The band of fury tightening around Lore’s chest released all at once.
“My lord?” Philip said, his voice echoing in the stunned silence.
“It is a despicable practice to promise children in marriage while they should be focused on learning their letters and playing with their toys. We have long since stopped the grooming of young boys. All children should be protected from it,” Castor said, his voice growing louder with each word. “You are archon of this line, Patér, but I am its god. If you wish to receive my blessings, this is what I ask of you.”
Lore felt the first light of hope break through inside her, then fade as she gauged the reaction of the hunters around her. Upset, anger, even confusion reigned. It was one thing to be loved and feared, and another to be feared and reviled. The only thing hunters despised more than dishonor was change.
Acantha gripped her husband’s arm, pulling him back. Lore suspected she did not entirely hate the way her husband was being spoken to, but the woman was too entrenched in their terrible life to ever show it.
“Radiant One,” she began, “we have longed to learn how best to honor you. As you chose not to appear to us, we could not create art in your image. The estate we built for you in the mountains remained empty, your offerings untouched. If there is something you desire from us, name it.”
What? Lore finally rose, trying to get a better view of Castor’s face. The new gods were notorious for manifesting physical forms as soon as they possibly could to live their best immortal lives.
“Were my gifts unsatisfactory?” Castor asked.
“They were marvelous,” Acantha said, patiently. “We merely wish to please you. If you grant us the knowledge of your epithet, we will be able to do great deeds in your name.”
At that, Castor seemed to lose some of the sharpness of his demeanor. He leaned back against the chair, as if considering her words. Then, he shifted his gaze back to Philip.
“Come to me, archon of the House of Achilles,” Castor said. “I will honor you by telling you my chosen name first.”
The man seemed somewhat mollified as he approached. Castor allowed him to lean close to him before announcing, loud enough for everyone to hear, “I will be known as Castor.”
Philip finally detonated.
“You must choose a name, as tradition dictates!” he said, throwing off his wife’s steadying grip. “You cannot keep your mortal name!”
Castor had pushed this beyond badgering and into baiting. Even now, his smooth tone and smile only further served to raise the old man’s hackles. “I wish to use it in honor of the mortal mother who named me. Is there some rule I am unaware of, or are you questioning both the quality of the name and my decision?”
Lore released a soft sigh. Are you trying to get yourself killed?
“Of course,” Castor continued, “you may continue to refer to me as my lord or Radiant One. I will even respond to Your Supreme Excellence on occasion.”
Appreciation and exasperation warred inside her. Lore and Castor had both hated Philip for the way he always sneered at them, even before the old man discontinued Castor’s treatments. Lore supposed Castor had over a decade of pent-up anger to work through, though she questioned if belittling the archon and taking shots at his own bloodline was the most productive way to do it.
“Have we displeased you?” Philip asked the new god. “Have we not shown you the proper respect?”
“I am satisfied,” the new god said.
The whole point of this is to stay alive, you idiot, Lore thought.
As if Castor had heard her, he relented, softening his tone again as he said, “With that matter settled, tell me how the House of Achilles fares, and what favor you seek, Archon.”
Philip drew in an audible breath, rolling his shoulders back. “You will be pleased, my lord, to know of recent births in the seven years since your ascension. . . .”
Out of the corner of her eye, Lore caught sight of a late arrival coming up the stairs—Evander. He wove through the crowd, his left hand smoothing the front of his silver silk tunic. His other, wrapped in a black glove, remained still where he held it over his stomach.
Well, Lore thought, shit.
Van was too smart for his own good and missed absolutely nothing. Even a hawk would defer to Van rather than trust his own eyes.
Which meant she really should have left five minutes ago.
Castor saw him as well, quickly meeting the young man’s gaze before turning his attention back to Philip, who stoically continued his report on the marriages, the deaths, their various property holdings, and business ventures.
“Your medicines and vaccinations have been fast-tracked through federal approvals, and we expect the profits will begin in earnest at the start of the next quarter,” Philip continued. “In fact, I believe this to only be the beginning of what we may achieve, if you, in your power, were to increase demand.”
Castor leaned forward, brow creased.
“The favor I ask of you, Radiant One,” Philip said, “is that, when you return to your full immortal form and power, you create a disease that we alone can cure.”
Lore clenched her jaw until it ached to keep her mouth shut.
“We have been blessed by your ability to heal others, but we must push beyond it now and seize a new opportunity. There need not be many deaths,” Philip continued, clearly feeling empowered by the excited din of voices growing around him at the mere thought. “A few thousand would suffice to ensure global demand—”
“No,” Castor said acidly. “It is not in my power to bring disease or sickness, nor would I, if I could. I will do everything in my power to serve this bloodline. But I will not be a master of death, nor of terror.”
Philip reeled back. “My lord—”
“I am sure,” Castor began, with that same sharp tone, “I do not need to remind you why the Agon began and why Zeus would deny Apollo and his successors such power, nor do I need to remind you of the many horrific illnesses that already exist in this world. Perhaps you might even ask me what I have done to help those afflicted with the same disease I suffered in my mortal life, and how you might continue to turn the wheels I have put in place with reasonably priced medication.”
