Lore

“I wasn’t alone when I found her,” Lore said, hearing the way her voice pitched up. “And she offered me something I wanted.”

A moment later, Castor had also figured it out. The color leached out of his tan skin, either from anger, or fear, or both. “You bound your fate to hers? What the hell did she promise you to get you to agree?”

She thought about lying, but it seemed pointless given the danger they were in now. “She promised to kill Wrath.”

They both stared at her, silent.

“Oh,” Van said. “Well, that’s great. Aside from, of course, you dying if she does during a week when that’s the principal goal of almost a thousand people. Otherwise a stellar plan, Melora.”

“I don’t need a lecture,” Lore snapped. “I made a choice, and I’m living with it.”

“I’ll say,” Castor said, the words rippling with frustration. “Show us the way to your house, then.”

“You still want to come?” she asked.

The look he sent her cut Lore to the quick. “Am I supposed to just let you die? You wanted me to heal her, so I’ll heal her.”

She turned stiffly, letting them exchange their looks behind her back. When Lore was sure they weren’t being watched by any hunters on the street, she led them to the town house in silence.

“This is it,” Lore said. “We’ll go in through the basement. It’ll get you off the street and give me time to prepare her.”

There was an extra key hidden behind one of the bricks on the town house’s facade. Lore retrieved it with a soft sigh. “Just stay behind me, all right?”

She ushered both of them into the crowded basement, locking the door behind them. Castor and Van looked around, taking in the stacks of boxes and plastic tubs.

“Is this stuff all yours?” Van asked.

“Are you always this nosy?” Lore groused. “No. And before you ask, I inherited the house from the man I worked as a caretaker for. Gilbert Merrit.”

“You were someone’s caretaker?” Van said in disbelief. “You?”

“Van,” Castor said. “Don’t.”

For once, Lore kept her sharp retort to herself. She turned toward the staircase leading up into the house and called out, “It’s me!”

Castor made as if to follow her. Lore held out an arm, blocking him. Van, at least, had the sense to hang back.

“You need to wait,” she whispered. “Just give me a few minutes to preemptively put out the fire your presence is going to cause.”

Fire was very likely an understatement, given the bloodcurdling glimpse she’d had of the old god’s feelings toward her newer counterparts. She hurried up the stairs, giving Castor one last meaningful look to stay before she opened the door and said, loudly, “I’m coming in.”

It happened so quickly, time split into snapshots. One, Miles and Athena standing near the fireplace of the living room, the television on behind them. Two, Athena reaching back for something leaning against the wall. Three, her face hardening with a snarl and her arm craning back. Four . . .

Something long and thin flew from her hand, whistling as it cut a bold path across the room. Lore jumped right with a startled gasp, but the weapon had never been intended for her.

Castor caught the spear just before it lodged in his heart.

The piece of gum Miles was chewing fell out of his open mouth.

“Is . . . is that my broom?” Lore gasped. The wooden body of the spear was a distinctive green, worn in the places where it was meant to be gripped.

She glanced to Miles, both for confirmation and to ensure that he was all right. His mouth stretched into a pained rictus.

“Yes, it is,” he said between his clenched teeth. “She is very resourceful.”

Heat flared to her right. Castor’s power surged along the makeshift weapon until the wood turned to ash in his hand. His fierce, unblinking gaze never broke away from Athena’s.

“That was my broom,” Lore said mournfully.

“Godkiller!” The room vibrated with the thunderous word. Athena reached behind her once more, feeling for another crudely formed spear.

Lore stepped back between the two gods, holding her hands out. “Stop—stop it!”

“You dare to bring this . . . this abomination here, into this sanctuary?” Athena growled.

“Well, it’s my sanctuary, so yes,” Lore said. “Listen—”

“This was not part of our agreement, Melora.” Athena did not need to shout to drive her words home like an ax to the skull. “You swore your allegiance to me.”

“He’s here to heal you,” Lore said, trying a different tactic. “He’s going to help us. It’s a strategy. I thought you’d like that.”

“Unless you have brought him here for me to kill, I see no strategy,” Athena snarled. “I heard, pretender, that even with Apollo’s power you could not manifest a corporeal form. That you wasted the last pathetic years you have been granted dithering about like a lost yearling.”

It was only when Miles looked back and forth between them, visibly anxious, that Lore realized they’d all been speaking in the ancient tongue.

“Well, I’ve never turned a skilled artisan into an arachnid, thrown an infant off a mountain, or cursed anyone into a lifetime of having their liver pecked out by an eagle,” Castor said, “so I suppose I do still have a few things to learn about being a god.”

Athena wasn’t at her most terrifying when her skin was flushed with fury, or she was snarling deadly promises. It was in moments like this one, when her eyes cooled and her body went still with a predator’s confidence that nothing would escape it. Castor’s hand landed on Lore’s shoulder, as if to gently move her aside.

She pushed it away, and spoke in English, enunciating each word. “Enough. We don’t have time for this.”

Lore approached Athena slowly, eyeing the spear that, it seemed, had previously enjoyed a short life as her mop. “I need to tell you what happened. We need his help.”

“I do not need his aid,” Athena groused. “The others—”

Lore pulled the one card that would matter most to the goddess, and laid it down without a single word to soften it. “Hermes is dead. Wrath killed him during the Awakening.”