Lore

Or more like a hunter.

She quickly washed her face, dampening her brush to work through the tangle of her wavy hair before braiding it back. It took a few minutes to clean and disinfect the cuts on her arm, and to wrap the deeper ones with bandages. Knowing the towels she’d used were beyond help, she threw them away and set about wetting new ones to tend to Castor.

Her room smelled of the rancid smoke that radiated off both of them. She stood there a moment, looking down at Castor, at the way his big body overwhelmed the bedframe. Despite the bold lines of his face and his square jaw, he seemed almost boyish to her then. Vulnerable.

Lore brought one of the washcloths to his arms and legs. The cuts there were already healing thanks to his power, but he was covered in grime. She worked slowly, methodically, letting her thoughts unwind and slip away so

she wouldn’t have to face them. Feet. Legs. Hands. Arms.

She had done this countless times at Thetis House after sparring, when it had been nothing more than taking care of her friend and hetaîros. But as she moved to clean his neck and face, Lore felt suddenly untethered at the realization that it wasn’t the same as it had been back then.

Her hand shook as she drew the cloth over and around his lips, struggling with the flush of heat that wound through her. She was angry at herself for kissing him—for crossing a line, for upsetting him, for changing everything.

“Don’t hate me,” she whispered. “Please don’t hate me. . . .”

When she’d finished, and Castor looked like himself again, Lore slumped down beside the bed, leaning back and drawing her knees to her chest. She let her head fall against the mattress and closed her eyes. Athena’s voice found her there, echoing a warning.

They will not understand what must be done now.

When Lore opened her eyes again, the light in the room had changed, deepening to the violet of early evening.

She was disoriented for a moment, trying to remember how she had gotten there and why her body was so stiff. There was a warm weight resting lightly on her shoulder. Castor’s hand had slipped down from the bed, as if needing reassurance, even locked in a deep sleep, that she was still there.

Lore gripped it, pressing it against her forehead as she tried to clear the lingering sleep from her mind.

Her thumb stroked along his knuckles, and she felt—she wasn’t sure what she felt. Before, she’d been so convinced the feelings moving through her, an almost painful fusion of tenderness and longing and protectiveness, had been different from what had existed between them as children. But were they really? Or had absence and time simply drawn them out in a way she could finally understand?

She had had her family. Her bloodline. Her name. Lore had borne the weight of those responsibilities from the moment she first learned the word Agon. Castor, though—Castor had always been different. It felt as if he had been given to her by the gods, and she to him.

And now I’ll lose him to the same gods, she thought, her throat tight. Whether he died or won the Agon, the outcome would be no different. He would never be with her like this again. She would never feel the pulse at his wrist, or press her ear to his heart and hear it echo her own.

Her grip on him tightened. Castor let out a soft, reassuring noise in his sleep, and she thought her heart might shatter as he turned to her, lashes dark against his cheeks. Lore forced herself to stand then, to gently drape his arm to rest against his chest, because the only other option was to give in to the need to sob like a child and beg the gods for a mercy she knew she didn’t deserve.

Quietly, Lore gathered clean clothes and changed in the bathroom. There, she heard the front door open and shut and Miles’s faint voice call out, “Hello?”

She started down the stairs, eager to see him, more than a little desperate to make sure he was all right, but slowed as she caught the sound of kitchen cabinets opening and shutting and the beginning of a quiet conversation.

“—into any problems?” Van asked.

“Would you care if I did?” Miles shot back. Then, a beat later, “Sorry. That was rude. Subway service was screwed up, but otherwise everything was okay. But Lore and the others—?”

“Just resting.”

Lore stepped down the last few steps, careful to avoid the one that squeaked. She edged into the hallway that led to the kitchen. There, she could see the two of them reflected in the kitchen window. Van at the table on his computer, Miles at the stove.

“Want anything?” Miles asked. “I’m making a cup of regular tea, but I can also attempt the weird one Lore made.”

“Nektar? No thanks. I’ve always hated the taste of it,” Van said, not looking up from his computer. Lore heard the clattering of his fingers over the keyboard. “I could use a warm glass of milk, though.”

There was a long stretch of silence. The typing finally stopped.

“What?” Van asked.

“A warm glass of milk,” Miles said, amused. “Okay. Coming right up, grandpa.”

Van snorted, but turned back to whatever it was he was working on. Behind Lore, in the living room, the TV was on, but the volume was at a low murmur. She focused on the sound of it, on the breath that eased in and out of her chest.

After a few minutes, just as Lore was tempted to announce herself, Miles set the two mugs down on the table and opened his own laptop. Knowing him, Miles picked the seat right next to Van just to playfully annoy him, but Van couldn’t resist trying to steal a look at Miles’s screen.

“Can I help you?” Miles said, moving it away.

“Are you . . . are you searching Greek mythology on Wikipedia?” Van asked in disbelief.

“What?” Miles said defensively. “I’m a little behind the curve in this group. The last mythology unit I had was in sixth grade.”

“You could just ask me whatever you want to know,” Van said.

“Oh really?” Miles asked, leaning back to sip his tea. “I can ask you anything and you’ll actually give me an answer?”

“I didn’t mean anything,” Van said, uncharacteristically flustered. “I meant anything related to the Agon.”

“Okay, here’s one,” Miles said. “A good number of hunters from your bloodline abandoned Castor, so why are you so loyal to him?”

Lore about fell over when Van actually told him.

“Castor is the only . . .” Van seemed to struggle for the right words. “He’s the only friend I’ve ever had. The only one willing to be my friend, all right?”