Castor spun around, his expression wild with pain and anger. “You would know something about that, wouldn’t you?”
Athena rose to her full height, meeting him eye-to-eye. Lore bit back a noise of frustration.
“You two are going to have plenty of time for blood and thunder and staring contests when you’re both happily immortal again,” Lore said. She turned to Athena. “Those were hunters that would have followed Castor and helped us. Now we’re going to have to deal with a bigger circle of protection around Wrath and more hunters on the street searching for you.”
“I will never cower before an imposter’s blade, nor will I retreat from a binding oath. I tell you now, as I have before, the Ares pretender will die by my hand. I do not require any assistance.”
“Yes, you do,” Lore said. “Take it from a mortal who’s had her fair share of injuries. All I did was stop the bleeding. If you agree to this alliance, he’ll heal you and restore your strength. You won’t need to waste days resting.”
“Perhaps I shall let the false Ares do the work of eliminating my rivals for me,” Athena said, “before taking his life and finishing this hunt once and for all.”
Lore wasn’t a fool; she knew that any partnership between the gods would only last until the end of this Agon, and that eventually Athena and Castor would stand between each other and full release from the hunt. This was just delaying the inevitable, especially if the new version of the poem existed and confirmed the victor would be the last god standing.
“You won’t,” Lore said to Athena meaningfully. “Because you wouldn’t make it to the end of this cycle.”
The others fell silent at her words. Athena lifted her chin, but her gaze was one of approval.
“I won’t swear a binding oath to you,” Castor said, finally. “But as your life is tied to Lore’s, I cannot—and will not—allow you to die.”
Athena nodded. A cold prickle crossed the back of Lore’s neck as the goddess studied Castor.
“The imposter will heal me,” Athena said at last, taking a seat in the middle of Gil’s velvet settee. The goddess raised the hem of the shirt Lore had given her, revealing the angry wound. “And we shall begin to plan in earnest.”
Castor gave a sarcastic bow. “But of course.”
The others took their seats around the living room, Van in one of the chairs, and Miles and Lore on the ground beside the glass coffee table.
Castor brought a hand to the goddess’s wound. Light flowed out from his fingertips; not the crackling, fiery energy of the blasts he’d thrown, but a soft, pulsating glow.
Athena hissed in a breath as the light sank deep into the red, puckered skin. She turned to meet Lore’s gaze.
“Were you able to learn more of the poem the false Ares searches for?” she asked.
“Nothing particularly useful. But as Van pointed out, if anyone has a record of a different version of the poem it would be the Odysseides,” Lore explained. She rolled her shoulders back to ease the tension building in them.
“I see,” Athena began, hissing again as Castor shifted his hand. “I suppose the false Ares will know this as well?”
“Definitely, just like he knows they have the new Aphrodite,” Lore said. “I’d bet anything they’re Wrath’s next target. The only question is when.”
“Tonight,” Van said.
“Tonight?” Lore repeated. “How can you be so sure?”
“Deductive reasoning,” Van said quickly—too quickly. “The House of Kadmos won’t want to risk another daylight attack that could draw unwanted media attention.”
“Your reasoning is flawed. If they were willing to strike the Achillides in the waking hours, they will not hesitate to do the same to the Odysseus bloodline,” Athena said. “Did any city guardians respond to the assault on your bloodline?”
“That is weird,” Lore said, glancing at Castor. “I would have expected, at the very least, someone would have called in about hearing your blast, even if they didn’t see it.”
He made a soft noise of agreement, but was still focused on his task.
“It’s not weird at all,” Van said. “All the bloodlines pay off different members of the city and emergency services to look the other way. It’s possible Wrath and the Kadmides are in deeper than the rest of us.”
Miles blinked. “That’s . . . horrifying, though I guess not totally unexpected.”
“Then they would not fear being seen by those outside of the Agon,” Athena said to Van. “Tell me, then, how you speak with such certainty that the House of Kadmos will attack this evening. Your ‘sources,’ I presume?”
Van’s armor of self-possession and composure had always seemed unassailable to Lore. But from the moment he had walked through the door and laid eyes on the god, she’d sensed the nerves firing deep beneath his skin. Even now, as he remained silent, Lore saw him shift under the force of Athena’s probing gaze.
“I detest half-truths and shadows,” the goddess warned him.
Castor sat back, his work finally done. He looked to Van. “Tell them.”
Van’s nostrils flared as he drew in his next breath. “One source, yes. After years of trying, I managed to develop an asset in the Kadmides—an elder. When I spoke to him an hour ago, he confirmed the reports about Tidebringer’s death, and that they would move against the Odysseides tonight. The final timing still hadn’t been decided, but he believed it would be closer to midnight.”
“An elder?” Lore said, surprised. Those men tended to be the most loyal to their bloodline, because they reaped the bulk of its many rewards. “Why would he help you?”
His smile was unfeeling. “Because I learned something about him, and he would die before revealing it to his bloodline. Because I always get what I want in the end.”
“Hm.” Athena did not seem impressed.
Castor stood, crossing the room to sit in the other armchair.
“You’re welcome,” he muttered.
