Where You Go ― Jason Grace

xxiii. motivational quotes from the god of travel

OPHELIA COULDN'T MOVE. She felt frozen in time, frozen in the moment when any hope she had of inherent good in the world was ripped away from her. She hadn't even realized she'd still had hope of such a dreamlike thing—like too many things, she only realized its presence once it was gone for good. 

There wasn't a single part of her body that didn't hurt. She knew her clothes were all but ruined, soaked in her own blood and the blood of the dead girl laying next to her. Liberatus was still in her hand, the grip as wrong as it had felt since the first time she killed Maren. 

She uncurled her fingers with moderate effort, letting the dagger fall out of her hand and onto the grass. 

There wasn't a cloud in the sky. The sun was as bright and hot as ever, bearing down on her with just enough light to make her want to close her eyes, but she didn't. She kept her gaze on the sky, marveling at the sight—at how easily it could have been the last thing she saw. 

In the distance, she could hear the Roman citizens and tourists freaking out, trying to figure out what had happened. There were sirens growing ever closer, mortals shouting out their own theories as to what had happened—earthquake, volcanic eruption, bomb, alien invasion. But it was all muffled to Ophelia's ears. 

The news would go would say it was just a random earthquake—a small disaster, but nothing that would linger on the town's memory for longer than a month. The ruins would remain a site of history, the historians who kept it unaware of the added history it had just absorbed. 

But Ophelia would know. It was the spot where Julius Caesar was assassinated—and now, it was also the spot where Maren Russell was killed for the second time. 

It took almost too much effort to push herself into a sitting position, but she did, gritting her teeth against the agony sweeping through her body. More tears came as she took stock of her injuries. The worst were the stab wound in her side and the deep cut on her forearm.  She was becoming accustomed to being stabbed in the side, but that didn't mean it didn't hurt like a bitch the second time around.

Then there was the freshest cut, where her neck met her jaw, but no blood dripped from that wound, so she didn't worry about that one as much. There were even shallower cuts littered across her arms and legs, painting her body like an artist's battlefield portrait. 

She wondered how many of the wounds would scar. How many more reminders of Maren would she be forced to live with?

"You've done well."

If she had just a little more energy, Ophelia's head would have snapped up at the voice behind her. As it were, though, all she managed to do was reach for Liberatus and pray whoever it was wasn't an enemy.

The owner of the voice walked around her, stepping into her line of sight. It took half a second for her to determine that the man before her wasn't mortal—there was a subtle glow to his skin, his form demanding to be looked at, to be feared and respected. He wore a classic toga, cleaner and crisper than the centurions and Senators wore in New Rome, the fabric edged with a gold trim. 

The modern-day messenger bag he wore clashed a bit with his outfit, though that wasn't the only strange thing he had on. On his head was a helmet, white wings sprouting from either side, and on his feet were similarly winged sandals. In his hand, he held a staff wrapped with live snakes, the two serpents flicking their tongues every so often. 

Ophelia recognized him immediately, despite never having actually met him in person.

"Father."

Mercury smiled faintly. "Hello, Ophelia."

"What—what are you doing here?" she asked. "I thought—I thought the gods—"