The Tyrant's Tomb

Harpocrates—one last shared experience between two unlikely lovers.
On the outside of the jar, the gluey remains of a paper label clung to the
glass. I could just make out the faded words SMUCKER’S GRAPE. Tarquin and
the emperors had much to answer for.
“How could they…?” Reyna shivered. “Can a god do that? Just…choose
to stop existing?”
I wanted to say Gods can do anything, but the truth was, I didn’t know.
The bigger question was, why would a god even want to try?
When Harpocrates had given me that last dry smile, had he been hinting
that someday I might understand? Someday, would even the Olympians be
forgotten relics, yearning for nonexistence?
I used my nails to pull the splinter from my palm. Blood pooled—regular
red human blood. It ran down the groove of my lifeline, which was not a
great omen. Good thing I didn’t believe in such things….
“We need to get back,” Reyna said. “Can you move—?”
“Shh,” Meg interrupted, putting a finger to her lips.
I feared she was doing the most inappropriate Harpocrates impersonation
ever. Then I realized she was quite serious. My newly sensitive ears picked
up on what she was hearing—the faint, distant cries of angry birds. The
ravens were returning.