The fish skin crackled between his teeth. White flesh, perfectly flaky, salted and charred just right. Damon sat on his stolen boat, bronze grill still smoking, beer on tap, and felt something he hadn't in twenty years...contentment.

  "Good?" Democritus asked, pulling a carved pipe from his satchel.

  "Perfect."

  "Then we celebrate." He packed the bowl with dried leaves. "Oracle weed. Been saving it!"

  "Why today?" He'd never done this before.

  "Why not? We're fishing. Athena caught dinner. No one's died yet." She had arranged six fish by size on the deck. "This deserves... acknowledgment!"

  Damon took the pipe. The smoke tasted like good grass. His second bite of fish was somehow better than the first. He took a sip of beer.

  He could do this forever.

  Ice formed on the wings. The engine coughed in the thin air, vibration conducting through bronze directly between her legs.

  They had been ascending the mountain for hours.

  "You're shifting," Anaktoria said.

  "It's...happening by itself."

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  "I know." Her voice was strained. "Same."

  The engine started sputtering.

  "Fuel?" Anaktoria asked.

  "Empty. Twenty minutes ago."

  "You didn't mention that."

  "You were flying so well."

  Silence. Then... "I have emergency supplies." Anaktoria fumbled one-handed for her flask. "Pure spirits. I was saving it for dying."

  She was shaking so hard that half poured down Cassandra's thighs instead of the tank.

  The engine loved it. Ran white-hot for thirty seconds, got them over the peak (both of them) then died, content.

  Greece spread below, green and unburnt.

  The sun got warmer. The fish got better. Athena looked wise, as usual.

  "That's a sail," Democritus said.

  "Boats exist."

  "That's five sails."

  Damon squinted through the haze. Five sails. In formation.

  Baked recognition punched through. "That's attack formation."

  They looked at each other. Their eyes were completely red.

  "Row?"

  "ROW."

  They scrambled for the oars. Athena was already at the rudder.

  The first pull sent the boat surging like a ballista bolt. The second covered a hundred yards.

  "Too fast!" Democritus shouted.

  "Can't stop!"

  The oracle weed had given them the strength of desperately stoned gods. Each stroke compressed distance. The coastline blurred past.

  Time became fluid.

  "What!? That's Penthesilea's house!"

  "TURN!"

  "CAN'T!"

  "FUUUCK—!!"

  They were gliding in perfect silence, still trembling from the engine's farewell. The village appeared below. Rooftops. Gardens. One house larger than the others.

  "Beach?" Anaktoria asked.

  They aimed for water. Hit tiles instead.

  CRASH through the roof.

  CRASH through the wall.

  They all arrived at once. Damon went through the wall, the eagle through the roof, everyone back in Penthesilea's kitchen.

  "Can't stand," Cassandra whispered, still gripping controls.

  "Can't stop rowing," Damon said, still holding oars.

  Penthesilea emerged from her back room. She looked at them... Damon rowing air, the women frozen mid-vibration.

  "Blackwater finally collected."

  They nodded.

  She smiled the way she did before autopsies. "I'll make tea."