Lore

Lore looked down at her feet, at the old tile beneath them, and tried to hide her embarrassment. Gil used to tell her stories about his life as a professor, the antics of his former students, or his extensive world travels in low, soothing tones until she came back to herself. They would drink tea and talk, as much as Lore was able to.

But she didn’t want to talk about it now. Castor, at least, seemed to sense that.

“It’s easy to be overcome with exasperation when dealing with immortals,” he said simply.

“Tell me about it,” she said when she trusted her voice to be steady. “You’re all more trouble than you’re worth.”

“Absolutely,” he agreed.

“That was a terrible joke, by the way.”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ve got seven years’ worth saved up.”

“Is that a threat?” she asked.

The air warmed around her. That was the only reason her skin heated with the smile he sent her way.

There was a sharp knock on the door. “Honey? There’s someone here asking after a girl that sounds a lot like you. He’s tall, Black, looks like he stepped out of a cologne ad—”

Lore and Castor exchanged a surprised look. Van had moved fast.

“Can you send him back?” Lore asked. “Sorry. I promise we’ll be out of your hair soon.”

“You want something to eat before you go?” Mel asked. “Something to take with you?”

“Pancakes?” Castor asked, before Lore could stop him. She gave him a look, but he stared back at her, shameless.

“No problem,” Mel said.

The new god took his turn at the sink, splashing water over his face and arms. Lore opened the bathroom door a crack and shut it again when she saw that it was, in fact, Van coming toward them. He was dressed in jeans and a nice linen shirt, the sleeves rolled up. For a moment, she wondered how he had made it all the way uptown without a wrinkle or sweat stain.

Van ducked inside the bathroom, relief breaking over his features.

“What happened?” Castor asked. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Van told him, though he looked uneasy. “I got out. So did some of the others. I’m waiting to hear back about our hunters that went to look for the bodies.” He handed Castor the plastic shopping bag he’d been clutching. “Here, for you to change.”

Castor pulled out a pair of tennis shoes, basketball shorts, and an athletic shirt. “Nike? Really?”

“You’re not exactly easy to shop for,” Van told him, gesturing to Castor’s size. “It was the only thing I knew would fit. Besides, we could use a little victory on our side.”

“Were you able to get in contact with the Odysseides?” Lore asked.

Van shook his head. “Not yet.”

“Pass me your old clothes when you’re done with them,” Lore said to Castor as she opened the bathroom door and stepped out.

“Why?” Van asked sharply. “What are you going to do with them?”

“Van,” Castor said, forever the peacemaker between the two of them. “It’s all right.”

“I’m getting rid of them in a way that’ll confuse the hunters and their tracking dogs,” Lore told him. “Is that answer good enough for you?”

She didn’t bother to make sure that it was. As promised, Castor passed her the old set when he had changed.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” she told them. “Don’t leave.”

Lore tore the warm, blood-stained fabric into smaller strips and distributed them into trash cans, sofas left out on the curb, in bus stops, and down in the subway, making as wide of a circle around her neighborhood as she dared. By the time she returned, Castor and Van were in the back hallway of the diner; the Messenger was pacing, the new god savoring each bite of pancake he put in his mouth.

“Finally!” Van said.

“Let’s go,” she said, then, calling to the front of the restaurant, added, “Thanks, Mel! I owe you!”

“Where are we going?” Van asked as soon as they stepped back out into the street.

Lore forced herself to stop. This wasn’t a conversation for out in the open. “We’re going to my house. But you’re going to have to listen to me very carefully and do exactly what I say when we get there.”

“Why?” Van asked. “Because if we break your rules, you’ll kick us out?”

“No,” Lore said evenly, “because, if you don’t, the god who’s already in the house is going to kill you both.”

Castor choked on his food, pounding a fist to his chest.

“Surely, I just misheard you . . .” Van began. “Surely.”

“Now do you see why I didn’t think it was a great idea for Cas to come with me?” she asked.

“Who—” Van began. His eyes widened as he answered his own question. “No. I can’t believe this. She’s never sought out a mortal’s help before. . . .”

“She’s never needed a mortal’s help before,” Castor said, tossing the rest of his meal into the dumpster. “What happened?”

“Wrath came after her and Artemis,” Lore said, keeping her voice low. “And Artemis decided to slow her down the best way she knew how. Blade to the gut.”

“Damn,” Van said, in mild appreciation.

“I found her on my doorstep,” Lore continued. “Apparently she’d kept track of me over the years and took a gamble on whether or not I’d want her dead.”

Van opened his mouth to speak again. Closed it. Gave himself a moment to think.

“I came to find you because I thought you’d finished your healer’s training,” Lore told Castor. “I stopped the blood loss, but she’s in bad shape.”

“And why do you care?” Castor asked. “She’s a snake. Let her die, if she hasn’t already.”

Lore glanced down. “She’s still alive. I’m positive.”

Van did not miss that, either.

“You didn’t,” he began slowly. “Tell me you weren’t that stupid.”

“What else was I supposed to do?” Lore demanded.

“Let her die?” Van suggested. “Smile in satisfaction at knowing a hunter wouldn’t claim her power?”