Lore

Philip Achilleos had gone silver-haired, and his permanent scowl only deepened with age. His scars seemed more pronounced than ever on his pale face, and while the old goat was still barrel-chested, the body beneath his deep sapphire robe had clearly thinned as he’d left the prime of his life.

His wife, Acantha, trailed behind him, poised and perfectly coifed. She had always been the better hunter of the two—practically legendary by the end of her first Agon cycle. But her marriage, and the temporary alliance it had brought to the Houses of Achilles and Theseus, had clipped her wings.

“Patér,” the woman in violet began, bowing to Philip. “May I present—”

He circled the girls with a look of disgust. One of them risked a glance up at him. The back of his hand whipped against her temple.

Rage swelled in Lore. She took a step toward them, but stopped as the girl straightened again, her face carefully impassive as she lifted her chin.

You have to find Castor, Lore reminded herself. Don’t give yourself away so easily.

But the girls . . . these children . . . She couldn’t stand it. Being back inside Thetis House had been momentarily disarming, but now Lore remembered her hatred—for the hunters, for this life. It shot through her like a bolt of lightning.

The sight of the girl bowing before that pig with respect he didn’t deserve, in the hope of nothing so much as pleasing him, made her want to scream.

Philip didn’t care about these children, just as he hadn’t cared about Castor. The fact that the archon had personally denied Castor’s father the funds to continue the boy’s medical treatment was enough for Lore to hate him in this life, and for all eternity.

“These are the best you could do?” he hissed to the woman in violet. “I told you to select beautiful girls. Where did you find these, crawling in the subway tunnels with the other rats?”

“Patér?” the woman said, her voice smaller now.

“Perhaps,” Acantha said, placing a soothing hand on her husband’s arm. She shared a covert glance with the woman, tilting her head until the string of diamonds dangling from her ears glowed with candlelight. “Perhaps, Patér, the sight of them would be less offensive to your gaze if she were to paint them gold?”

Philip Achilleos let out a low growl before barking out, “So be it. Remember, it is not my disappointment alone you should fear.”

“Yes, Patér,” the woman said, hurrying the girls to her. “Yes, of course. They will be ready in time for the ceremony.”

Ceremony, Lore noted. Not just a celebration.

Philip turned, catching sight of her and the other hunter at the end of the hall. “Why are you standing there like idle fools in need of whipping?”

Neither Lore nor the other hunter needed more encouragement to flee down the stairs.

Lore let the man fill the short conversation and kept her head down, counting the stairs as they passed beneath her feet. The smell of incense and cypress oil was enough to make Lore’s head feel unnaturally heavy and her body feel drunk.

The training facility, the only open floor in the building, had been converted to host the ceremony. The entrance was draped in white silk thick enough to mask the room behind it. Two hunters in full ceremonial robes, their helms and bodies brightly painted, guarded the door.

Lore let the other hunter approach first, then she reached for the extended arm of the other guard, gripping his forearm with two fingers extended, the way Castor had reluctantly taught her years ago, when she’d won yet another bet. The guard returned the gesture.

“Welcome, sister,” he whispered, then stood aside.

Lore nodded, then slid the bronze mask over her face, feeling better about it once she saw some of the other hunters had done the same. She hadn’t wanted to stick out as the only one wearing hers, but the greater risk was someone recognizing her.

It might have been seven years since she had last set foot in here, but her looks hadn’t changed that much with age, and anyone who had known Lore’s mother would see her now in Lore’s face. She had the same unruly, thick hair, her warm olive complexion, and hazel eyes.

But . . . maybe not. Her mother was dead, and while grudges could feed themselves over centuries, memories faded at the pace of years. There was no one here who cared to remember Helena Perseous.

No one but her own daughter.

Lore swept the silk curtain to the side, only to be brought up short. It took her a moment to realize what she was looking at.

A temple. She was standing inside a temple.

As Lore took another step forward, the illusion became clear. Ghostly holographic images were being projected onto the seamless mirrors that covered the walls and ceiling. Columns, real and false, rose toward the digital image of a vaulted ceiling, one decorated with bold colors and seemingly gilded with gold and silver.

Even knowing it was all a lie, a thrill rose in her—one she didn’t want to examine too closely.

Lore turned to find that holographic columns at the entrance looked out onto the daylight scene of a wild, rocky seascape. The room’s shadows deepened the farther she moved from it. It gave the space the feeling of a dream slipping into a nightmare.

Rows of firepots led straight toward an altar of some kind; they illuminated the decorative tile that had been laid over the battered wood floor Lore and hundreds of others had bled on, scuffed, and scratched.

“What the hell?” she whispered, unable to stop herself.

A pool scattered with floating candles and flowers stretched out before the altar. Between them was an imposing chair—a throne, really, with a delicate sun carved into its back. It looked to be cast out of gold or covered in gold leaf.

Given what she’d already seen, Lore had a feeling it might be the former.

The men and women around her swayed to the gentle plucking of a lyre, others swirled around the room armed with wine and gossip in place of blades. Long tables covered with bone-white cloth covered the right side of the room. The Achillides had brought out their most cherished ceremonial bowls and wares, and all overflowed with a vivid assortment of fresh fruits. Beside it were silver platters of thin-shaved meat and fish, cheese, pastries, and heaps of stuffed olives.

With a quick look around to make sure no one was eyeing her, Lore stole a goblet of wine, downed it, and then began to assess the feast laid out in front of her. She needed to find Castor as soon as possible, but her last meal had been hours ago, and she wouldn’t ignore the sharp ache in her stomach if she didn’t have to.