncanny.”

Selene’s heart raced a little, but she reminded herself that Geraldine Hansen was a cop. A good cop. Cops didn’t look for supernatural explanations. The fact that Cynthia and Selene could be the same person would never cross her mind. Still, for a fleeting moment, she wished it would. She wanted to tell her the truth.
I’m so sorry, Gerry,
she’d say.
I saw you outside my old apartment. But I’d already left the West Village, changed my name, my entire identity. I couldn’t be Cynthia anymore. I never even bothered to say good-bye to you. What did I care for the emotions of a mortal?
She wanted to make it up to Geraldine. Instead, she had no choice but to lie once again.

Selene launched into her planned recital of the night’s events. She left out the most important part, of course—the identity of the hierophant. Not that Geraldine would’ve believed it.

“And this Theodore Schultz?” the captain pressed. “The man we found with Jenny Thomason’s body?”

“Is that his name? Thank goodness he showed up. I’d probably be dead if it weren’t for him. Someone should give that man a medal.”

Geraldine frowned. “Are you aware that Mr. Schultz is a person of interest in the murder of the Columbia professor?”

“He threw himself between me and an armed man. Then he went to Jenny Thomason and tried to save her life.” She leaned a little closer to the captain. “My mother always told me that sometimes the cops get it wrong. They did with her. And they have with Theodore Schultz.”

Geraldine nodded slowly. In the ensuing silence, Christopoulos approached the captain. “Should I take Ms. DiSilva to fingerprinting?”

Selene shut her eyes briefly and clutched the side of the bench. She Who Leaves No Trace wasn’t about to disregard her own epithet.

“Are you okay, hon?” Geraldine asked. Selene opened her eyes at the unexpected endearment.

“Just a little woozy is all. It’s been a very long day.” She groaned softly and pressed a hand to her head. “I think I need to lie down.”

“Of course.”

“Perhaps I could go by my local precinct tomorrow and give my prints there?”

“Yes, that’d be sufficient.” Geraldine lent Selene an arm and hauled her easily to her feet. She turned to the other officer. “Will you get Selene a cab?”

“Oh no, please, I’ll be fine.”

They shook hands one more time. As Selene left the building, she could feel Geraldine’s gaze on her back.

Selene didn’t go far. She stood on the far side of the plaza, hidden in the shadows of an awning, watching the crowds of reporters milling around 30 Rock. Before her, the iconic bronze Prometheus statue presided over the empty skating rink, a torch held in his upraised arm. The piece captured the Titan at his most defining moment—granting mankind the gift of fire. Soon after, Zeus had punished him for sharing the gods’ sacred flames. He chained Prometheus to a rock and commanded an eagle to devour his liver. Every time the Titan healed, the eagle returned, over and over again, day after day for eternity. The story was a sharp warning to anyone who sided with mortals over their fellow gods.
As of today,
Selene realized with a shudder,
that means me.
The thought scared her, but her resolve held firm. Her twin could not be allowed to get away with the murder of innocents.