Acantha bowed. “A wise course of action. I will be glad to lead such an effort for you.”
The old gods had been monsters: selfish, vain, and with an unconquerable thirst for violence. Looking around the hall now, taking in the looks of disappointment and anger, Lore saw the promise of something darker.
“Evander, son of Adonis,” Castor said, looking to the dark-skinned young man. “What of the Agon? Have you been able to negotiate for our dead?”
Evander stepped up to the pool, kneeling beside it. Something flickered in Castor’s expression and his lips parted, but Van spoke before he could. “I have the duty to report to you the death of the god Hermes—”
The hunters around him did not let him finish. An uproar rolled through the hall, blistering in its intensity. Lore’s hands fell open at her sides, her fingers numb.
Athena and Artemis were now the last of the original gods. Another, somehow worse thought occurred to her: I have to tell her.
Of course, that number might dwindle further to Artemis if Lore didn’t leave now and find Athena some other help, but this—this was useful information.
“Who claimed the kill?” Philip demanded.
Van had a way about him, an unnerving calm, even in the face of bad news, even now as he said, “The new Ares, who has chosen the name Wrath.”
The din rose again, pulsating with a new, different sort of fury.
“He killed him knowing he would not be able to claim his power?” Philip raged.
“You’re sure of this?” Castor asked.
“My drones recorded the moment of death,” Van said. “There’s more. The Kadmides also took Tidebringer.”
Another gasp rolled through the hall.
“Alive or dead?” Castor asked.
“She was alive, but just barely,” Van said. “My sources are telling me Wrath wanted to get information out of her about something, but she never woke again and he finished the job back at their compound.”
Lore felt . . . not sadness, exactly, just a cold sort of recognition that she was now the last of the House of Perseus. Her ancestors had to be howling in the Underworld.
“What would he have needed to question her about?” Castor asked.
“I’m looking into it,” Van said then added, meaningfully, “but perhaps what we discussed before?”
For a moment, Lore thought they were talking about the new version of the poem. But then she remembered Castor’s quiet warning during their fight.
He’s looking for something, and I don’t know if it’s you.
No—that couldn’t be it. Tidebringer would have no idea where she was, or how he could find her.
“He is trying to intimidate the bloodlines,” Philip declared to the room, reclaiming their attention with his vehemence. “We will not be cowed.”
Van said nothing, but turned a meaningful gaze back toward Castor. “I think he is attempting to do more than that, and we must be on guard. The House of Theseus has formally aligned with the House of Kadmos. They are under Wrath’s command.”
“What?” Philip barked over the growing buzz of voices.
“As you may remember, the House of Theseus lost the majority of their parthénoi during the last Agon after Artemis located their hiding place,” Van said.
Lore’s stomach knotted at the memory. Dozens of little girls, all massacred by the goddess who had once been their patron and protector.
“My spies tell me that, in addition to generous financial compensation,” Van continued, “Wrath has promised them marriages and protection in exchange for their loyalty.”
“Cowards!” someone near Lore shouted.
“Quiet—quiet!” Philip ordered. “They do not have a new god to protect them as we do.”
If she hadn’t been watching Castor for his reaction, Lore might have missed it—the way his face seemed to draw into itself, his eyes squeezing shut. A tremor worked through his jaw as he gripped the arms of his chair.
“My lord,” Van began. “If I may—”
The images on the mirrors jumped, distorting. Lore jumped away from the wall, her heart climbing into her throat.
The hidden speakers that had carried the distant sound of waves now roared with thunderous drumming that jolted the Achillides and sent them scattering around the room.
“What is happening?” Philip called over them. “Someone turn them off!”
The mirrors flashed to black, leaving the light of the firepots to guide them toward the stairs.
As quickly as it had arrived, the drumming cut off. Castor rose then, as if he already knew what was coming.
At the center of each mirror, a spark of red color grew, splashing out across the screens until the room was bathed in it.
“Achillides,” came a deep, rasping voice, all but slithering out of the speakers. “Achillides, hear me.”
THE FEAR THAT SWEPT through Lore seemed to cut her open from the inside. Sweat broke out along her skin, cold as Thanatos’s fingers.
Screams split the air. A few hunters rushed for the entrance, only to collapse to the floor. The others fell like rain, their silk clothing puddling against the ground as they clawed at the columns and one another, trying to stand again. Others struggled to reach for the small blades hidden in the folds of their clothing.
Lore’s own body betrayed her. Her legs felt drained of blood and strength; she hit the polished floor in a surge of renewed fear. Her limbs suddenly felt small and hollow, and she didn’t have the strength to so much as lift her head.
Aristos Kadmou—Wrath.
This was one of his powers. Lore seized on the thought and clung to it, trying to shake the panic before it carried her off. The new Ares could induce the feeling of bloodlust in someone, but he could just as easily steal it by weakening their will and body.
