Goddess (Starcrossed)

goddess.
    “Never,” Aphrodite vowed. “I would rather see a city burn to the ground than lose you.” The other Helen tried to argue, but Aphrodite quieted her and stood up, cradling her close, as she would a baby.
    The goddess of love faced the mob, glaring at them. Her eyes and mouth glowed as she cursed them all in a thunderous voice:
    “I abandon this place. No man shall feel desire, and no woman shall bear fruit. You will all die unloved and childless.”
    Helen heard the pleas of the crowd beneath her as she felt herself soaring up into the air along with the goddess. They were tentative, confused at first. Soon the pleas turned into wailing, as the crowd understood how dark their futures had become with a few words from an angry goddess. Aphrodite flew out over the water with her beloved sister in her arms, leaving the cursed place behind.
    Far out on the horizon was the mast of a great ship—a Trojan ship, Helen remembered. The goddess flew straight to it, carrying both of the Helens with her.
     
    Matt looked out at the dark horizon. The wind off the water was cold, and the sky was so full of stars that it looked like a city dangling upside down in midair. He’d just survived the longest two days of his life, but Matt wasn’t tired. Not physically, anyway. His muscles didn’t ache, and his legs didn’t drag. In fact, he’d never felt better in his life.
    Matt looked down at the ancient dagger in his hand. It was made of bronze, and even though it was mind-bogglingly old, it was still razor sharp and balanced perfectly from tang to hilt. Matt held the pretty thing across his palm and watched it settle into the muscles of his hand like one was made for the other. But which for which, he thought bitterly.
    Zach’s blood had been washed off the edges, but Matt still imagined he could see it. Someone Matt had known his whole life had died with this dagger in his heart before bequeathing it to Matt. But long ago it had belonged to another, much more famous master.
    The Greeks believed that a hero’s soul was in his armor. The Iliad and The Odyssey told of warriors who had fought to the death over armor. Some had even dishonored themselves to get their hands on the swords and breastplates of the greatest heroes in order to absorb that hero’s soul and skill. Ajax the Greater, one of the most revered fighters on the Greek side of the Trojan War, had gone on a rampage to possess Hector’s armor. When Ajax woke from his madness, he was so horrified with how he’d tarnished his good name that he fell on his own sword and killed himself. Matt had always puzzled over that part in The Iliad . He would never have fought over armor, not even if it meant he could become the greatest warrior the world had ever known. He wasn’t interested in glory.
    Matt tossed the dagger as far out into the churning water as he could. It flew, end over end, for a very long time. He watched it moving away from him impossibly far and fast. Many seconds later, Matt could hear the faint splashing noise the dagger made when it hit the water, despite the roar of the surf.
    It was humanly impossible to throw anything that far, and doubly so to hear it splash down. Matt had always relied on logic to solve his problems, and logic was telling him something so unbelievable that logic no longer applied.
    He had secretly wished for this. But not like this. Not if this was the role he was meant to play. Matt didn’t even understand. . . . Why him? He’d learned to fight because he wanted to help his friends, not because he wanted to hurt anyone. Matt had only ever wanted to protect people who couldn’t protect themselves. He was not a killer. He was nothing like the first man to ever own the dagger.
    A wave turned over at Matt’s feet, leaving something bright and glittery behind on the sand. He didn’t have to pick it up to know what it was. Three times he had tossed the dagger out into the ocean, and three times it had returned to him impossibly fast.
    The Fates had their eyes on him now, and there was nowhere for Matt to hide.
     
    The ship had square, white sails. Above them, snapping in the wind and hanging from the tallest mast, was a red triangular pennant embossed with a golden sun. Row after row of oars stuck out from the sides of the ship. Even from the air, Helen could hear the rhythmic thumping of a kettledrum, sounding out the tempo of the strokes.
    The water was not the brooding navy blue of the Atlantic but a clear,