Lore

“Do you think that’s really necessary?” Van asked. “If they do in fact have a spy in our bloodline, they’ll always know our moves before we make them. It is a huge risk.”

“You are not archon of this bloodline, Messenger,” Philip said. “This is my decision.”

Messenger—of course. That was the pin Van wore, a gold wing to indicate his status as the bloodline’s emissary. The role meant little more than spying now, but the Messengers were protected from the killing under an oath between the houses. That way, they could carry messages without fear of death and handle the exchanges of bodies collected by other bloodlines.

“Are you sure this isn’t your rivalry with Aristos Kadmou speaking in place of your reason?” Van didn’t have to raise his voice to give his words an edge.

Lore was shocked that they couldn’t hear her ragged breathing.

“Evander, son of Adonis,” Philip hissed. “Speak to me in such a way again and I won’t merely strip that pin from you, I’ll take your other hand.”

Other hand? Lore leaned forward.

She could see it now—the way the fingers on his right hand were slightly longer and stiffer than the left. He had movement in them and could cup the hand, but any shift was slower and the range more limited. He, like many of the hunters, had lost a part of his body and had replaced it with an advanced prosthetic.

Damn, Lore thought.

It had to have been some kind of sparring accident. Van’s right hand had been his dominant hand, at least as far as she could remember from the few training sessions he’d attended while his parents were conducting business in the city.

While some hunters fought to reenter training to learn new styles of fighting better suited to their changed bodies, and thereby stay in the hunt, most were pushed into a kind of early retirement in a noncombat role, like archivist or healer, by their archon.

Lore had always found that practice infuriating; if someone wanted to fight, if they wanted to strive for kleos, they should be allowed to, no matter the circumstances.

“If we could have a prophecy, my lord,” Philip began again, turning to Castor, “we might be able to anticipate the Kadmides’—”

“How many times do I have to tell you that there won’t be any prophecies?” Castor said. “It is not one of my powers. I feel like I must yet again remind you that while I have some of Apollo’s power, I am not him.”

Lore held her breath as the new god took a few steps in her direction, removing his gold gauntlets and placing them on the small table beside the screen.

Philip steeled himself, but nodded. “Yes, my lord. Of course, we all remain eager to hear the tale of how an innocent boy of twelve bested one of the strongest of the original gods and ascended. Perhaps you might speak to one of the historians of our bloodline—”

“Enough,” Castor said, the word strained. He was now so close that Lore could smell the incense smoke clinging to his skin. For a moment she was sure the new god’s eyes had flicked up to meet hers, but he moved toward the bed. “I would like to rest before we travel.”

“Cas— My lord,” Van began. “Perhaps we might discuss—”

“I said enough,” Castor said, gripping one of the bedposts so hard it cracked. “Summon me when the time comes to leave.”

Philip gripped Van’s shoulder and drew him toward the door. “There are hunters posted outside. Is there anything else I can provide you, my lord?”

“Just your absence,” Castor said, still not turning around.

“Lock the door behind us,” Van reminded him.

Castor nodded, but made no move to do so until they had both left the room and several long moments had passed. He turned, knocking his knee into the trunk at the foot of the bed, and he swore. Lore would have laughed at the sight of a powerful god hopping and grimacing, except that his motions seemed even stiffer than they had before.

He tried to stretch his arms across his broad chest, to roll out his neck. He turned the door’s three dead bolts and pressed a nearby button on the wall. Lore jumped as a metal door slid down to cover it. Locking himself in.

Trapping her in with him.

Chiron growled as Castor tried to approach him, offering his hand the same way Lore had. The dog’s lips pulled back, his snout wrinkling viciously. Castor didn’t pull his fist back until Chiron lunged, snapping at his knuckles.

“You know me,” he whispered. “You do.”

Lore pressed her hand to her mouth again to keep from making a sound. Of course Chiron didn’t remember him. This wasn’t the boy he’d loved so fiercely and protected. This was . . . something else.

There was nothing to be afraid of; he had come to her for help—he had no reason to kill her, even for trespassing in this house. But, still, Lore couldn’t bring herself to move. She felt like one of the statues of old, forever trapped in one pose, eyes eternally open.

The dog’s mouth relaxed and he quieted enough for Castor to try approaching again. As his hand came to hover over the dog’s back, Chiron stood and moved. He curled up on the mountain of pillows, giving the new god a look of deep suspicion.

Castor stared back at him, no traces of warmth or hope left in his expression. Something dark seemed to pass deep within him as he circled the room, his breathing deepening, becoming labored. He stopped now and then, running a hand along the raised damask of the wallpaper, the silk of the sheets and curtains, the curved edges of the flowers carved into the back of a chair.

It was like a silent ritual of some kind, each stroke of his fingers reverent. Lore could just make out his profile and the endless storm of emotions that crossed his face. He muttered something to himself she couldn’t hear.

Finally, he stopped at the center of the room, shuddering. Reaching up, the new god slid the crown from his dark hair and held it between his fingers. There was a quiet snap as he broke it in two and let the pieces fall to the floor.

But there was no sound at all as a hidden panel in the wall behind him swung open and a hunter wearing the mask of the Minotaur stepped silently into the room.

Castor straightened, rising slowly to his full height, and looked back just as the hunter pulled a small gun from inside his robes. For a moment, he did nothing but stare at the hunter. He didn’t move. He didn’t seem to even breathe.

Shit, she thought. Shit, shit—move!