A/N: I'm back! (Also, I'm dying, because school. And deaths of book characters. But, you know, first-world problems.)

Note #1: Thanks as always goes to the incredible Rosestream for her fab beta skills. Thanks so much!

Note #2: Other thanks go to reviewers, who are my new internet besties. I would hug you if I didn't have personal space issues (and, you know, also the fact that we're communicating via cyberspace. But, whatever. Minor details.)

Note #3: This chapter has the introduction of a major character... Hope you all like him!

Disclaimer: Don't own, yadda yadda.

Rating: T

Part IV

Autumn-Winter

One

September

Aunt Lise, her husband, and three children lived in a cramped apartment in the Bronx, next door to a chain-smoking Puerto Rican family whom you could hear shouting through the cracker-thin walls at all hours. I was given the couch to sleep on, a ragtag, maroon contraption with rusted springs. I had only a threadbare quilt and a lumpy pillow. For the first few nights in New York, I couldn't even sleep. Even putting aside the cacophony of Spanish one tenement over and the incredibly uncomfortable sleeping arrangement, the sounds of the city kept me up. I had been used to the whisper of cicadas and the song of frogs and crickets, not the roar of cars and the hubbub of a thousand voices and dialects mingling together.

I got a job at a diner down the street. Mondays through Fridays, from eight o'clock am to five o'clock pm, I waited tables, on my feet all day, my soles aching when I finally stumbled home. Aunt Lise told me I was free to do whatever I wanted on the weekends, but I never did. Sometimes I just waltzed through the streets of New York, wandering through Central Park and sitting in the grass, where I could feel a bit of home in my fingers once more in the form of waxy green leaves and clumps of Queen Anne's Lace, but I never spent any money.

When I was ten years old, I read a book called A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. It was the story of a young girl named Francie Nolan growing up in the early nineteenth century with her impoverished family in the slums of Williamsburg, Brooklyn. When Francie was born, her mother nailed a tin can down on the floor and shoved any extra change into the cup. That way it collected grimy dimes and nickels and pennies. Whenever things got desperate, whenever shit hit the fan, they would pry up the little tin can and empty it out.

So that was what I did. I didn't nail it down on the floor, of course – obviously, Aunt Lise would have had my head – but I did go to the drugstore and buy a small metal box with a combination lock similar to the ones dangling from locker doors in schools. I hid it under the couch, as Aunt Lise's husband would've tried to break in and steal my money if he got the chance. Her fella from Toulouse had turned out to be kind of a bum, in the end. At least she wasn't saddled with eight kids, like the Puerto Ricans next door.

Aunt Lise required that I put in a little money from my paycheck to pay for food and rent in the apartment. I did so, and any that was left over that I didn't need to buy necessities like clothes – though Lise loaned me most of her tent-shaped maternity clothing, thank God – and hygiene products, I put in the lockbox, stowing it away for a rainy day. My maternity leave would be as brief as possible, but I was going to need money until I got back on my feet. Yes, Aunt Lise was generous, but she wasn't that generous.

Every once in a while, I got letters from the farm, mostly from Lovett. Dear Libre, they read. How are things with you?

The truth was, I missed home. I felt out-of-place in New York City. I was a farm girl at heart, more accustomed to the flat, empty plains of the Midwest, not the seedy back alleyways of the Bronx. But I had a steady job, and my belly was ever-growing. I had no choice. Here, I had a future, dismaying as it might be. Back home, there was nothing for me. I would squat on my father's farm forever, and I didn't want that for myself. I still wanted a life of my own.

Things would have to get bad – really, horribly bad – for me to go back home.

And then there was Ares's coin. I'd brought it with me. It stayed in my lockbox, underneath the crisp dollar bills and rusty old pennies. For some reason, I felt reluctant to throw it away. I might need it someday. Some days, I looked into the mirror and placed a hand over my stomach, grimacing, and thought of the coin burning a hole through the metal. And then I thought of Ares, what he might say if he knew.

After those foolish thoughts, I splashed cold water on my face and told myself to stop being such an idiot. I knew what Ares would do.

