“Achilles is here. Now. In Cassandra’s house.”

23

ACHILLES

“Don’t. Linger.” Andie brushed Henry’s fingers away from her bare belly. “On my scars.”

“Why not?” he asked, and walked his fingers right back where they’d started. Four clean cuts slashed across her belly, gently pink.

“Because I don’t like to think about them. I rub fricking Bio Oil on them twice a day hoping they’ll disappear.”

But they never would. They would remain, shiny and smooth, with small pockmarks at the edges where the stitches had grown into the skin. Henry hadn’t realized how close he’d come to losing her that day in the road, when the Nereid raked its claws across her stomach. Nobody had until it was over, and Hermes noticed all the blood that had soaked into her shirt.

“So close,” he whispered.

“Yeah. Close to spilling my guts out across the hood of your old Mustang.” She covered her eyes with one hand, reclined on his pillow. She talked tough, but her stomach clenched beneath his palm. It had to be a strange thing, to know what it felt like to almost be disemboweled. Henry could relate. He knew what it felt like to almost have his jugular torn out.

He touched the scar on his cheek.

“Yours is prettier than mine,” she said, and touched it, too.

“Handsomer, you mean. And no it isn’t. I’d rather have yours. Tiger stripes.”

She laughed. “Tiger stripes. You’re so full of it.” She pulled him close and wrapped her arms around his neck. They kissed, and the house was quiet. He’d thought he heard Cassandra come home a while ago, but couldn’t be sure. At the time, he’d been trying to keep an angry Andie from storming out. But Andie thought she’d won. That she’d convinced him to stay himself, and not die and come back and let Hector in. But letting Hector in was the only way. When he was a true hero, she would see that.

Something mood-killing and cold dug into his side: Lux’s wet nose.

“Ew. Go away, boy.”

“He’s mad.” Andie smiled. “We’re taking up the whole bed.”

Lux whined and paced around a minute before turning to stare at Henry’s closed door.

“Maybe he has to go out.” Henry hauled himself up and opened it, motioning for the dog to go through. Lux lowered his head and backed up two steps.

“Come on, what’s the matter?” Henry made to clap his hand to his leg and stopped. Andie sat up nervously. Now that the door was open, the house was too quiet. There were no sounds from downstairs. No muffled TV or clinking dishes in the kitchen.

Lux stared into the dark hallway, pinning and unpinning his ears. Henry knew enough of his language to understand.

Something is out there. Don’t go out there.

“HECTOR!”

Andie clapped her hand over her mouth.

“HEEECTORR!”

Henry held his breath.

It was Achilles. Achilles was in their house.

*   *   *

There were no wolves in the woods except Ares’ own. No coyotes, no bears. Nothing more interesting than a couple of city raccoons and a few dozen of his sister’s reflector-eyed owls.

Ares listened to the quick steps of Panic rustle through the brush. Oblivion trotted behind, but made no sound. In their wake, the ghosts of Famine and Pain howled miserably, unable to catch up. His poor, missed wolves. He’d let the Moirae use them, and he’d paid the price.

Ares looked up at the cold yellow moon. He’d been running beneath it with Panic and Oblivion for over an hour. It was something he’d always loved to do. Aphrodite had never understood that. She’d rather he be an indoor dog, free of dirt and draped in expensive clothes. But he went out to run anyway. Under the moon, like their sister Artemis.

He remembered Artemis’ blood splashed across the jungle. It was probably still there. Wet. Dead.

But that was the only memorial she would want. And if she had to die, that was the death she would want.

If she had to die.

Ares flexed his hand. Parts of it had scabbed over, but the scabs around his knuckles and the folds of his palm broke easily. Artemis had gotten the death she wanted. The death she deserved. Would he? Aphrodite certainly wouldn’t. Aphrodite would die mad, frothing at the mouth, when she should die in his arms. Looking into his eyes. Knowing who he was.

He wiped blood across the front of his shirt. He’d probably never see his Aphrodite again, and if he wanted the death he deserved, he would have to go seek it out.

The scent of carrion hit his nose. The wolves had opened their mouths to taste the wind, their eyes fixed back the way they’d come. It was their breath he smelled.