New to the story or need a refresher? Begin with the prologue:
The tigers were restless as they pulled my chariot. I could tell by the way they snarled and nipped at each other, particular about their space. It had been quite a while since I used them for a journey. Io, in particular, had a layer of fat around his body that rolled up whenever his head moved.
“We there yet?” Pan asked from his cushioned corner. His arms were wrapped around a krater.
“Someone’s up,” I said.
I probably hadn’t done Jaden’s story justice, repeating parts of it for the second time as I caught Pan up on the missing bits. But he could have just said so instead of snoring.
“I wasn’t sleeping,” Pan said. “I only closed my eyes, so I didn’t have to look down at the ocean from this high.”
His stubby little fingers tightened their hold on my large, silver vase.
“You didn’t have to come. I’m going to talk to Zeus to prevent a war, not party.”
Pan dipped his finger in the krater and sucked on the droplets of wine. “Why not do both? Celebrate the war that never happened.”
I sighed. “Can you not ruin the wine?”
“This wine?”
“Yes, that wine. It’s a gift.”
“A gift?”
“That’s what I said.”
“A gift to Zeus? The god who has everything?”
“It’s a gesture. We can’t turn up empty-handed and start making diplomatic demands. You know there are rules we all must live by. Sacrifices need to be made. Virgins offered—feasts thrown and so forth.”
“Yer about to eat like a king and you look like yer marching to execution.” Pan dipped his grubby little hands in the vase again and offered me a handful of the Asphodel Blanco.
I seized his forearm. “Get out of the damn wine!”
“Fine,” he said, shirking off me. “I was only trying to help.”
“I told you already, I’m not drinking anymore.”
“You?” His tone was far from supportive. It suggested a lack of faith in my ability to change.
I turned away from him, and the two of us rode across the rest of the Atlantic Ocean in silence. Pan lit a cigarette and brooded in the corner while I stared at the constellations of the stars reflected in the vast waters surrounding us. Maybe Pan and I had been friends for too long, but I was starting to feel like things between us were cemented, and he only wanted me to be the version he wanted me to be.
It wasn’t until the New York City skyline came into view that Pan dared to poke his head over the chariot’s edge.
We whirred past Riker’s Island and whizzed right into Manhattan, sweeping onto the top of Zeus’s penthouse like a strong east wind. My tigers—Io and Callisto—padded to a stop on the roof just before Zeus’s head of security, Briareus, emerged from the shadows.
Pan wobbled out of the chariot with the krater and set it down to give Briareus a quick high five on one of his hundred hands.
“Everyone’s about to sit down soon to start if you two want to head down to the sixteenth floor, park side terrace,” Briareus said, several of his fifty heads piping up to deliver the message, one word per mouth. I often thought Briareus sounded drunk, but he’s actually just slow. Far better and faster in battle, apparently, at least according to all the stories Zeus had told me about them fighting alongside each other in the Titanomachy.
“Thanks,” I said. As I whisked down the monumental stairwell Hephaestus had carved from black marble, I wondered who the guest of honor was.
The high ceilings of each room, artistically decorated with rare paintings from the Muses, were supported on immaculate columns. From golden apartment to golden apartment, by way of silver-paneled corridor, I made my way to the heart of the party.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I said as I walked out onto the fabulous outdoor entertaining area that was pretty much an oasis of luxury.
“What?” Pan said as he maneuvered the krater out of the floor-to-ceiling French doors behind me to a thriving get-together of divine’s who’s who.
“The guest of honor is Jesus,” I said and pointed to a large cross adorned with snaps from the savior’s life.
“What’s wrong with that?”
“He’s the biggest wine snob you’ll ever meet,” I said. “Just because he can make it with a swish of a finger.”
“Oh,” Pan said. “Jealous much?”
“I am not—”
“Shh-shh. Here he comes.”
“Dionysus, many blessings onto you!” JC exclaimed as he clasped me into a welcoming hug. A couple of angels from his crew flanked me as Pan kind of just drifted away. With my wine.
“Same to you,” I said and freed myself from his grasp.
He leaned in and dropped his voice to that of a confessional tone. “I sense that something is troubling your heart. Is everything okay? You know I love listening to everyone’s problems. I’m like a sponge. I soak up all that bad news and pray on it because I know He will take care of it.”
“Yes, let us pray,” one of the angels said and bowed his haloed head. “Heavenly father, we come to you with concerns. Concerns that only you can—”
“I’m fine,” I said, beating back the prayer warriors. “Really. But speaking of fathers, have you seen mine?”
“Right over there.” JC pointed to the outdoor fireplace by the bar, outfitted in that same dark marble from the sculptural staircase that connected the levels of the triplex. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me, amen?”
“Yeah, amen.” I escaped the most depressing triangle I’ve ever been trapped in. Those three were always in holy spirits. People only saw the perfect hair and beautiful brown skin, how he always smiled and always said the right kind of words in the right kind of voice, but I knew how JC could be. If you allowed him an opening, you were doomed. The moment he was born and first opened his mouth in Bethlehem all those years ago, I knew he was impossible.
