“These days, sister, I do what I’m told. And I was sent”—he pointed at Odysseus—“for him.”

Only not really for Odysseus. For what he could lead them to—Achilles. The other weapon. What was it about Achilles that made him so special? If Cassandra was the girl who killed gods, what could he do?

“Who sent you?” Athena asked.

Ares walked to the right, nonchalant and closer. Athena moved, too, staying in his path, and in her shadow Hermes did the same. It was a lovely little conversation they were having, but of the three of them, only Ares allowed himself to blink.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he said.

“Try me.”

He sighed and looked up at the sky. After a few long moments, he said, “My mother sent me.”

“That’s impossible,” said Athena. “Try again. Hera’s dead.”

“It’s true.” Cassandra spoke suddenly. “I killed her.”

“Yes, but unfortunately for you, it didn’t stick.”

“I turned her into a freaking rock,” said Cassandra. “Half of her face was granite.”

Athena looked from Cassandra to Ares. She’d seen Hera’s face half-fused to stone. Hera had lost the ability to work her jaw. Most of her chest and shoulder had solidified. Her cheek, even her hair on the right side, was statue. It should have killed her.

“You’re lying. I was there, Ares. She couldn’t speak. She’s dead.”

“You should have stayed longer and made sure the job was done,” he said. “She can speak now. Mostly about your foolishness. She’s being healed. You never used to be this sloppy, sister.”

“It’s not possible for her to be alive,” Hermes said.

“Don’t talk about possible and impossible. You have no idea. You’re on the wrong side, little brother.”

“What side is that? The side that hasn’t gone insane?” Hermes asked. “The side that doesn’t want to blow up buildings with innocent witches in them?”

“Innocent witches. And innocent mortals,” Athena said. What Ares said couldn’t be. Hera couldn’t be healing. Yet Ares wasn’t lying.

“You’ve always been so fond of saving mortals,” Ares said. He looked at Cassandra and Odysseus, standing near a thick trunk. “You curried their favor and accepted their accolades. Had cities named for you. You had their love, and I had their fear.

“Hera says it’s you or us. I don’t know if that’s true. I don’t get bogged down in the politics. All I know is that you’ll try to save these people, and I will try to kill them.”

The words came so easy. Life to him was a shrug of the shoulders, even when his was ending.

“Why, Ares? Do you even know?”

“I know better than you do. What we are. Why we’re here. We are two sides of a coin. You save and I kill, but blood runs because of us both. We are the dogs of war, Athena, and we always have been.”

“No,” Odysseus said, his voice ragged. “Don’t put yourself in the same sentence with her. War isn’t battle. It’s not the same.”

Ares smiled smugly. War, battle. Semantics.

“Hermes,” Athena said. “Are you well? Can you take them to a safe distance?”

“What are you doing?” Hermes asked. His eyes shifted from Cassandra and Odysseus to Ares and back again.

“Take them and stay with them. Don’t leave them alone.” She clenched her fists. “The gods of war are about to bleed.”

*   *   *

Wild dogs, was the first thought in Henry’s head. Then wolves. Then something exponentially worse. One was white, but not like snow. It was white like bone, with a long, thin snout and lips a size too small, stretched back and dried out past its purple gums. Another was red, and it moved faster than the others. The sound of its fangs snapping was like something trapped in a box. Then a slow gray one came, hunched and panting. Blood dripped from its mouth and ran down its chest, into the sores matting its fur. But the worst one was the last, so black it didn’t appear to have eyes.

“Henry,” Andie whispered. They huddled back to back, with Lux between them. “What are they?”

Dogs, he almost said, but couldn’t quite manage it. They weren’t dogs any more than they were ponies. What they were was something that Henry couldn’t quite see, as if what he was looking at were just skins taken from some other animal. A sheepskin tossed over a wolf’s back. But what could be so horrible that it would use a wolf’s skin to hide under?