A Shrine to an Unknown God

A BANSHEE CALL

THE EARTH SHATTERS beneath me. A scream tears through my throat, a force of its own, a banshee call. A dam breaks inside of me, tears bursting forth.

I clutch Dahlia's body, her severed head staring at me from not even a foot away. There's nothing behind her eyes, absolutely nothing, just inky black pools.

I want to rip the world in two, tear myself limb to limb. Numbness rushes over me, deafening and blinding, nulling my senses, knocking me out of my body. All I'm aware of is Dahlia's cold flesh against my own. I scream until my throat is torn raw.

Apollo, in front of me, still holds my sword. On its shining iron surface, his ichor mixes with Dahlia's blood, turning the whole thing the color of rust. He presses the point against my neck, just beneath my chin, forcing me to look him in the eye. His eyes burn, two tiny black suns.

All he says is my name, plain and simple. Antigone Katsaros.

"I'm sorry." I shake my head, the point of my own sword grating against my neck, drawing little pinpricks of blood like a cat's scratch. "O great one, please—"

I'm going to kill each and every one of your friends and all the people that helped you. Then I'll move on to your mother. With each word he drags the sword just a hair further along my neck. After you've watched everyone you care about suffer and wither under the tip of your own blade, I'll kill you, too. It's what you get for betraying my trust. Selfish bastard. Let's start with your brother, Ezra Plath.