Lore tried to kick her legs out to get them straight beneath her, but they wouldn’t respond. She sucked in a sharp breath through her nose and twisted around, searching for Castor.
He was standing exactly where he had been all along, seemingly unaffected as he watched the rest of the room in horror. When Acantha moaned from the ground, he went to her, trying to draw her back onto her feet. His palms glowed where they held her, but the woman was a doll in his grip.
Concern and fear raged over Castor’s features. Lore heard his thoughts as if he had screamed them. What do I do? What do I do?
Now she understood. Wrath wanted him to watch. To know what was coming.
Then, finally, he spoke.
“Greetings to you, Castor Achilleos, and to your kin,” Wrath said.
“There’s no need for this. We all understand your power,” Castor said sharply. “Tell me what you want.”
Feeling flooded her body again. Lore gasped at the sensation, hearing the hunters around her shouting and struggling upright as his influence lifted.
“I offer you kleos,” Wrath said. “Bend your knee to me, young god. Use your power at my command, and the House of Achilles will not be destroyed. Refuse, and all will die beneath my blade, beginning with you.”
“Idle threats,” Philip hissed, staggering to his feet. “We will match you blow for blow.”
“Will you let the mortal speak for you, young god?” Wrath demanded. “I offer all those willing a place in the world that will come, the one we will create together—a place of power and wealth beyond imagining. The Agon will end, but all those who serve me will be rewarded.”
Lore struggled up from the ground, supporting herself with one of the overturned tables.
Castor gripped the back of the golden throne, his eyes shut again. He forced them open. “The Achillides serve no one.”
“Is that your answer?” Wrath said. “So be it.”
“Shut them off!” Philip shouted. He picked up one of the firepots and threw it at the nearest mirror, smashing it. “Cut the power!”
“Your new god resents you,” Wrath continued, speaking to the hunters now. “He is weak, the weakest of the gods. Unable to manifest a physical form. Unable to tap the depths of his power. I will care for you, and serve you as you serve me. I will revel in your honor, I will share my power and strength. Only I can protect you. Only I can set you free.”
“The House of Achilles will not yield,” Philip said. “You are nothing more than a coward, hiding behind screens. You’ll protect them? You won’t even show the courtesy of returning our dead.”
The hunters stomped their feet in agreement, letting out a ferocious roar of approval.
The screens flickered again, the pulsating crimson replaced with something more horrifying.
A line of severed heads had been left in a trash-strewn gutter, their eyes plucked out and replaced with silver coins. Their jaws had been unhinged, their mouths gaping open in a mockery of the Achillides’ masks.
Philip and several others smashed the remaining mirrors, but it was already too late.
“Come and claim them,” Wrath said, his voice breaking up as the connection was severed. “You will join them soon enough.”
LORE TOOK ADVANTAGE OF the chaos in the aftermath of Wrath’s declaration of war to make her quick escape.
She wove through clusters of Achillides, heading straight for the stairs. She would only have a narrow window of time to slip out before their emergency security measures made that impossible. She had to get back to Athena. She had to find her some other help, from some other place, and tell her what happened.
But Castor . . .
Lore cast a fleeting glance back at the new god, unsurprised to find him surrounded by armed hunters. He looked bone-white as one of them issued low orders and gestured toward the other side of the room.
He could heal her, Lore thought. The conversation earlier had confirmed that he’d inherited t
hat power from Apollo. It would be an easy solution to her most pressing problem.
No. She couldn’t take him with her. Lore knew that, but it didn’t ease the regret that gripped her. Athena would never allow her brother’s killer to live, and there’d be no way to smuggle the new god out of Thetis House without the Achillides coming after them and potentially tracking them back to her home. She couldn’t put any of them—Miles, Castor, or Athena—in more danger than they already were.
Castor would be safer here, with his bloodline. Even with Philip, and even after Wrath’s declaration of war. While Wrath’s message had been dangerous because of the way it portrayed Castor as weak to the Achillides, it had, in a way, also saved the new Apollo. The hunters could always be counted on for their monstrous pride, and none more so than the Achillides. They would never willingly give up their new god, and they would die before subjecting themselves to an outsider’s rule.
Lore stole one last look around, her mind racing.
Don’t let me down, assholes, she thought. Don’t let him die.
Van broke away from where he’d been speaking to Acantha and made for Castor, crossing the room in a few long strides. He passed within inches of Lore, close enough for her to smell the orange and sandalwood of his cologne, and she barely resisted grabbing him.
It had been such a long time since she’d last seen him. They’d been children then, running wild through the city. Where Castor had always been an open book, happy to be read and understood, Van was the journal that remained locked and tucked beneath the mattress, except for the moments he blamed Lore for getting Castor into trouble or leading him into doing something Van deemed dangerous—which, to Van, had been almost everything fun.
And the truth was, Lore’s trust was a rare volume—rarely lent, and never freely. Van’s loyalty to his bloodline would always surpass that of a sort-of-friendship, and Lore would have to find a way out of Thetis House herself, the way she always did.
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