And Wrath, standing at the center of it all, had his hand around Heartkeeper’s throat.
WRATH LOOKED MASSIVE TO Lore, as tall and solid as the stone columns that circled the room. His sense of calm as he stood there, ready to break the neck of another god, was terrifying.
“The informant was wrong about the timing,” Van whispered, stunned. “Or they changed it last minute.”
Lore didn’t realize she was gripping Castor’s hand until he gave it a reassuring squeeze.
“Why is the false Aphrodite still alive?” Athena asked quietly. “Why hasn’t he been killed?”
Heartkeeper’s dark skin was slick with either sweat or blood. His face, which had always been handsome, even before immortality, was now swollen almost beyond recognition. Ivory robes twisted around his legs, both of which were bent at unnatural angles, unable to support him under the influence of Wrath’s power. His mouth had been sealed shut with tape, preventing him from speaking—from using his power of persuasion on the other new god. A crown, one made of pearls and pale blue stones, lay in pieces nearby.
“This does not need to be difficult.” Wrath’s voice crackled through the earpieces they’d stolen from the hunters. “Tell me how to open the vault and I will allow those men who kneel to me to live. I will allow you to serve me in the new age.”
Lore moved, circling around the dome to see the other side of the room. The vault’s massive silver door was sealed shut. It had been designed to withstand almost anything, including bomb blasts.
“I think the poem is in the safe room,” she told them.
Wrath signaled to one of the nearby Kadmides. “Find his mortal child. Perhaps she can provide the necessary pressure.”
Heartkeeper clawed at Wrath’s hands, but it was a feeble effort.
“Where is Iro, daughter of Iolas?” the hunter demanded of the Odysseides gathered under guard. “If she is too cowardly to reveal herself, she does not deserve your protection, nor will you deserve the swift suffering it will bring.”
It was a knife designed to slip through the ribs, to lodge in the heart of their pride. Lore closed her eyes, waiting.
“I am she.”
Lore’s eyes snapped back open. Van shot her a surprised look, but Lore shook her head. That wasn’t Iro’s voice.
“I am her,” came another.
“I am Iro,” said a third.
Wrath turned, dropping Heartkeeper to the ground. The new god could barely lift his head, let alone crawl away. “Kill five of them for every minute she remains hidden. Take them off the bus if you have to.”
“Where is Iro, daughter of Iolas?” the hunter called again, circling the group.
Several struggled against their restraints, but there was no hesitation as one of the prisoners said, his male voice ringing out, “I am Iro.”
He was the first to die. His blood sprayed onto the marble floor and whipped across the resolute faces of the hunters around him.
Wrath bent over Heartkeeper, turning his head to face the killings before pinning it in place with his foot. He leaned forward, applying pressure. “Tell me how to open the vault. The information is not worth the cost of all of these lives. Not worth them remembering you as the sniveling coward who let them die.”
Lore’s mind spun, trying to catch an incomplete memory before it had a chance to slip away. There was something about the vault—something about the construction of the safe room. Lore and Iro had once broken into the archon’s office to look at the documents and plans for the space.
“Please!” a hunter begged as he was dragged forward toward the line of corpses. “Please, no!”
The Kadmides hunters sneered with laughter. The one holding the blade drew it near to the terrified young man’s throat. “Do we have one who wishes to serve his new lord?”
“Yes!” he cried out. The Odysseides around him snarled. “Yes—the girl, Iro. She’s in the vault.”
Castor looked to Lore. She shook her head, her panic swelling.
But there was something. . . .
“Perhaps if her father will not tell us, his daughter might be inclined to,” Wrath said, returning to Heartkeeper’s prone form, only to glance back. “Kill him, too.”
“My—my lord—” the Odysseides’ hunter cried.
His scream blistered Lore’s ear as it burst from the earpiece.
“I’ve never liked rats,” Wrath said simply, and turned before he could see the head severed from the hunter’s neck.
He made his way to the vault, raising his hand to give a mocking little knock on it. “Child. Perhaps you would like to join us? I can’t imagine you would enjoy watching me bleed the life out of your father, nor snuff out the whole of the House of Odysseus. It is a terrible thing to be the last of your bloodline.”
The memory returned to Lore in a flash. Another entrance.
“There’s another entrance to the vault,” Lore said quickly.
“You’re sure?” Castor asked.
She nodded. “I saw it on the plans for the building when I lived with the Odysseides. Iro told me it would help her father escape because safe rooms usually have one entrance, and any enemies wouldn’t be expecting another.”
“Do you remember how to access it?” Van asked her.
Lore hesitated, but nodded. “There’s a tunnel connected to a shop—I think it’s on Thirty-Ninth Street.”
“There may still be a way to kill Wrath and rescue the girl and what knowledge she may possess of the poem. Perhaps even the false god and other Odysseides as well,” Athena said, drawing out the words slowly. “Surprise is our ally, but timing will be our master.”
Lore looked down again, to where Wrath lingered near the vault door.
For four years of Lore’s life, Iro had been the only person she could completely trust and confide in, and Lore had been the only true friend Iro had as her bloodline jockeyed for power and favor from Iro’s newly ascended father. They’d both spoken that secret, quiet language of grief as they lost everyone close to them.
Lore had always idolized Iro—how perfect and calm she seemed in the face of uncertainty when Lore’s own emotions felt too big for her body. Except for that last night, they had always protected each other, and Lore knew Iro’s insistence on training with her had been the only thing standing between Lore and a life as a servant at the Odysseides’ estate.