A Shrine to an Unknown God

COLD EARTH

(tw for mentions of rape)

"OH!" Dahlia exclaims, clasping her hands together. "Pray tell!"

"Do you know the story of Asklepios?" I ask.

"Ass... ass-clapping-what-now?"

"Asklepios." (She says his name with me, slowly, sounding out each syllable. Aass-clip-ee-ous.) "He was this physician that won the favor of Athena. As a gift, she granted him the blood of Medusa. It came from two different veins, from the left side of her head and the right; the left could be used to kill, while the right could heal mankind from literally anything, including death."

(There's no reason I need to tell her how it ends.)

"You want me to win the favor of a god?" Dahlia asks. "What am I supposed to do, seduce my homegirl Athena? Isn't she a virgin or something?"

"Virgin just means unmarried. It has nothing to do with sex like you Americans claim it does."

"Ohhhh, dip!"

"But we don't need Athena's help. Medusa was killed a millennium ago by the quote-unquote 'hero' Perseus. She's here in the underworld. We can find her."

"So you want me to steal a dead monster's blood."

"Medusa is not a monster, but yes, pretty much. If anything, Poseidon's the monster for raping her."

"What? Poseidon did—Poseidon did what now?"

"Poseidon raped Medusa as she sought refuge in the temple of Athena. Then an enraged Athena turned her into a gorgon, not a monster, and Perseus eventually ended up killing her."

"I never... I never knew the full story. I just knew the snake-hairs and the turning-people-to-stone and that one scene in Percy Jackson. That's so fucked up, my dude. Justice for Medusa."

I nod. "I have a lot of respect for Medusa; I don't want to just steal her blood. I'm going to try to just kind of... ask her for some."

She imitates my voice, lowering her own and putting on a thick accent, holding out an invisible cup: "Spare blood, madame? Spare blood?"

My face heats. "I know it sounds ridiculous," I admit, "but there's no reason for violence, and I don't want to hurt Medusa anymore than she's already been hurt."

Dahlia nods. "Fuck violence. Peace is where it's at. But how are we going to convince her to give us some of her blood?"

"By... by asking nicely?" I suggest. "I honestly don't know."

"That's fine, that's whateves." She loops her arm around my shoulder. (Still, I feel nothing. I don't know why she keeps trying to touch me when neither of us can feel it.) "I was always good at kicking ass and winging stuff. My psychic used to say I'm like an eagle, remember?"

"You're not coming with me," I tell her.

Her face falls. "What?"

"One of us needs to look for Ezra. We can't leave him out of this. I'll get the blood. You get"—(to use the word Dahlia and Marisol use to describe him)—"the twink."

She nods solemnly. "Right. I'll get the twink. Any idea where he might be?"

"Your mom's Hekate. He's dead. Summon him." I pause. An idea strikes me. My friends have told me this is called a lightbulb moment. "We can summon Medusa. That's how we can find her. Then we'll... we'll figure out something to get her to give us her blood."

"Yeah, right." She does this weird sort of laugh. "I know how to do that. Jesus Christ," she mumbles, "I can summon the dead? You really think so? How do I... how do I do that?"

I've heard stories. Namely, the one of Odysseus communing with the deceased seer, Teiresias, in an attempt to return home to Ithaca. In fact, the ritual's instructions were given to Odysseus by the witch Circe, Dahlia's apparent half-sister.

"You need to dig a hole in the ground," I instruct her. "About the size of your forearm in each direction. Pour three different libations in—"

She cuts me off. "If you know so much about raising the dead, help me do it. Also, how the fuck do you know so much about raising the dead?"

"It's what Odysseus did. My mother told me his story so often as a child I have it memorized."

"Right. Of course your mother told you stories about someone raising the dead."

"You need to be the one to carry out the ritual," I tell her. "You might be a necromancer. I'm most definitely not. Start digging. I'll go find you what you need."

We find a spot away from the water, mostly secluded from the other shades, shrouded in darkness as everything else here is. She kneels, digging her hands into the cold earth. The dirt is an extension of the darkness surrounding us, a pure, inky black, and so damp I can see it glistening with little droplets of water. She carefully sets it in a pile beside her as she digs.

"There better not be any animal sacrifice involved," she mumbles, "or I might actually pass out."