IT WAS WELL PAST sunrise by the time they reached the town house. With the crush of emergency vehicles around midtown right at the start of the morning commute, traffic became too unmanageable to try to take a taxi or call for a car.

Lore could only imagine how they looked to everyone they passed by on the street, especially with Athena carrying Castor, but she didn’t care. She couldn’t even think about how they might be tracked, or who might be following them.

Despite the need to get inside and out of sight again quickly, Lore’s feet dragged as they turned onto her block, and all but came to a stop as her home for the last three years emerged through the morning haze.

Looking at it now, its old brownstone, the potted plants lining the steps, the lace curtains peeking through the window—all she felt was revulsion. It suddenly reminded her of the false temple at Thetis House: an illusion made up of static and lies. All the memories she had there were tainted, and for a moment, Lore couldn’t handle the thought of stepping through the front door.

She didn’t fight her anger this time. She let it speak to her.

Use the house. Use it the way he tried to use you.

“What is the matter?” Athena asked her.

Lore shook her head. “Nothing. Let’s get inside.”

Van met them at the front door, ushering them inside with a concerned look. “Is he all right?”

Lore nodded. Hoped. Then she noticed who wasn’t there. “Miles?”

Van sighed. “His internship boss wanted him to go downtown to City Hall to take a shift helping out with media requests and briefings about the attack. He said he’d be back in a few hours.”

The TV was on but muted, flashing with reports about the explosion at Rockefeller Center. But it was the screen of Van’s laptop that caught Lore’s eye from where it faced them on the coffee table. It was playing through a series of videos; every few seconds the view would jump to a different angle. Some shots were clear, others were fuzzier, but they were all tracking a single figure as he made his way across streets.

Miles.

“What the hell is that?” Lore demanded.

With obvious reluctance, Van turned toward his computer, then back to her. His shoulders slumped as he shut the laptop and picked it up. “Let’s . . . let’s get Cas upstairs. I’ll explain.”

Athena did as he asked, carefully navigating the hall without knocking Castor into the walls the way Lore knew she wanted to. She set him down on Lore’s bed, leaving Lore to arrange his heavy limbs into a more comfortable position. His long legs hung off the end of her bed.

“The program is called Argos,” Van said, placing the laptop on her dresser. “I’ve spent years coding it. It was meant to be used to search for gods and enemies through its built-in facial recognition—it can tap into any live security camera footage as long as the camera or its backup system is hooked into the internet.”

Athena leaned toward the screen, watching the small image of Miles on a subway platform, and tried poking it with her finger. Van slid it back before she could accidentally crack the screen, earning a withering look from her.

“You’re telling me,” Lore began, trying not to lose her grip on her last thread of patience, “that we wasted all that time going in circles about where the Reveler was, and you could have just used this system to search for him? Any other secret programs you want to belatedly reveal?”

“It’s not perfect,” Van said. “I have to upload a photo for it to work, and the one I had of the Reveler in his mortal form wasn’t clear enough—and before you ask, I’ve already tried searching for Wrath. If he’s getting around the city, he’s wearing a mask. The system can’t find him.”

Lore drew in a steadying breath. “What is the news saying about the attack?”

“Not much, other than that it’s suspected terrorist activity,” Van said. “Now would be an excellent time to tell me what did happen, because all the chatter among the Messengers is that the Reveler is dead and the surveillance footage near the museum, the park, and Rockefeller Center was wiped.”

Of course. Lore had no doubt that the Kadmides had gotten into any footage in Central Park and deleted that as well. She tried to tell him about what had happened at the Frick, about Belen, about the explosion, but it was like her mind couldn’t put the thoughts into words.

“I will tell you the tale of these last hours, Evander,” Athena said.

Lore shot her a grateful look. “I’ll take care of Castor.”

The goddess nodded. “As well as yourself. Rest for now.”

She waited until Athena’s heavy steps pounded out a steady rhythm on the stairs before she ventured into the hall bathroom. Lore braced her hands against the sink, staring at the black soot and bloody scabs caked onto them. Then, when she felt brave enough, she looked at herself in the mirror.

Her hair was wild and covered in pale dust. Her skin had lost most of its color and her eyes were bloodshot and rimmed with bruises, as if she’d fought the night itself with fists and lost. She was surprised no one they’d passed had tried calling emergency services on them, because Lore had never looked more frightening in her life.

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.