Page 291 of The Mortal Trials

Kanaloa and Pele sit with Ulani and Sura at the Polynesian’s umber and orange table. The mortals’ necks are draped in fuchsia flower leis. Ulani’s attention drifts to his wife, who sits within arm’s reach with glowing Amaterasu.

The goddess honors Susanoo this evening. Her tablecloth’s hem washes and wanes like the tides he commands. There are two empty seats at their table: one for him, and one for Akira.

Beside them are Change’e and Peng in pale pink; he in a suit and her in a lovely silk gown, layered in delicate lace. A living cherry blossom tree sprouts from the center of the Chinese pantheon’s table.

In lavender, Veronia sits beside the Slavic goddess of the hunt, Devana, whose hair is a wild tangle with leaves and twigs caught in it. A bow is strung across her body, leather guarding her forearms. Wen is seated next to three-headed Triglav, who glowers like he wants to slaughter us all and be done with these games, his mortal included. The Slavic table bears the pale purple shade of the fragrant stems gathered in the generous centerpiece bouquet.

The last table is reserved for the steely Norse gods, mighty Freyja and stormy Njord, conniving Torsten and gloomy Nickolai. All are in silver and gray. All look miserable.

Hermes’s winged sandals carry him to us. “So nice of you two to deign to join us.”

August stands a little straighter. “We came as soon as we heard the horn.”

The messenger scoffs. “Next you’ll tell me you only heard it once.”

But we had only heard it once. I look at August, who gives a small shrug of his shoulder. Then I look at Anansi, who beams a smile. Did he weave his little web over our oikos to block the horn’s call? Or over the temple itself?

“Do be seated,” Hermes invites, gesturing to the center table. It’s not a request.

August pulls out my chair and pushes it in as I sit. He drags his over, staying so close that when he takes his seat, my left thigh presses against his right. He threads his fingers through mine and leans in to whisper, “We can win.”

I squeeze his hand three times.

Ares emerges from the shadows. Dressed in dark blue armor with his blood-red cape flowing behind him, he leads a small army of sapphire-clad servers. Their platters are heavy with the plates they carry, silver domes preserving the warmth and moisture.

The god of war’s eyes fasten on mine. His stare is predatory.

My temper flares.

As if August senses it, he leans over to pluck one of the fragrant flowers from the arrangement in the middle of the table and twists it between his thumb and finger. It’s a white lily.

“Put that down!” I hiss.

His brows meet. “The flower?”

I nod. “It’s bad luck.”

A single dark brow rises like the sail on a ship as he studies the bloom. “It’s just a flower.”

“No it’s not.” I take it from his hand and toss it on the floor. “It’s a message. A wish.”

“For what?”

I point to the blooms one at a time. “White lilies symbolize death. Asphodel? Death. Chrysanthemums are for funerals.”

He chokes as he sees the arrangements with new clarity.

“Lily of the Valley,” I note, “are placed on graves.”

A muscle in August’s jaw jumps.

“And white oleander blossoms are toxic. They’re all a warning. Every bud and bloom.”

“How do you know what they mean?” he asks.

“My grandmother is a gardener who speaks the language of flowers. And she’s superstitious.”

August’s eyes dart to Ares. “He knew you’d know.”