“Hector killed Patroclus. That makes Hector second.”

Achilles scowled, and veins stood purple in his forehead. Odysseus was seconds away from punching Athena in the face to shut her up. But she had learned what she needed to. The old wound still bled. Long ago in Troy, a warrior named Patroclus had shown too much pride. He’d disguised himself in Achilles’ armor and tried to run up the walls of Troy. But Hector threw him down and killed him in the dirt.

“This won’t work,” Athena said. “How will we keep them apart?”

“You won’t,” Achilles growled. “You need me more than you need him.”

“Hey,” Odysseus said, and grabbed his shoulder. “This isn’t about you and Hector anymore.”

Athena pushed her beer away. “We’ll leave him here and go back on our own. Move Henry first. For all we know, Henry would want to kill him, too.” But that would be a sorry attempt. A fly attacking a tarantula.

“Who the hell is Henry?” Achilles asked.

“Henry is Hector,” Odysseus replied. “Only he isn’t. Not really. He’s not like you and me. He doesn’t remember anything. He’s not the same person. He’s just a seventeen-year-old kid with bad skin and too much homework.”

Henry didn’t have bad skin. But Athena didn’t correct him. Across the table, Achilles tried to get a hold of himself. He didn’t want to be left behind. And maybe he didn’t want to be so angry.

“Things aren’t the way they used to be,” Odysseus said.

“How do you forgive?” Achilles whispered.

“You just do. Hey, they forgave me, and I’m the one who thought up the Trojan Horse.”

“They’ve forgiven me, too,” Athena said. “And I helped Hera tear their city down because a Trojan said I wasn’t pretty. We all made mistakes.”

“He really doesn’t remember?” Achilles asked.

“He doesn’t,” said Odysseus.

“Then he isn’t Hector.”

Athena took a breath. “Okay, then.”

*   *   *

Ares trailed blood wherever he went. He ruined furniture as fast as Hera could replace it, and his wolves followed behind, trying to lick up the mess. Damn that girl. Cassandra. He didn’t understand how a formerly useless prophet could touch him and make his blood burst from his skin like a filled balloon.

“Ares,” Aphrodite whispered, and pressed into his back. Wetness soaked into the front of her dress, mostly crusted over crimson now instead of blue and green. “Does it hurt?”

“No,” Ares lied. It did hurt. But the weakness was worse. Blood flowed out and took his strength with it. At night he could barely keep from shivering, and he felt so weak and anxious.

He looked at his wolves, lounging on all fours. Pain, its gray tail twitching as its infected tongue lapped Ares’ blood from the floor. Famine with its skinny snout resting on its bare paws. Panic pacing a red line through the room. And Oblivion, barely visible in the shadows. They didn’t look half as ashamed as they should be for failing him. He’d sent them on an easy job. Kill the boy hero as the Moirae ordered. And they’d failed. They hadn’t even managed to kill the dog.

“I failed the Moirae on two fronts,” he said. “Is that why they let me bleed out?”

“They won’t let you bleed,” Aphrodite said. “Mother won’t let you bleed.”

Ares clenched his fists. It was hard to be with Aphrodite sometimes, because of the madness. Her voice wasn’t her voice. It was vacant. Nonsense. And he wished she’d clean his blood out of her dress. Not out of her hair, though. It raced through her gold hair like ribbons. That he liked.

“Hera’s not your mother,” he said. “She’s mine. Like Athena is my sister.”

Aphrodite threw her arms around his neck.

“Your most irritating sister,” she said.

“When did she become so terrible? She wasn’t always so bad.” He pulled Aphrodite into his lap. “She defended me once, to our father. When he said I was his most hated child. And then she goes and says the same thing to me.”

“Words, words, words,” Aphrodite said. “Sticks, sticks, sticks. Stones, stones, stones.”

Ares snorted. Yes. Athena had said it to get a rise out of him, and it worked.

“You’re really in there today, aren’t you,” he said, and tapped Aphrodite’s temple. She smiled, but her eyes were glazed as donuts. “I still understand you, through your babble.”