Achilles was fire and knives, rage and poetry. Achilles was slaughter. And Henry would never be his equal.

*   *   *

After a shower, Hermes shut himself inside his room and blasted music Athena didn’t recognize, some kind of remixed electronica. He was pissed, she supposed, that he’d gotten stuck with Achilles all day. The hardest job. The only job that could really be called a job.

Athena stood over the stove. The steam from a massive pot of noodles basted her face. A decent vat of linguine with clam sauce would do for a peace offering. She didn’t really know how to make it, but she’d lived in Italy long enough. She’d seen it prepared a thousand times. She stirred, trying to make her fingers cooperate. Even now they were too used to scavenging, or being served.

“I didn’t know goddesses could cook.” Achilles walked up behind her and peered into the sauce. He took a deep sniff of the white wine.

“I’m not sure this one can,” she said, and glanced at her sink, which was full of hostile clams.

Achilles stretched.

“It feels good here,” he said. “Like a camp. Or a compound. I can’t wait to do it again tomorrow.”

“And you could, couldn’t you? You could do this every day.”

“Of course. Can’t the others?” His blond hair was wet from his shower, slicked back and hanging down his neck. His t-shirt clung to the muscles of his chest. He looked like a rogue or a male model.

“How old are you, Achilles?”

He ran his eyes over her body and stepped closer.

“Almost as old as you, Athena.”

“Careful.”

He chuckled. “Sorry. All the fighting makes me … amorous.” He jumped onto the countertop. “I’ll aim my affections elsewhere. No shortage of beauties here. Even that big girl, Cassandra’s friend.”

“Andie?” Athena asked. “You stay away from Andie. She’s a biter.”

“I could win her over. And wouldn’t that be something, if I killed the boy in one life and stole his girl in the next. What would they say?”

Athena sighed. “How old are you, I said.”

“I’m seventeen.”

Seventeen. Two years younger than Odysseus. Four years younger than she and Hermes pretended to be.

“Have you always been this way?” she asked. “So strong?”

“I don’t think so,” he said. “Of course, you don’t exactly jump off a building until you know you can. After I was killed that first time, I pushed it. There’s not a lot you can’t do, without that limit.” He smiled. “But you know that.”

“I used to know that.”

“That’s the last time you shower first,” Odysseus said. He walked into the kitchen with a towel around his shoulders. “Ran out of bloody hot water.” He sniffed the air. “What’s going on here?”

“Clam sauce,” said Athena. “Well, probably.”

“Right. Can you give us a second?” Odysseus said to Achilles. “I need to talk to her.”

“Sure.” Achilles hopped off the counter. “I’d be willing to give that sauce a try,” he said. “Assuming there’s any leftovers.” He winked and headed for his bedroom.

“He really does get flirty,” she said.

“What?” Odysseus asked.

“Nothing. What did you need to talk to me about?”

Odysseus stared suspiciously down the hallway. “Cassandra,” he said. “She should train, like the others do. Learn how to defend herself if she has to.”

“Anything she fights she can burn up with a touch. Besides, she doesn’t want to.”

“But—”

Athena shook her head quickly. “Never mind. You’re right.” Cassandra’s powers weren’t instantaneous. To use them she had to put herself in harm’s way. She’d almost died facing Hera the last time, and this time would be worse. This time Hera knew their tricks. “She’ll have to be convinced.”

“No problem. I’ll start with her tomorrow, after school. Which, by the way, I was expelled from.” There was a surprising amount of heat in his voice, considering he’d never been seriously enrolled.

“Poor hero. Did the principal wound your pride?”

“Shut up.”

“How soon can you have Cassandra ready?” she asked.

“Inside of a month, I’d say. She’s no warrior, but if we focus on dodging…” He walked to the sink and poked at a clam. “You know you might lose some of them. Even with all this training.”