Page 78 of Flame and Fury

“All the way to the top.”

There’s an elevator in the building, but the yellow tint of the out-of-order sign says it hasn’t worked in a long time. We take the stairs one floor at a time until we reach the top. The air is stagnant and hot on the fourth floor. I step aside once we reach the landing, letting Hades go first. He walks nearly to the end of the hallway to apartment 4D and wraps his knuckles on the door.

My heart skips a beat. Oh my gods, it’s just now hitting me that I am going to see my grandmother for the first time in years. She’s my only living family. I’m nervous and excited and starting to sweat with anticipation.

Someone is mumbling behind the door, and I think I hear a “hold your horses.” The clink of chains and locks being shifted has me straightening my shoulders and wiping my sweaty palms on my pants. I slick a hand over my hair. It’s still in its braid, but it’s a mess. There’s no fixing it right now.

The door opens a crack, and half of Mrs. Schnelman‘s face glares out the cracked door at us. I turn toward Hades in confusion. Why are we here? Mrs. Schnelman is the neighborhood crackpot. She regularly throws chunks of bread at people who walk past her apartment building, and I’ve heard her screaming about Elvis on more than one occasion. “I think we’re at the wrong place.”

“Don’t mumble. It’s rude,” Mrs. Schnelman says from behind the door, then slams it shut. I’m officially sweating. The heat from being on the fourth floor with no windows to let in a breeze is suffocating. I swipe my hand over my forehead and turn toward Hades. Why did he bring us here? He looks cool in black pants and a black button-down. His hands are causally in his pockets like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

“Just wait,” Hades says.

I look over my shoulder at Atlas. He doesn’t look confused, but he’s not showing much emotion. He’s standing behind me, his chest pressing into my back. His fingers squeeze my hip and I almost give in to the desire to sag into him. To let him carry some of the weight on my shoulders.

More chains rattle, and the door swings wide open.

“Come on, then, get out of the hallway.” Mrs. Schnelman clucks her tongue as though the door has been open for the last five minutes and we’re dragging our feet.

The woman can’t be a day under ninety years old. I’ll generously say she’s five foot one in her black orthopedic shoes. Her hair is a wispy silver that she has looped in a bun on the top of her head. The skin of her face is paper thin, and her eyes have the slight fog of cataracts. She’s so frail, a hard cough could break her bones.

“I think there’s been a mistake. I’m sorry.” I glance at Hades again for confirmation, but he just gestures that we should go inside.

Does Mrs. Schnelman have a roommate? I can’t imagine Nyx living with this old woman who teeters on the precipice of delusion.

Hades shuts the door behind us and reengages all ten of the locks. Atlas and I stand just in the small entry, but Hades saunters in like he’s been here before.

The apartment is bigger than it looks from the outside. The furniture is all old and well-used, but nicely maintained and cared for. There’s a small couch up against one wall. Bookshelves take up any available wall space and are packed with volumes. There’s a window seat filled with pillows, as though someone sits there often to read.

The kitchen is to the right of the living room. Next to that is a hallway that likely leads to the bedroom and bathroom. The walls need a fresh coat of paint, at least those that are visible through the bookshelves. But everything is tidy and clean. The apartment smells like freshly baked bread and reminds me of a long-lost memory. It’s all very homey.

“Do you want tea? I don’t drink coffee. It runs straight through me, like a freight train. Maybe some breakfast? I don’t know much, but I seem to remember you like French toast. I could whip up some of that?”

“No, that’s not necessary.” My voice drifts off. I cock my head and look at Mrs. Schnelman again. Not just a quick glance, but I really study her. She’s short, but her back is straight as an arrow. She’s wearing a flowered muumuu, or maybe it’s a dressing gown? It’s basically a sack that obscures any shape, but her legs are bare from her calves down. Legs that look strong and still shapely.

“How do you know I like French toast?”

Mrs. Schnelman smiles at me. It’s slow to grow on her face, but the wider it becomes, the more I feel like I know nothing at all. This isn’t some senile old woman. Those cataract fogged eyes are sharp and assessing.

I dart a look at Atlas, who’s watching the old woman with just as much scrutiny as me. Something's not right.

“Hell, this was a bad idea,” Atlas mumbles, but everyone in the room hears him.

“You’re already in my lair. It’s a little too late for regrets, don’t you think?” Mrs. Schnelman says with a chuckle.

Unlike the rasp of her voice, colored with age, the laugh is liquid and youthful. Even though I haven’t heard it in years, it’s one I recognize.

“Nyx?” Atlas is still at my back, and he takes a step closer, pressing our bodies together. We haven’t made it more than two steps inside the living room. Hades has made himself at home in the window seat, looking relaxed.

“Is this a trick?” Atlas growls, aiming his accusation at Hades.

“I’ve certainly been tricking people for years, but not in the way you think,” Mrs. Schnelman answers instead. She lifts her handsand Atlas shoves me behind him. I push him to the side with a huff. Does he think the old woman is going to start throwing punches or fireballs at me? Can the gods do that? Maybe it’s a legitimate fear.

Mrs. Schnelman raises one brow and proceeds to pull a thin gold band off her left ring finger slowly. The transformation is immediate. Like a veil lifting from my eyes, the old woman shimmers out of existence, and in her place is my grandmother, Nyx.

It’s odd to call her my grandma, since she doesn’t look a day older than thirty. Still, that’s who she is. Even if our interactions have been very far and few because it was too dangerous for us to meet. There’s a pain in my heart thinking that she’s been so close, masquerading as Mrs. Schnelman, all this time.

I have no real memories of my mother. I was two when she died in the Olympus Games. My dad had pictures, though, and they hung on the walls of our apartment. I see hints of my mother in Nyx, and also in me. We all share the same dark blue eyes. The long dark brown hair that’s still up in a bun is the same chestnut color, but that’s where the similarities end. No one looking at us would know we’re related. My skin is a darker tan, and she’s a few inches shorter than me.

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