He would leave. Again. Without so much as a goodbye. He'd made that very clear.

I'd taken as much heartbreak as I could that summer.

# # #

One day in early September, when the heat was still humid and thick, seeping through sewer grates and making the air reek of waste, I met a boy at the café.

I was shoving through the tables, a tray above my head. It was early enough that my belly hadn't yet begun to show, but Aunt Lise had told me it was only a matter of time. "Just wait," she'd said. "You will. And you'll rue the day you ever met That Boy." 'That Boy' was how my aunt referred to Ares. She'd asked me once what his name was, the boy I'd tumbled in the hay with. I'd told her that it didn't matter. "I suppose that's true," she'd replied.

I'd stumbled over something – an old man's loafer poking out from the vinyl booths – and my tray had gone crashing to the floor along with a lone empty coffee mug. I'd felt my cheeks heat up as I kneeled on the ground, scrambling to pick up the shards of pottery.

"It's alright. Don't worry about it."

I glanced up. It was a boy, curly-haired with pale gray eyes and a cheeky grin. He was wearing a grease-spotted apron and carrying a filthy broom and a dustpan. "We've all been there at some point or another," he said. "My first few weeks on the job, I must've broken four cups."

"They didn't fire you?" I blurted out unthinkingly. My cheeks heated.

He chuckled good-naturedly. "No, they didn't. God only knows why." His eyes met mine. "Name's Will."

I gave him a wry smile. "My name's Libre."

"Libre, huh? What's that, Portuguese?"

I giggled. "Not even close. It's French."

"Well, I never claimed to be an international scholar." He flashed me a cheeky grin. "You know, you should get a cup of coffee with me sometime."

"I should, should I?" I said.

"You really should. I'm a very nice guy, you know. You'd like me if you got to know me."

"Who says I don't already?"

"Now who's playing the flirt?"

I stared at him for a moment, a smile tugging at my lips, before I sighed, straightening and picking up my tray. He stood up next to me, still grinning like a loon. "I can't," I told him, regret tinging my voice.

"You can't," he repeated. "Can I ask why not?"

"You can," I said. "But you're not going to like the answer."

Will shrugged. "Never know. An answer is better than nothing. Maybe you're repulsed by how I smell." He sniffed his armpits. "Although I can't say I smell anything particularly putrid."

I laughed. "It's not how you smell."

"Then what is it?"

I paused. "I'm a screwed-up person, okay? You don't want to get involved with me. Or my shit storm of a life. Trust me."

"Oh, come on. Give me some credit here." Will smiled. "I'm not the sort of guy to run at the first sign of trouble. I can handle a little baggage."

"Not my kind of baggage," I said quietly. "Nobody can handle that."

"Hey," a customer said to the right of me, sounding ornery. "Excuse me, but I've been waiting for my meal for fifteen minutes. Could you please do a little less flirting and a little more serving? You know, your job?"

"Sorry," I said apologetically, walking away. "Duty calls."

Maybe in another life, I would have gotten a cup of coffee with him. In some sort of life where Nicoline was still alive and my mother hadn't killed herself and I hadn't wasted away July afternoons entangled in Ares's embrace. In some sort of life where I wasn't pregnant at sixteen, wasn't staring out emptily at a long, lonely road ahead of me.

Sorry.

Maybe in another life. But not in this one.

# # #

One day in mid-September, I was walking through Central Park, the grass tickling my ankles, purse swinging at my side. It was a beautiful day – the sky in New York was almost blue, obscured as it was by a veneer of smog. I was in the middle of Central Park, walking alongside the lake, so far into the grass and the trees that I could almost forget I was in the city.

Almost.

As I was walking, I saw a movement out of the corner of my eye. I turned, eyebrows creased. A young girl was skipping through the park. She was beautiful, blue-eyed and blonde-haired. She had big blonde curls framing her face. Her lips were twisted in a grin, and the sunlight glinted off her shiny shoes.

