But Castor . . .

Lore cast a fleeting glance back at the new god, unsurprised to find him surrounded by armed hunters. He looked bone-white as one of them issued low orders and gestured toward the other side of the room.

He could heal her, Lore thought. The conversation earlier had confirmed that he’d inherited that power from Apollo. It would be an easy solution to her most pressing problem.

No. She couldn’t take him with her. Lore knew that, but it didn’t ease the regret that gripped her. Athena would never allow her brother’s killer to live, and there’d be no way to smuggle the new god out of Thetis House without the Achillides coming after them and potentially tracking them back to her home. She couldn’t put any of them—Miles, Castor, or Athena—in more danger than they already were.

Castor would be safer here, with his bloodline. Even with Philip, and even after Wrath’s declaration of war. While Wrath’s message had been dangerous because of the way it portrayed Castor as weak to the Achillides, it had, in a way, also saved the new Apollo. The hunters could always be counted on for their monstrous pride, and none more so than the Achillides. They would never willingly give up their new god, and they would die before subjecting themselves to an outsider’s rule.

Lore stole one last look around, her mind racing.

Don’t let me down, assholes, she thought. Don’t let him die.

Van broke away from where he’d been speaking to Acantha and made for Castor, crossing the room in a few long strides. He passed within inches of Lore, close enough for her to smell the orange and sandalwood of his cologne, and she barely resisted grabbing him.

It had been such a long time since she’d last seen him. They’d been children then, running wild through the city. Where Castor had always been an open book, happy to be read and understood, Van was the journal that remained locked and tucked beneath the mattress, except for the moments he blamed Lore for getting Castor into trouble or leading him into doing something Van deemed dangerous—which, to Van, had been almost everything fun.

And the truth was, Lore’s trust was a rare volume—rarely lent, and never freely. Van’s loyalty to his bloodline would always surpass that of a sort-of-friendship, and Lore would have to find a way out of Thetis House herself, the way she always did.

So up she went, retracing the same path she’d taken down, feeling more unsettled with each passing moment. An unbearable heaviness anchored in the pit of her stomach. Lore fought her way up the last steps, gasping for breath as the bleak panic circled back to her.

Wrath.

His voice—it had echoed in the jagged parts of her, stirring up images of her parents and sisters she had fought for years to suppress.

If the House of Theseus had allied with him, it would add hundreds of bodies between him and Athena; the old god would never get close enough to uphold her end of their oath. The thought scalded her.

It’s actually worse than that, she realized.

If Wrath was working his way through the other gods, old and new, his hunters would come after Athena relentlessly. Aristos Kadmou had never been one for small purposes or quiet aims. He was clearing his enemies from the game board, and whatever he was planning wouldn’t end there.

And Cas . . .

Lore had so few ties to her past life that the thought of finding another one had been a powerful drug, whether she wanted to admit it or not. She had stopped believing in the Fates years ago, but she could see it so clearly in her mind then, the gleam of their blades as they gleefully cut away everyone and everything until she had nothing, and no one.

“Get a grip, you blubbering wine sack,” Lore muttered. She had a good and decent life here in the city, a real home. And she had Miles, who was still waiting for her back at the house with a god who would gladly wear his blood.

But she wanted the one person who had always been able to settle her, whether it was her temper or fear. She wanted the one person she had always been able to look to, knowing she’d find him there.

She wanted Castor.

Lore bit her lip, struggling to swallow the thickness in her throat. She found the door she’d entered through, gripping the handle. It rattled, but didn’t budge.

“Oh, perfect,” she groused. Lore tried the door again, this time with more force. “I don’t have time for this.”

She pushed aside her borrowed robe, feeling around the back pocket of her shorts for the piece of plastic to jimmy the lock. There was nothing in it but lint.

Shit.

She must have dropped it as she’d come through the French doors, or set it down while she was changing.

The candles in the hallway were burning low, flickering out. The smell of smoke and hot wax was everywhere, mingling with the incense still rising from below. Lore licked her dry lips, trying to assess her options through her exhaustion and nerves. She moved on to test the next door in the hallway. Then the next. And the next.

“Of course I understand,” someone said, their voice drifting up the stairs. Heavy, quick footsteps followed. “The security breach—I worry—”

A curse blazed through Lore’s mind as she hurried to the next door, already drumming up a thousand possible excuses for what she was doing. Walking rounds, investigating a noise, retrieving my purse, wanted to be alone . . .

None were necessary. The last door on the hallway, one with a security keypad, was ajar. She slid inside, shutting it firmly behind her, breathing hard beneath the mask.

The room was dark, but there was just enough sun coming through the tinted skylight to fully illuminate it. A large, impressive bed canopied with white silk sat at the center, right between two bricked-over windows. A wardrobe that looked to have been passed down through centuries was up against one wall, painted with a fading pastoral scene of cattle and farmers. Plush cushions were arranged like a flower’s petals on the floor, and everywhere, scattered around the room, were elaborate candelabras waiting to be lit.

The smell of fresh paint still clung to the air, and the carpets looked too pristine to be anything other than brand-new. This had to be Philip and Acantha’s room, newly restored for their residence during the Agon.

A movement on the bed drew her eye. At the foot of it slept an enormous shaggy dog. White had gathered on the muzzle of its bearlike face and the tips of his long ears. His black coat was dusted with it, as if he’d only just come in from running through a snowy Central Park with Lore and Castor.

A thin line of drool stretched from his mouth to the silk duvet. His big eyes slid open. He raised his head as if in recognition.

“Chiron?” Lore whispered.

She lifted the mask to get a better look at him, a small burst of happiness lighting through her. He was still alive—he had to be, what, fourteen now? She approached the Greek shepherd slowly, holding out her hand.

The dog had been Castor’s constant companion, practically from the time the boy had been small enough to ride on Chiron’s back. He’d faithfully trotted after her and Castor like a beleaguered nanny on their many adventures through the city.

His tail swished against the silk duvet, and Lore was strangely relieved when he licked her fingers in greeting.

“I missed you, too, you big dope,” she said, stroking his ears. “I don’t suppose you’ve learned how to speak human and could tell me how to get out of here?”