“Iro!” she called. “Iro!”

But it was Heartkeeper’s stricken voice that reached her first. “Don’t look! Iro, don’t—”

Iro screamed.

By the time Lore reached her, Heartkeeper’s remains were at her feet, his torso cleaved into two. The girl knelt slowly, her face rigid with shock. Her hands shook as they reached for his face.

And Wrath was nowhere.

Castor’s power abated, leaving fires and a few last lashes of fury in its wake. Lore looked up, searching through the rising smoke and the dome’s burnt-out frame, a fresh wave of dread rolling through her. The only reason Castor would stop attacking was if the Kadmides had reached the roof and he himself was in danger.

“Where are you, Godkiller?” Athena bellowed into the dark chaos around them. “Stand and fight, coward!”

Lore banded her arms over Iro’s chest, pulling her back. “It’s me—it’s Lore! We have to get out of here! Iro, we have to run—”

Iro broke free of her grip, spinning around to face her. She had the dory out of Lore’s hand and the tip against her throat in the span of a heartbeat.

Lore saw the exact moment her shock wore off, and the other girl recognized her.

A tremor grew in Iro’s body as she held Lore’s gaze. There was a bruise beneath her left eye, and her skin was streaked with sweat and grime. Her eyes were wide and bloodshot, the tendons in her neck bulging with the panic of a trapped animal. “You can’t be here! You need to leave! He can’t see you!”

Athena stormed toward them from behind, scattering the smoke and embers. Without a word, she lifted the shaft of her dory and knocked it into the back of Iro’s head. The girl slumped forward into Lore’s arms.

“The imposter has fled,” Athena told her, visibly aggravated. “And now so must we. If the false Apollo could control his power, he may have been able to stop him. Whether intentionally or not, he has sabotaged our efforts.”

“That’s not true—” Lore began.

The goddess strode toward the waiting vault, stepping over the bodies and debris in her way. Lore knelt, lifting Iro over her shoulder. She bit back a cry of pain as the girl’s weight settled there, but it disappeared as soon as she began to run.

They had just reached the safe room when Lore felt a pressure at the base of her neck. She turned slowly.

Wrath appeared again amidst the destruction and eddies of thick smoke. He came toward them, that slow, long stride, closer—closer—

Her hand found the door’s security panel and stilled. She forgot the reason they had come. She forgot the weight of Iro, and the burning in her lungs. She didn’t call out to Athena. She couldn’t speak at all with terror’s cold hands wrapped around her throat.

Behind him, the remaining Kadmides were regrouping, gathering like shadows.

The goddess realized Lore wasn’t following and turned. Seeing Wrath, she reached for Iro’s blade and threw it with all her strength. Wrath turned, letting it graze his cheek as it tore through the air beside him.

Aristos Kadmou had been the monster inside the maze of her mind for so long, she had a near-perfect memory of his scarred face and the way his coarse, dark hair had been shot through with gray. He looked younger now than Lore remembered, as if immortality had drawn him back through the decades.

But there were echoes of him lingering there—the low, thick eyebrows. The deep olive tone of his skin. A face shaped like a cut diamond.

Through the maelstrom of glass fire swirling around him, his golden eyes met hers, and he smiled.

Found you.

Lore punched her fist against the security panel and the door slammed shut.

HER FATHER WOULDN’T TELL her where they were going.

Lore dutifully carried the small parcel her mother had handed her and trailed a step after him. Her father loved to smile, but he hadn’t laughed at all that morning. He and Mama had barely spoken at all. Now his shoulder blades were bunched together like wasp wings. Judging by the expression on his face, she was afraid to ask for their destination, on the chance she might get stung by a sharp word.

She didn’t like it. Not at all.

April had drawn out all of the city’s secret life. Lore carefully avoided the small flowers and grass that pressed themselves up through the cracks in the sidewalk. The songbirds high up in the trees along their street greeted her

as she passed. Lore smiled at them.

Though Lore was older, and taller, her view of her papa never seemed to change. He looked as big and strong as any of the midtown buildings that cut at the sky like shining glass knives.

Lore hurried to match the pace of her father’s long strides. After a moment, though, he stopped to wait for her. When Lore reached him, her father cupped a hand behind her head, then wrapped an arm around her shoulder. She finally relaxed.

“Tell me,” he began, keeping his tone light, “how’s your Castor?”

With the sun behind him, Lore couldn’t see his face.

“He is not my Castor,” she said. “He is my hetaîros.”

“Ah,” her father said, innocently. “I never had a hetaîros of my own, just my father. Do hetaîros see each other outside their training, or must they meet only within the walls of Thetis House?”

Lore bit the inside of her mouth so hard she tasted coppery blood. She saw Castor outside Thetis House all the time. On the days there were no lessons for their class, or they were let out early, and neither her parents, nor her babysitter, Mrs. Osbourne, knew it.

Lore was grateful for her little sisters. They may have stolen her old blanket and Bunny Bunny, but they kept Mrs. Osbourne’s gaze constantly turned away from her.

“He is training more and more with Healer Kallias now,” Lore said, trying not to sound as hurt as she felt by it. One day, Castor would be the best healer the Achillides had, but until then, she didn’t want to work with any of the others who had lost their partners to training for the archives and weapon-smiths. “I guess I wouldn’t mind seeing Castor outside of training. . . .”

“Outside of training—for instance, when you went to Central Park last Tuesday?”

Lore slowed, her mind whirling with panicked excuses. She could say she had to walk home a different way because of traffic, or construction—

“Ah-ah,” he said. “No lie was ever righted by another lie.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it again.

“Promise me that you won’t go again without an adult,” her father said.

Lore made a face and received a warning look that instantly erased it.

“Why?” she asked, confused.

“Because I said so, Melora,” he said. “And because it’s not safe.”

Lore’s jaw dropped. Not safe? Yesterday her instructor had showed her which ribs to slide her blade through to strike the heart. She had practiced the move this morning in front of the bathroom mirror. “I’m fine, Papa. I always bring my knife with me.”

Her father stopped again, drawing in a sharp breath. A look passed over his face that Lore didn’t understand. Not fear, exactly—more like she’d punched him in the stomach and he was fighting not to double over. He was silent for a long while.

“I’m sorry?” she whispered. That was usually the answer he was looking for.