Ganymede, a golden statue of youth, was solidly stationed behind the bar, rapidly dishing out drinks to the divines under his purview. As I walked by, I passed along a friendly wave. He returned a healthy smile. I had thrown some epic parties in my day, only with his help, of course. Ganymede had countless years of cupbearing experience under his belt and knew what drink you needed before you even realized you needed it.
With one such concoction in hand, Zeus was relishing in a deep laugh as I approached him, a sound that rumbled like thunder and shook the glasses of those circled around him. I recognized all the lesser-known Sumerian war deities, but there was one god I couldn’t immediately place.
“Hey,” I said. “I need to talk to you.”
“What say you?” Zeus asked. “Speak up for these ancient ears!”
“I’d like a word in private,” I said louder.
Zeus did that thing he always does where he momentarily considers a request and then essentially continues to carry on living his life instead. “Not right now.” He did, however, pull me into the circle. “This is my son, everybody. I birthed the little devil myself.”
The story was a bit more nuanced than that, but this wasn’t the time to call him out. He and his rowdy crew were only five in number but drinking enough for ten and making enough noise for fifteen. They were also probably blasted on blow. Those gathered raised their drinks in greeting. I had forgotten many of their names, and regardless, I was too busy trying to suss out who the distinguished god was to the right of Zeus.
“We were just going over old battle stories. Why don’t you regale us with tales of your past fights,” Zeus said and pushed me into the center.
“Soft hands struggling to open corked bottles does not make a battle story,” the mysterious fellow to the right of Zeus said. “Am I right, lads?”
“Easily confused,” I said brusquely. Although, my voice was drowned out as the ruffians stomped their feet a few times in agreement.
Then I finally placed him with his smug voice. It was no wonder I hadn’t discerned him at first. The last time I had run into him, he had been clad in armor, sulking underneath a chipped helm and breastplate, bound underneath creaking greaves and armbands. Now, sharp wouldn’t even come close to the word I would use. Murderous Ares positively radiated in the evening dusk in an expensive-looking three-piece suit, leather shoes, and a silk hat.
Business must be good.
I resisted the urge to say something snappy as I had no issue being the better person. At that point, I was trying to think of an old war story, anyway. While I have had a few skirmishes here and there, I have led most of my life with the notion that the world needs more wine, not war. Thankfully, I was spared my monologue about my expeditions by a servant who came up to those of us gathered for an announcement.
She addressed Zeus first. “Immortal cloud-gatherer?”
He casually trailed an arm over her shoulders. “Yes, how can I help you, beautiful?”
“Dinner is ready.”
“Splendid. Let us feast, everyone!” Zeus shouted. His voice cut across the air as if he were expelling thunderbolts through the sky of his mouth.
Divine beings found their way to their assigned chairs rather immediately because of it. I cozied up at the end of the table, across from Pan and, according to the name tag to my right, next to Demeter. Not someone who I’d choose as a best friend, but I wouldn’t mind as a neighbor. “I baked this fresh bread for you to go with your wine,” I could imagine her saying. “I hope you like it.” And, of course, it would be scrumptious. How could the goddess of the grain not be an incredible bakester?
Which made it all the more jarring when JC burst over, dripping with momentous news about a last-minute change in the seating arrangement. He ensconced himself in the chair next to me, and one of his angels rushed over to swap out Demeter’s name tag.
“Doesn’t the guest of honor sit next to Zeus?” I asked.
“As the guest of honor, I should have the honor of picking my own seat.”
Before I could make a counter about protocol, JC bulldozed me. “And I know you didn’t say it, but I had a feeling you wanted to get something off your heart. Not to mention, your father wanted me to sit next to Muhammed, and between you and me, I can’t stand the man. I know our relationship should sticketh closer than brotherhood, but he’s always saying” —and he switched to a mocking voice— “Peace be upon you, ‘Isa. Do you think you did a good job spreading God’s teachings during your time on Earth?” JC curled a strand of his silky hair behind his ear. “And I know what he’s really asking. It’s just like, I’m sorry, I don’t recall you performing any miracles during your time with our lovely human brothers and sisters. And you know what else I think?”
I didn’t even answer before he barreled forward.
“Now, I don’t wish to gossip, but I think he thinks he’s a better prophet than I am!”
I was acutely aware that Pan was already enjoying my pitiful struggle. I tried to get a word in, but JC had a way of cutting me off at every turn. That’s the problem when you’re used to being the savior—listening to everyone else’s problems and dying for their sins—you need an outlet for yourself on your nights off.
I could have sobbed into the breadbasket. This was my personal hell.
The only thing that saved me was the brief respite from conversation when JC turned to the person to his right to pull them into his holy saga.
That and the sound of Pan filling up my wine glass.
P.S. The Art of Killing Gods releases in full on July 14, 2026.
Preorders are open (don’t be shy, you’ve gotten this far already!): The Art of Killing Gods (Amazon)