“I’m still confused about the timeline. I saw that painting. The girl’s outfit was modern. There’s an artist from the seventies who claims he painted them.”
Athene sniffs. “He tampered with them. They had been missing for nearly three hundred years. That’s why we didn’t get to them sooner. An amateur painter found them, ‘modernized’ the paintings and passed them off as his own, complete with the haunted-children story. We tracked them down after that and destroyed them, but by then, the legend had spread far and wide in the modern world. It lives on, despite the fact that the paintings do not.”
“So what did I see? A copy?”
“I can only presume so, and that is where we have the advantage. According to Mercury, the painting you saw has a curse that could be created by any truly skilled weaver. Some of the others . . .” She clears her throat. “There is stronger magic that Mercury can access, though she does not. Historically, some weavers had the knowledge of how to access that magic, but it was heavily guarded, and we believe it is now lost to all but a few weavers.”
“Blood curses,” I say.
“You’ve heard of them?”
“Only as ancient history. My grandmother knew of a weaver who did blood curses, but she’d cut off contact with that person as soon as she found out. We’re not exactly innocent good witches—we cast curses—but that goes well beyond an ex hex.”
I pause a moment before continuing. “What you’re saying, then, is that you think someone may have duplicated the Crying Girl painting, but that no one could do the others. They’d require both extreme skill and a knowledge of blood curses.”
“Yes.”
This makes sense, and it would mean that, whatever curse is allegedly on the Eldest Daughter painting, it won’t be the real one. It’ll be a watered-down version. Still dangerous, like Crying Girl, but not immediately lethal.
The talk of blood curses does nudge another question.
“The person who has the paintings,” I say. “The duplicates. They want Mercy to perform a curse. One only she can do. Something about salting the earth.”
Athene tenses.
I continue, “I know what the term means. Salt the earth so nothing can grow there. According to legend, the Romans did it to Carthage after sacking the city—”
“They did not.”
“Right, because the sheer amount of salt required would be insane for a symbolic gesture. They’d have spent more on salt than they took from the city.”
Her eyes meet mine in the mirror. “Impressive.”
That’d be more of a compliment if she didn’t seem so surprised.
“Wait,” I say. “The way you said it . . . You were there?”
“Of course. Who else would the Romans have appealed to, if not Minerva? Which is actually quite annoying. They’re on the battle field, slaughtering animals in my name, and I’m right beside them, dressed as a general.”
“As a man? I heard that you refused to use a man’s name to translate the Rosetta Stone?”
“Because I was forced to assume a male persona for quite long enough. I declared that the modern age had arrived, and I would never again pass myself off as a man in order to be taken seriously.” She pauses. “It has been most inconvenient.”
“I bet.” I glance at Connolly, but he’s just listening, deciding wisely not to add to this conversation. “While I have so many questions about the Carthaginian Wars, I’ll get us back on track. Salting the earth. Is it a curse thing?”
“A generational curse.”
I shift as far forward as my seatbelt will allow. “A curse that crosses generations?”
“Yes.”
“Mercy can curse people, right?”
“Yes.”
“And that curse can be transmitted to someone’s children?”
“Children. Grand-children. Great-grandchildren.”
I thud back in my seat and whisper, “Damn.”
“Exactly that. It damns the recipient of the curse and all their descendants.”
“Salting the earth. Genetically.”
“What sort of curse would it be?” Connolly asks.
“Financial is the most common,” she says. “Vengeance on a business rival, such as the families I was speaking about. Being able to ensure that not only their rival loses their fortune, but that none of their descendants can do more than cover their basic needs. Then there are the genetic curses. Disease, for one. Cancer. Alzheimer’s. Heart disease. Also madness. That was, at one time, very popular.”
“When you say common or popular,” I cut in. “You mean Mercy did these?”
“Certainly not,” she says sharply. “You know little of my sister if you can imagine such a thing.” She pauses. “No, I must amend that. Our father has requested—demanded—such things from Mercury. At one time, he was in a position to force her into it.” Another pause. “I should not have said that. I would ask that you never mention it to her.” A third, even longer pause. “Please.”
“I won’t. That’s . . . horrible.”
“Our father is horrible. I know you have had dealings with Hephaestus, who is indeed our father’s son, but truly a son in the sense that he is a weak reflection. Dangerous enough, but there is a petulant child inside Hephaestus. An overlooked and ridiculed child, and the one who overlooked and ridiculed him was his father, for the twisted leg he caused. For the rest of us, our mother’s love was enough—we learned to seek her approval and not Zeus’s. Hephaestus never could.”
She exhales. “That is all more than I meant to say. The question was whether Mercury uses hereditary curses, and the answer is a resounding no—not since she has been out from under our father’s thumb.”
“I know you didn’t mean to tell us that, but it helps. This is going to be particularly difficult for her, if it triggers past trauma.”
A long pause, and I think she’s about to tell me I’m wrong. Then she says, quietly, “Yes. It will.”
Athene clears her throat. “As I’m sure you know, there are other immortals with our powers. Some of them use hereditary curses. At one time, it was common practice. It no longer is, and while I would love to say that’s due to enlightened thinking, it’s not. The immortals who did it are gone.”
“They’re missing?”
She gives what might be a sharp laugh. “I mean they are no longer among us. It is possible to kill an immortal. Very difficult, but possible. It is also possible—with help—to cancel our own immortality, if and when we choose.”
“So this person,” I say, “who has duplicated at least one of the paintings, wants Mercy to perform a hereditary curse. They’ve come to her, because she’s one of the very few who can do it. An immortal who is also a curse weaver.”
“Yes. You said she believes it’s someone she knows?”
“Someone she trusted, unfortunately. Whoever it is, they had to know about the game she was playing with me. The fake Crying Girl painting.”
“Whoever painted it?” She pauses. Then she sighs. “No, that would be Dionysus. Those two do love their pranks. He painted it. She cursed it.”