The Age of Zeus

CHASTENED?

The headline ran, in 40-point capitals, above a library photo of Zeus looking curmudgeonly and disgruntled. Against all her better judgement Sam bought a copy, but the article turned out to be nothing more than a few paragraphs insinuating that the Olympians might be a little cheesed off about losing their monsters, Hercules, and Hermes. All of it was furtively and carefully worded so that there was no reasonable way anybody could take offence. The copy got no further from the newsagent's than the litter bin on the pavement outside.

She was bored, she had to admit it. Day merged into day and nothing much changed. As her time as a Titan receded further into memory, she found it harder and harder to believe that she had wielded guns, punched through walls, run at extraordinary speeds, and stood face-to-fang with nightmarish creatures and expunged them from the world. But if that all seemed so dreamlike and unreal now, how come ordinary life wasn't acceptable? Why was everything drab and pointless here in Kensal Rise? Why, having been Tethys, was it so difficult to go back to being just plain Sam?

A phrase came to mind: cold turkey.

She'd been on a wild, dizzying trip. She'd come back down to earth with a bump.

It had been her choice to end it, though. She had to keep remembering that. No one had forced her out. She'd taken that step entirely on her own and, indeed, against everyone else's wishes.

And so, like a habit-kicking junkie, a reformed alcoholic, she was having to learn not to look too far ahead or expect too much, to take each day as it came.

Until the day they came.

Ramsay and Mahmoud.