A man appeared by the girl. Or perhaps he hadn't appeared; maybe he'd always been there, lingering in the shadows. He appeared to be a businessman, with shoulder-length black hair pulled into a ponytail and electric blue eyes. His suit was pressed, his black loafers shiny. I might have been imagining it, but I thought I saw sparks dancing around his feet as he walked, strolling up near the girl.

I wanted to intervene, wanted to pull the man away, but for some reason, my feet stayed rooted to the ground.

"Hello," the man said to the little girl, almost pleasantly. "What's your name?"

The girl blinked up owlishly. "Mama told me not to talk to strangers." Good girl, I thought.

"Ah, I won't bite," the man said. "My name is Zeus. See? Now you know my name. We're not strangers anymore."

The girl looked wary, but then she shrugged. "My name is Beryl," she told him. "Beryl Grace." She stuck out her hand, and Zeus shook it.

Zeus smiled. "How old are you, Beryl?"

"Seven," she said. "How old are you?"

"Very old," he said, straightening. "It's been nice meeting you, Beryl. I might have to pay you a visit again – when you're older, that is."

"Can we be friends?" Beryl said, looking intrigued by the prospect.

Zeus looked down at her affectionately. "I'd like that very much."

And then, right before my eyes, he disappeared. Poof. Vanished into thin air, with a rumble of thunder to announce his departure. Beryl looked puzzled, but then a sort of filmy Mist descended over her, washing her in dewy raindrops, and she resumed a complacent expression, the kind usually associated with those on heavy medication.

Gran had been right. I had the Sight. Zeus – one of the Greek gods, if I remembered correctly. There were supernatural forces at work here in the city, and I had just stumbled across one of them. And where there were gods, there were monsters, if Gran was right about that, too. I'd have to learn to watch my back.

# # #

One day after work, when I was tying back my sweat-soaked hair and getting ready to leave, Will stopped me on my way out.

"Hey, Libre!"

I knotted my lips together and turned. Will was jogging out onto the sidewalk where I was standing, looking like a disaster, his hair a mess of cowlicks and flyaway strands, his cheeks turned bright red with exertion. His clothes were grease-spotted, his shoes covered in dust and grime. Despite it all, though, I felt my heart skip a beat. Will would always be cute, I supposed. He was just one of those guys.

"What, Will?" I said. I sounded exhausted, even to my own ears.

"I was wondering if you'd had any time to reconsider that offer I'd made. You know, about the coffee, and getting to know me, real swell guy that I am."

I sighed. "I'm just not interested. I'm sorry, Will. Really."

He looked dissuaded. "Yeah. That's what I figured. So, my second offer would be to have coffee – as friends."

"As friends," I repeated.

"Yeah. As friends. You know, two platonic individuals sitting across a table, drinking some coffee and having a terrific time. No romantic entanglements. No nothing."

I studied him. "This still sounds like a date proposal to me."

"Well, it's not." He shook his head. "Really. I'm completely and totally romantically uninterested in anything to do with you. I don't think you look cute. In fact, I think you look like – like –" His eyes searched the scene. "Like that piece of gum over there on the sidewalk. You know, all trampled and sticky and gross-"

"That doesn't even make sense," I pointed out.

"Right, but would I be saying you looked sticky and gross if I wanted to get into your pants?" Will said.

"I don't know," I said. "Probably not. But you don't strike me as a typical guy."

"I don't?" Will asked, looking pleased.

"See?" I cried. "Right there, that's what I'm talking about. I can't get involved, Will. I'm really sorry. Trust me, I'd like to."

"Then why don't you?" he said. "I don't care about whatever's going on with your life, Libre. I really don't. I mean, we've been working together for a couple of weeks now, right? Almost a month. And I still think you're a pretty groovy girl, whatever you say."

It was true. It was approaching the end of September, and the leaves on the trees dotting Central Park were beginning to change, slowly but surely. A chill had started to weave its way into the heat. It was now officially autumn; the equinox had passed with little fanfare. I had known Will for a long time. And if it hadn't been for the emotional sandbags tied to my ankles, I would've said yes.

