“Are you a complete idiot,” Lore asked seriously, “or has the smoke gone to your head?”

“Charming as always, Melora,” Van said. “Dare I ask what you’re even doing here? You wouldn’t help him before.”

“I came for the food,” Lore said. “You?”

But even then, her mind was screaming at her to go.

You need to leave before he and his serpents get here, she thought, a cold fear slipping through her. You have to get back to Athena. You have to tell her about Hermes and Artemis and Tidebringer and Wrath. . . .

Van turned a cool, assessing look on her now. Lore fought the urge to duck away from that close scrutiny or demand to know whatever it was he was looking for. That look, and that stillness, even as a kid, had always made her feel loud, dirty, and simple.

“She came to find out if we knew anything about another version of the origin poem, one that might explain how to win the Agon,” Castor told him. “Someone warned her that’s what Wrath is looking for.”

“Who told you that?” Van asked.

“That’s my business,” Lore said.

“You haven’t heard anything about it?” Castor pressed him. Lore felt a strange sort of guilt that, even now, he was still trying to help her, to put her needs first, the way he always had.

Van shook his head. “No . . . if—and I mean if—it exists, it could be something the Odysseides know about. They have the most in-depth archives of all the families. I’ll talk to my source there, but you need to go, Cas. Immediately.”

Shit, Lore thought. She should have thought of the Odysseides’ archive—then again, she generally made a point to avoid thinking about the House of Odysseus at all.

“I have a duty to help this bloodline,” Castor insisted. “I still have some sense of honor, apparently.”

“Your honor would be adorable if it weren’t so stupid,” Lore told him. “Is self-preservation the first thing that gets stripped from you when you lose your humanity, or is it common sense? This city hasn’t changed that much since you left it. You know it better than most of the hunters out there. The safer thing is to go into hiding and wait out the next five nights, or see if you can get to one of the outer boroughs. It’s not ideal, but at least you wouldn’t have to constantly defend yourself on two fronts. The absolute last thing you need to do is stay here and die for people who—”

“Exactly,” Van said coming to stand beside her. “Which is why you’re going with Melora.”

It took Lore a moment to process this. “Wait—what? No. He can’t come with me.”

“I’m not going,” Castor said.

“It has to be you,” Van insisted, ignoring him.

Lore was disgusted. “Still sitting out whatever fight you can, I see.”

“You know that’s not true,” Castor told her sharply.

Lore grew heated, and forced herself to take a breath. It had always been this way—even as kids, Castor would try to pull her back from any edge, regardless of whether or not it had something to do with Van. The difference was, now she was more than capable of deciding when to jump. “If I wanted a moral compass, I would have stopped at a store on the way here.”

She couldn’t explain it all to them—she couldn’t tell them about the deal she’d made and manage their outrage, and she sure as hell couldn’t bring more trouble home.

Van raised his gloved hand and tilted his head, studying her in a way Lore hated. She had to resist squirming as he said, “The real issue here is that you don’t believe that you can protect him, isn’t it? I never took you for a coward, Melora.”

“Oh, go to the crows, Evander,” she said. “I have enough problems as it is.”

Lore knew he was baiting her. Knew that her temper was quick and her regrets after the fact long, but there was something about that word, coward. It wasn’t that he’d thrown it at her like a knife; it was already inside her like a painful infestation. At the sound of its name, it began to claw its way out.

May all cowards be devoured by their shame, her mother used to say.

“Will the two of you listen to me?” Castor said. “I can’t leave. I refuse to turn the old man’s words into prophecy. My bloodline has considered me a failure from the day I was born. I’m not about to prove them right.”

Lore turned to him, startled by the vehemence in those words. Even Van looked slightly taken aback.

“Cas—” she began.

Brakes screeched outside, the sound followed by revving engines and shouts from the lower levels of Thetis House.

Lore’s hands curled at her sides, her head warring with her gut. Castor’s stubbornness was bound to get him killed if she left him here. There had to be a way to make Athena see reason. And if not, well, Lore had the entire way home to think of a backup plan.

“Leave, Cas,” Van said.

Castor shook his head, pained. “I can’t.”

“You have to,” Van said. It was the smug tone of someone who knew they’d already won the fight. “You may be willing to give up your life, but I know you’re not willing to risk hers.”

Van nodded toward Lore. Her lips parted in protest, but Castor drew in a sharp breath and closed his eyes.

“Van—” he started.

But the Messenger had already found the right place to slip the blade in. “She won’t leave you here now, knowing they’re coming to kill you. Are you going to risk them finding her?”

Lore and Van exchanged another look; she read his perfectly. I’m entrusting him to you.

She groaned. “If you’re coming with me, we’re leaving right now.” Lore looped her arm through Castor’s and pulled him toward the hole he’d blasted in the wall. “I don’t know how the hell I’m going to get you across the city without leaving a trail—”

“Take a cab,” Van said. “Pay in cash.”

Lore blinked. “For the record, I would have thought of that eventually.”

Van turned back to the new god. Castor had angled his body toward the door and the screech of clashing metal blades. Footsteps pounded up the stairs.

“What about you?” Lore demanded.

“Come with us,” Castor pleaded.

“Not until I learn whatever I can,” Van said. “I’ll ask about the poem. Where can I find you when it’s over?”