The goddess ignored him, focusing on Lore again. “It seems we will have a true opportunity to kill the false Ares tonight, and perhaps even collect information on the poem ourselves.”
Lore pressed her lips together at the mention of the poem, hoping her face didn’t betray her thoughts. Neither Athena nor Wrath would be learning anything about the poem if she could help it.
“And even if he doesn’t show up to kill the new Aphrodite himself,” she said, “the Kadmides would have to bring the new god back to wherever he’s hiding. We could follow them.”
The settee creaked as Athena leaned back against it. “Indeed.”
She felt Castor’s gaze on her, but Lore refused to look—to see the concern or worry she knew she’d find there. “Sounds like a plan to me.”
“Really? I didn’t hear a plan in that,” Castor said. “We don’t know where the Odysseides are—their New York base has never been identified. And even putting that aside, we’re going to have Wrath, his combined force of hunters, and the Odysseides trying to kill us.” Before Lore could protest, he added, “And yes, I mean us, because I’m not going to be left behind.”
“It is a simple matter of asking the Odysseides and their false god for a truce of a few hours,” Athena said. “Surely one of you has ties to the bloodline and could approach them?”
“Don’t you have a friend in the Odysseides?” Castor asked Lore. “Iro? I remember you talking about meeting her. . . .”
Lore wanted to fade into the air when both Castor and Van turned to her. She might be able to get through to Iro, if they could find her. . . .
No.
Their mothers had been the best of friends, training partners who had become like sisters, and it was only at Iro’s mother’s insistence that Lore came to live with them after her family was murdered. Came to be hidden by them, really.
In those four years she had lived with the Odysseides, Lore and Iro had gone from strangers who had met once to becoming as close as their mothers had been.
Whatever Iro
felt about her now, Lore knew that Iro would feel duty-bound to kill her for what Lore had done the night she’d fled their estate.
“I think I know where the Odysseides are,” Lore told them finally. “But I can’t approach them. They’d kill me before I got over the threshold.”
“What?” Miles said. “Why?”
She didn’t regret what she’d done, but she also didn’t feel like she needed to share it with an audience. “Family problems.”
Athena tilted her head, deepening her resemblance to a raptor. “Would the death be justified?”
“In their eyes? Yes,” Lore said. “It’s not like the old way, when you could compensate them or exile yourself.”
“Are you not exiled now?” Athena asked. “Is that not enough to satisfy their anger?”
The ancient law had been focused on anger—the anger of the wronged, and the need to answer to it. Anger was like a disease to the soul, and no aspect of it was more contagious than violence. If it could be avoided, it would end a vicious cycle before it began. But this was a vicious society.
“I don’t know,” Lore said. “I wasn’t planning on ever finding out.”
“So you were with them,” Van said. By the way he was looking at her now, Lore knew that he had a good idea about what she had done, even before he said. “The new Aphrodite, Heartkeeper—”
“Heartkeeper?” Lore repeated, making a face. “Is it just me or are these names getting stupider?”
“If Lore can’t approach them,” Castor said, “a Messenger might be able to.”
Van shook his head. “The asset in the Kadmides wants to meet again tonight. I can’t be in both places at once.”
“I can do it,” Miles said. “The asset meet, I mean.”
“Wait—no,” Lore said. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“It’s a terrible idea, actually,” Van said. “It’s not just a meet. I have to retrieve one of my go-bags for the cash.”
“So? Tell me where it is and where to meet him,” Miles said.
Van said nothing.
“What, is there some elaborate handshake I need to learn?” Miles asked. “Does he not speak English?”
Lore sighed, pressing a hand to her face. “Miles . . .”
“Let me do something,” Miles said. “I can’t fight, but I know this city and how to get around it.”
“No,” Van said firmly.
“You claim to be a disciple of logic,” Athena said. “Surely you see that this is the best course. He is unknown to your kind and familiar with the city. The task itself does not require unique skill so much as discretion.”
“Exactly!” Miles said. “I’ll go straight there and come straight back.”
“And what if the asset tries to kill you and take the money?” Van asked.
“You’ve still got the dirt on him,” Miles shot back, more than willing to meet Van’s cold gaze. “He’s not going to do anything that risks you releasing it in retaliation.”
“Miles does have a point . . .” Castor began.
“I was planning on linking up with the twenty-seven Achillides after,” Van told him. “And trying to find them a place to shelter. All of our safe houses and properties are compromised, along with most of our vaults and stockpiles—”
“I know a place they can use,” Miles cut in. “That is, if you can find it in yourself to accept help from a mere Unblooded.”
Van said nothing, and his face betrayed little more.
“Where is it?” Castor asked.
“An abandoned warehouse,” Miles said. “In Brooklyn. I sat in on a meeting about it at my internship. The building’s been empty for over a decade because of a dispute between the city and its developers.”
“That’ll work,” Castor said. “Thank you.”
Miles smiled. “It’ll at least give them a chance to regroup. What’s the best way to get them the address?”
“Van?” Castor prompted.
The other young man sat stiff-backed, gaze fixed on the light seeping through the bay window’s pale curtains. “I can text them the address.”