"I'm a screw-up, Will," I said. "I'm a fucking train wreck. I'd be a shitty friend and an even shittier girlfriend. I'm not groovy, not even close. Though it's sweet of you to say so."

"I'll tell you what," he said, and I groaned. "No, just hear me out. Let me take you to get some coffee, and then you can tell me whatever it is that's so bad about you, whatever it is that would apparently make me abhor you. If it's really as bad as you think, I'd go running for the hills, wouldn't I?

"But," he continued, "if I don't, that means you have to give me a shot. Alright?"

I studied him. It was an enticing offer. And yet… "I still don't want to enter a romantic relationship – not just with you, with anyone. The last one I had left me a little scarred, and I need some time."

"Fine," he said. Man, he was doggedly persistent. "Then we can be friends. I really do think you're a cool person, and I'd like to get to know you. Just platonically," he said, as I shot him a look. "I swear." He made the signal of a cross over his heart, almost as if he was genuflecting.

I sighed. "Fine. But you're paying."

Will let out a whoop. "Meet me after work tomorrow?"

"Sure," I said. "But you should know I don't drink coffee."

"You don't drink coffee?" Will looked scandalized. "Why the hell not?"

"You'll know by the end of the conversation we have tomorrow," I said. "Around the same time you'll be running for the hills."

# # #

I ordered herbal tea, Will ordered coffee. It was a nice diner, I had to give Will that, nicer than the one we worked in. We both got a plate of hash browns to split. I was beginning to crave fried foods more than anything in the world, and lately, my cravings had been irrepressible.

And then I opened my mouth and told him. Everything.

I told him about my family, about meeting Ares in the cornfield. I told him about Nicoline and her strange addictions, and how she'd died unexpectedly, chasing a high in her last moments on earth. I told him about my mother, her days spent in bed, and her tragic end. I told him about Lovett, how the brother I'd always loved more than anyone had come home from Vietnam just to say goodbye. I told him about my quiet father and my gay brother, about the other brother that hated me and the grandmother who couldn't tear her eyes away from the sky.

I told him about Ares, about our days in the barn – though I skimmed over some of the gory details – and the day I kicked him off the property. I told him how I'd gotten pregnant, how my grandmother had sent me off to New York to get a job, because there were no jobs left in the middle of Ohio, in some dinky small town.

The only thing I didn't tell him was about the myths, the Sight and the Greek gods and goddesses, the monsters that plagued my dreams. I'd seen a few monsters in New York, one-eyed men like my grandmother had described and more, stuff from nightmares and Hitchcock films. Zeus had been the only god I recognized, though who knew? Maybe there were more.

After I finished, Will was silent for a long time. He just took a sip of his coffee. He didn't start running for the hills, but he didn't look particularly thrilled, either. "I see what you mean," he said finally. "About the baggage, that is."

"Yeah," I said, looking down at the table. "I figured."

"Hey," Will said, putting his hand over mine. My head snapped up, surprised. "It's alright. I'm not running, am I? I'm still here." He gave me a shaky grin. "And I'm not going anywhere."

My eyes welled. "Really?"

"Really," he said. "That Ares guy sounds like a bastard, and I'd like to give him a swift kick in the nuts, but otherwise…" He hesitated. "I think you need a friend, okay? And I don't know about the other poor schmucks out there, but I'm not about to leave you high and dry."

I began to cry in earnest. "Thank you," I blubbered.

Will stood up, walking around the table quickly and wrapping his arms around me. "Hey," he whispered. "It's okay. It's going to be all right."

We stayed there for a long time, gripping each other like a lifeline. A hug between friends.

Or so I thought at the time.

# # #

There isn't much to be grateful for in this story. Honestly, my tale kind of sucks. It's got heartbreak and devastation and drama and tragedy. There aren't many good things to it.

But Will?

Thank God for Will. I don't know if I would've made it without him. He was at my side for all of those horrible, long months. He was my stalwart supporter. Without him, I probably would've given up, taken my mother's path out. Going, going gone. Vanishing, poof. No longer here to trek the earth.

Thank God for Will.

Thank God.

A/N: Hope you enjoyed! Please review!