A Shrine to an Unknown God

THE RAVAGING SUN

A SLOPING CONCRETE SLAB lounges against the side of the river, splattered in graffiti. At the sandy banks float islands of trash.

There are no tourists, no locals. Just us, the corpse, and the ravaging sun.

I leap down the slope, landing knee-deep in the warm rushing water. It splashes up, spraying my chest and arms. Dahlia, Ezra, and Marisol work together to toss Alekos to me. I lay him down in the sand. They then slide down the slope to join me.

"Do you think it would help," asks Dahlia, "if Antigone turned his blood to wine?"

"I mean, it would confuse the cops," Ezra replies.

"And fuck up the autopsy results," Marisol adds. "Maybe even shed some doubt onto the whole investigation."

"I'll do it," I decide.

"After we bleach him," Ezra suggests, uncapping the bottle. "Do we just pour it over him? Or do we need to, like... scrub it in?"

"That's what the sponges are for," Marisol explains. "Pour it. And then we scrub."

He tips it. The liquid that spills out is so strong it burns in the back of my throat. We each grab a sponge and get to work, scrubbing every inch of him.

"Ezra," Marisol says. "Tell us the truth. How did you know Alekos?"

He sneezes. "He came to Salamander Beach on vacation."

"And you two just happened to cross paths, friend each other on Facebook?" she asks.

"The four of us are bound by spilled blood," I remind him. "There is nothing you could say that we would hold against you."

"Yeah," Dahlia agrees. "I mean, unless you're into piss. I'd hold that against you."

"I sold him pot."

"That's all?" Dahlia asks. "That's the big secret?"

"That can't be all!" Marisol says. "Why the fuck was he sending you sex emojis if all you did was sell him some weed? And why was he so fucking creepy?"

"Because I also sucked his dick for a hundred-fifty bucks."

"Get that bread," Dahlia says, awkwardly pumping her fist in the air. "Anyway you've gotta."

Back on Apollonisi, prostitution is one of the most respected careers, especially for women. Kassiani, the head of the cult of Apollo, our most revered god, makes her living as a prostitute. Many of my half-siblings' mortal parents are prostitutes—both male and female—that our father took a liking to. Why was Ezra so secretive about it?

"That's nothing to be ashamed of," I remind him.

"Yeah, bro." Marisol says. "Just know your worth and don't settle for creepy-ass old-ass clients like him. And if you've gotta, then make them pay more."

"Yeah," Dahlia agrees. "The uglier they are, the more they should have to pay."

Ezra nods. "I think we've bleached him well enough."

"Do you want to talk about it all?" Dahlia asks. "I mean, you did—you—you had a complicated relationship with him. And now he's dead."

"No," Ezra says, sharply.

"Okay. We don't have to. But we can if you ever want to."

"Antigone." Marisol says. "Now it's time for your sword."

"What?"

"It's literally the murder weapon," she explains. "We need to bleach it and then dump it while we're here."

Without my sword, I would be nothing. We use spears to fight, mainly, but to me, the sword is—what I first learned to fight with, what my mother taught me with. All of our spears are property of our army, not our own. But my sword was mine. My mother gave it to me.

"No."

"You'll have to get rid of it anyways, before we fly out," Dahlia says. "You might as well do it now."

"Here." Marisol hands me my dagger. "You can have this instead."

I toss my sword on the ground in front of them and walk away. A couple of minutes later, Dahlia calls my name and I turn back to them. My sword is gone.

"Do your thing," Marisol orders.

I turn his blood to wine as the other three find heavy rocks that they tie to his wrists and ankles.

Then we kick him into the river and watch him sink.