Lore sighed. “Are you really up for this, Miles?”
“I am,” Miles said.
“You have to promise to bail if something—anything—seems strange about it,” Lore said.
“Everything is strange about your world,” he reminded her. “But I’ll be careful.”
“Fine,” Van said, rising.
“Fine,” Miles said, doing the same.
“That’s our plan, then,” Lore told them.
“We still don’t know where to find the Odysseides,” Castor reminded her, bracing his hands on his knees.
“I do,” Lore said. “Or I can at least make an educated guess.” She glanced at the grandfather clock. “I’m going to take a shower and close my eyes for a few minutes, so I’m not completely dead on my feet. Let’s aim to leave no later than five, before sunset.”
“Do I have to wait that long?” Miles asked.
“Are you really in that big of a hurry to get yourself killed?” Van said. He picked up his phone. “I’m just going to tell the asset to change the meet to tomorrow—”
“No,” Miles said. “Discussion over. Lore is going to lead everyone to where the Odysseides are, so that you can approach them about a truce to trap Wrath and get information about the poem. Castor is going to play defense against Wrath. Athena is going to play offense. And I’m going to do this meet and get whatever information the asset has because you have no other option.”
All of that depended, of course, on the occupants of Lore’s house not killing one another first.
Van’s lips parted and he stared at Miles, just a moment more, before he busied himself with his phone.
“When did we decide I’m defense?” Castor asked at the same time Athena said, “There shall be no play in my offensive—”
Lore left the others and went upstairs, shutting the door to her bedroom behind her. She set an alarm and crawled into bed.
She lay atop the covers, listening as the sound of the voices below faded to a dull murmur. After a few moments more, her heavy eyelids slid shut.
Iro’s face appeared there, emerging from the darkness of her memory. That last glimpse Lore had had of her, smiling in encouragement.
Oblivious to the monster in their midst.
LORE WOKE TO THE frantic beep of her phone’s alarm, lurching out of a heavy, dreamless black. She squinted at the time on the phone—a quarter past four o’clock in the afternoon—and immediately regretted having ever slept. Her muscles felt stiff over her bones, and no amount of stretching helped.
After changing into a clean pair of jeans and a black T-shirt, Lore stepped out into the hallway, listening for the voices of the others. But the town house was silent.
One last moment of peace, she thought, taking a steadying breath.
Even if things went right for them with Heartkeeper, nothing would ever be the same for Lore. Once the Odysseides knew she was alive, there would be no respite for her. After tonight, she might not be able to stay in the city, let alone the town house. There would be no safe place for her here.
Lore took one last look around, gripping the smooth banister. She was about to continue down the stairs when a movement in Gil’s master bedroom caught her eye.
Van stood studying something on Gil’s dresser—an old silver figurine of a tortoise that Gil had cherished despite its objective hideousness.
Lore didn’t remember crossing the distance between them, only that she was suddenly there, pulling it from his fingers. “That’s not yours.”
With care, she returned it to its rightful spot beside an old wooden box and a photo of her, Gil, and Miles taken shortly after Gil had offered Miles the empty third-floor bedroom after striking up a conversation with him at a coffee shop. Gil and Miles had been cut from the same fun-loving, all-too-trusting cloth, and despite her early suspicions, their game nights and endless teasing over dinner had made the
house feel warm and safe in a way Lore wasn’t sure she’d ever experienced.
Lore looked around the room. Before Gil had died, she’d come in here hundreds of times, whether to harass him to take his medicine, to help him get in and out of bed on the days when age robbed his body of strength, or just to bring up tea or a board game to distract herself from the shadows of her own mind. He called her “darling,” a word Lore was fairly certain no one else, not even her parents, would have used to describe her.
Though Lore had never met either of her grandfathers—they had both died years before she was born—she had loved the idea of them, the fantasy she had created using her parents’ stories. But she had loved the real Gil, as exasperating and obstinate as he could be. She had only meant to stay with him for a few months, until his broken leg and arm had healed and she’d saved enough money to start over, but like the city itself, she couldn’t bring herself to leave him. He had been gentle, brilliant, and had the unfailing ability to make her laugh. He had pierced through all her defenses.
And now, to her shame, the space felt dark and stale. His collection of canes, each with a different carved animal head, hadn’t even made it into the closet with the rest of his things, and his shelves of academic books were coated in a thick layer of dust. As much as she’d tried to keep the brownstone exactly as Gil had left it, she hadn’t been able to bring herself to step inside his room in months.
“This house isn’t what I would have imagined for you,” he said. “The style is very . . .”
“I would recommend not finishing that sentence,” Lore said.
“I was going to say grand,” he said, gesturing to the ornate dark oak furniture set around him, all inlaid with bone and finely carved flowers and vines. “How in the world did you end up working for him?”
Lore turned, her jaw set and her heart hammering. “Figure it out, if you want to know so badly.”
His voice caught her in the doorway. “I was always jealous of you, you know.”
Lore froze. “You were jealous of me?” she said, turning back toward Van. “Was it the poverty, the endless cycle of ostracism and humiliation, or the ongoing threat of extinction you coveted?”
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