“Kill the TV.”

“What? What for?”

“Just do it.” Andie spun off the couch. “My god, Cassandra, what happened? Henry, call the police and your parents.” She pulled an afghan off of the hope chest and pulled Cassandra’s jacket off of her shoulders before wrapping her in it.

“Cassandra? Jesus, what happened?” Henry lifted her chin. The bruises, black as an inner tube, circled all around her throat. The fact that they were finger marks was unmistakable.

“Don’t call the police,” Cassandra whispered. “And don’t call Mom and Dad.”

“What do you mean, ‘don’t call’? Look at you! What the hell happened?”

“I got in a fight.”

“That’s not a fight, Cassandra; that’s someone trying to kill you. You have to report it. Do you know who it was?”

Someone did kill me. And someone brought me back.

“Where’s Aidan?” Andie asked. Concern and fear etched her features in equal parts.

Can they know, somehow? Can they sense it?

But no. They were just afraid and thinking the worst.

Cassandra closed her eyes.

“Could you please just make me some tea? With honey?”

“You should take some Tylenol or something too,” said Henry, and went to get it from the bathroom.

Cassandra followed Andie to the kitchen and pulled out a chair to sit. She listened to drawers and cabinets open and shut. The kitchen smelled like melted cheese and butter from the casserole they’d had for lunch.

“Where are Mom and Dad?”

“Grocery store and errands in town,” Henry replied. He ducked under Andie’s arm on his way to the sink to fill the teapot and Andie turned the wrong way and got honey on his shirt. It was ridiculous just how effectively they could get in each other’s way, how one innocent arm movement from Andie could manage to entangle her in Henry practically up to the shoulder.

It’s how they always were. The prince and the Amazon fell in love while wrestling and never really stopped.

At least until the gods had run their lives into the dirt and killed them. And now here they were: Henry her brother again, and Andie her friend. It felt unfair. They’d paid for it once already. It should have been enough for a hundred happy lives.

But that’s not how it works. Fate has its way. Fair or unfair doesn’t matter. Hector told me that once.

“Here. It’s pomegranate antioxidant something or other.” Andie set down a steaming mug of purplish tea. It smelled of bitter citrus and dark bits of leaves swirled near the bottom. The heat of the ceramic mug sank into Cassandra’s sluggish fingers.

Henry stared as she sipped. Andie briefly looked into the teapot like she might pour herself a cup, but then set it back on the stove to cool. Neither one of them seemed to know what to do. They waited quietly, watching but not really watching, in that way people have when they know you have something unpleasant to tell them.

I don’t have to tell them at all. Whatever happens next, I could leave them here. Leave them out of it.

Only she didn’t think she could. There were things at work, threads being pulled that wound around and around them. It was almost visible, thin as gossamer, draped over their heads when the light hit just right.

“What would you say if I told you we aren’t who we think we are?”

“What?” Henry asked. “Cassie, what happened to your neck? Who did that?”

Cassandra swallowed her tea and felt honey coat the bruises.

“Athena did that,” she said. “A goddess did that.”

“Like Aidan.” Andie pulled out the chair beside her and sat. “A god, like Aidan. Which one?”

“His sister.” Cassandra nodded. “You’d know that, though, if you were really you.” She winced. It was almost exactly what Athena had said.

“His sister? The one from the jungle?”

“No. It was Athena. And Hermes was there too.”

Andie looked at Henry; Cassandra waited until he’d sat down in the chair opposite and had Lux’s head on his knee.

“I’m not just Cassandra Weaver. You’re not just Andie Legendre. That’s why I’ve been seeing the things I have. They’ve been looking for us. Me mostly, but she’ll use you too.”

Andie tried not to look skeptical and failed. But Cassandra was patient.

“Listen. Your name used to be Andromache. His used to be Hector. Past lives, get it?” She stopped abruptly when her voice got too loud. Talking loud still felt like coughing up a crumpled ball of aluminum foil. They didn’t believe her, and why should they? The only way to make it real would be to strangle them and bring them back from the dead. And she wasn’t about to try that.