“You’re back.”

Odysseus smiled. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

“It’s just—sooner—” she said, and stopped. Athena was there, dusty and robotic as usual. But behind her—

She’d never seen him up close. They’d never been on the same level, or looked at each other eye to eye. His face she remembered, and the wild blond hair. But not his eyes—so bright green and curious.

“I thought you were going to kill him,” she said.

“Well I did, sort of,” Athena said. “I need to talk to my brother.” She slid around Odysseus, and Cassandra noted the limp. The sliding door whirred open and shut, and the sound of Hermes clapping her in an embrace was loud and happy. But Cassandra couldn’t take her eyes off of Achilles.

“What happened?” she asked Odysseus.

“She couldn’t kill him.”

She couldn’t kill him? What, did she have an attack of conscience? Impossible.

Odysseus read her expression and laughed.

“It wasn’t like that,” he said. “She didn’t change her mind.”

“Was she limping just now?”

“That’s my fault,” said Achilles. His voice was as surprising as his eyes: low and reasonable, laced with an Australian accent. “I’m harder to kill than she thought.” He smiled, and she wished it reminded her of a wolverine, but it was only a smile. “Nice to see you again, Cassandra. It is just Cassandra now, right? You don’t still go by Princess Cassandra?”

She glanced at Odysseus, and he raised his brows. So he was like them. He remembered their old lives.

“It’s Cassandra, God Killer Great and Terrible now,” she said. “What about you?”

“That’s a mouthful. I’m just Achilles still. Or Achilles of the Swift Feet, if you want to get Homeric.”

Odysseus clapped him on the shoulder.

“Try Achilles the Invincible,” he said. “Athena tried her damnedest. But he just won’t stay dead.”

Achilles the Invincible. Cassandra the God Killer. The two weapons of fate stared each other in the eye.

“No wonder she brought him back.”

*   *   *

Hermes peeked around the corner from the kitchen, staring slack-jawed at Achilles.

“Knock it off, will you,” Athena said. “It’s not like I brought home a bearded lady or a Fiji mermaid.”

Hermes gave her a look and squared his shoulders before going to inspect Achilles up close. As he circled, he puffed up like a cockerel, bumping into Achilles a little and looking him up and down. Hermes. Alpha male.

“He’s thinner,” Calypso said, rubbernecking over her shoulder. “Hermes, I mean. We’ve been trying to feed him. But his clothes are looser and looser.”

Athena breathed in vanilla and flowers. “Why don’t you let me worry about my brother.”

Calypso shrugged.

“I thought you were going to kill Achilles,” she said.

“Why does everyone keep saying that?” Athena pushed past Calypso. She rolled her cracked shoulder and felt pain in her foot, full of clotted, closing holes. At least it was the same shoulder Ares had stabbed. Small blessings.

“How are you?” Calypso asked. “You don’t look well.”

“That’s a rude thing to say,” Athena said. But Calypso hadn’t meant anything by it. Besides, it was true. Athena looked like walking shit. She sucked air into her lungs. No feathers, but a suspicious, warm throb in her side told her they were up to something new. Her eyes zeroed in on the refrigerator. There had to be a beer in there.

“You brought him here.”

Athena winced at Henry’s voice. Of course he would be there. That’s how her luck was going. Maybe she could wedge herself into the crisper drawer until he left. Behind her, Lux whined, and his black muzzle poked into the fridge to sniff at the cold cuts.

“He looks better,” she said. She stroked the dog’s ears. A growl rumbled through her fingers even as she fed him a slice of roast beef. “He doesn’t trust me. Because you don’t trust me.” She looked up at Henry. “Sign of a good dog.”

Footsteps sounded behind them, and Henry stiffened. Achilles. She tensed and got ready to intervene in case they decided to go for each other’s throats. Henry wouldn’t remember Achilles’ face, of course. And Achilles hadn’t seen Hector since the night he’d ransomed the body outside Troy. And by then it wasn’t so much Hector’s body as a ragged slab of meat, no matter what the poets said.