“So . . . ,” he says.

As much as I don’t want to do this—I want to talk to him about this and find out if he’s really freaking out—things are far too serious. I won’t put him at risk.

“Milo, I—” I lower my gaze, because I don’t want my hypno powers involved. “I think you should go home now.”

After a hesitation, he says, “Okay. If that’s what you want.”

He doesn’t sound freaked out.

“I don’t,” I say, “but things are very dangerous right now.”

“I can help.”

I look up, giving him a grateful smile. “I know. But for now, my sisters and I have to handle it.”

He nods. “Okay. For now.”

He casts a quick glance at Thane and then presses a quick kiss to my lips. “Just don’t forget you promised me answers.”

“I won’t,” I say, smiling as he waves good-bye to my brother and heads out of the alley.

Maybe things will work out between us despite all the crazy in my life. Maybe.

As I’m walking back to my sisters, the glint of gold and steel catches my eye. I walk over to the dagger that our mother discarded after slicing open Gretchen’s palm and pick it up. Such a small, pretty thing to cause so much pain.

It might have caused even more, if Cassandra and Gretchen hadn’t acted so quickly.

“Shiny,” Sillus says.

“Can I see that?” Gretchen asks.

I hand her the blade.

“Can you tell who it belongs to?” I ask. “Or maybe who sent him?”

She turns the dagger over in her hand. The blade is short, double-edged—like the black ones Gretchen carries in her boots—and pretty unremarkable. The handle, though, is quite unusual. There are intricate carvings, swirling patterns of what look like antlers in gleaming gold, now covered in bright red blood.

Gretchen wipes the handle off on her pants.

Woven into the golden antlers are gems and mother-of-pearl inlays in the shapes of crescent moons. There must be two dozen in total.

“No,” Gretchen says, staring at the dagger as if it might have an invisible “property of” label hiding somewhere. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“It looks like it comes from Hephaestus’s forge,” our mother says, stepping closer to examine the blade. “But as to the owner’s identity, I cannot hazard a guess.” When Gretchen and I stare at her, wide-eyed, she shrugs. “I have studied a lot of books on Greek mythology.”

“I know whose it is.” Thane’s voice is low and hard.

“You do?” I ask.

He doesn’t look at me, keeps his eyes steady on Greer. “It belongs to an assassin sent by Artemis, the goddess of the hunt.”

“Artemis?” I echo.

Thane nods. “Apollo’s twin. She’s on Zeus’s side in this war. She’s been working actively against you for years.”

“How do you know that?” I ask.

Gretchen demands, her voice low and full of warning, “How do you know the dagger is hers?”

“Because—” He swallows hard, his jaw muscles clenching like he has to force himself to speak the words. He reaches down and pulls up the leg of his jeans, revealing an ankle holster. Glinting in the sun is a dagger just like the one Cassandra pulled out of Greer’s chest. “It is standard issue.”

Cassandra pronounces Greer stable enough to be moved, and Gretchen carries our sister back to the safe house, back to a magically protected, comfortable place to recover without worrying that monsters are going to break down the door at any moment. There was no way she was letting Thane touch her.

Then, once Greer is settled into the unexpectedly soft bed, we gather around Thane in the living room—me, Gretchen, Cassandra, and little Sillus. I listen intently as he tells his story. We all do.

“As a little boy, I was given into the service of Artemis,” he begins. “My parents were poor, and the goddess gave them great wealth in return for me.”

I can’t remember him ever stringing this many words together at once, especially about his past. He never talks about his past. Mom and Dad would be in shock.

“As part of my service to the goddess of the hunt,” he continues, “I trained as a warrior. As an assassin.”

“Assassin?” I echo, my voice barely a whisper.

He gives me a curt nod. “Even as a child. I was her star soldier. Could handle any blade with deadly precision.”

He casually flips the dagger he pulled from his ankle holster into the air, letting the golden hilt spin several times in the gleaming sun before landing squarely back in his palm. He turns and, faster than my eye can follow, sends the blade speeding through the air. It is quivering, blade-first, in the narrow strip of wood between the window panes. A fraction of an inch to either side and it would have shattered the glass.

“Could best anyone in her army,” he says, not sounding proud of his achievement, “even the teenagers.”

“But you were only eight when we found you,” I say.

An eight-year-old being trained as an assassin? Fighting other soldiers, even the ones way older than him? I can’t imagine what it must have been like, little boy Thane being taught to fight and kill. He’d seemed like such a fragile thing when he came into our family, small and hungry after living on the street. Had that been a sham? Was it all a setup?

“One day, the goddess came to me with a mission.” His eyes cloud over. “It was a very special mission, one that would bring me glory and my parents even more wealth. If I failed, it would bring us death.”