Lore

by Alexandra Bracken

  Thank you, Lore thought. One last thing.

  She took her small blade, slashing across the shield. The dark air flashed white with lightning.

  “Now she knows,” Lore said.

  MILES WAS WAITING FOR them at the top of the stairs as they arrived back at the office space, turning his phone over and over in his hands. He was so deep in his thoughts that it took him a moment to notice them.

  In the second it took him to jump to his feet, Lore had already run up the steps between them, nearly knocking Miles over as she threw her arms around him.

  Miles let out a shocked, breathless laugh before giving her a hard squeeze.

  “Are you all right?” she asked him, near tears at the relief of seeing him.

  “Am I all right?” he repeated, pulling back to give her a thorough once-over. Lore’s gaze landed on a brutal-looking bruise on his forehead.

  “I’m so sorry about what happened,” she began. “With the meet, and Artemis—”

  “I wanted to go,” Miles said. He glanced over to Castor, a silent question on his face.

  “Right where you said she would be,” Castor confirmed.

  “Where the app said she would be,” Miles said, miserably.

  Lore hugged him. The new skin over her ribs pulled with the movement, but she held on, clinging to Miles the way he clung to her.

  “Thank you,” she told him.

  “Thank technology and the magic of cellular service,” Miles said. “All I did was worry.”

  “You did more than that,” Lore said.

  “You’re right,” he said. “I also stress-ate the entire sleeve of crackers that was supposed to be our meal for the day. Van had to go out and try to find more food and water.”

  “I’m serious,” Lore said.

  “No, it’s true,” he said. “My mom also called. A lot. So that was fun. She was about to get in her car and drive up here. I told her not to, but she refused to hang up until I sent her a hostage-style photo to prove that I was fine.”

  Miles ran a hand back over his dark hair. He was starting to get a bit of a shadow as a beard grew in, and there were dark bruises beneath his eyes. But when he smiled, all of the week’s wear and tear seemed to vanish.

  “I have some clothes for you,” he said, leading them into the vacant office space.

  Van and Miles had done some mild redecorating in the last few hours. Scattered bags of supplies were stacked here and there on the plastic tarps covering the floor. Miles went to one of them, digging out a small bundle of clothes.

  “Van didn’t think it was safe to go back to the town house, and the selection at the shelter wasn’t great,” Miles said, handing them to her. “I figured you’d want another pair of jeans that actually fit you, but I have to warn you that the wash on them is very two seasons ago.”

  Lore unfolded the pair in question. “Should I be unnerved that you know my jean size?”

  “Should I be annoyed you always leave your clothes in our washing machine so I end up having to dry and fold them for you?”

  He’d grabbed her a sports bra, a black T-shirt with some mysterious faded logo on it, and fresh socks.

  Lore smiled. “Thank you.”

  “No problem,” he said. “Your brand of ‘I don’t care’ is very easy to shop for.”

  There was something in the pocket of the shirt. Lore dumped it out into her hand, only to find herself staring down at the gold necklace Hermes had given her. The feather amulet was cool to the touch.

  She brushed a light finger against it. The eyes of the gods are upon you.

  “I thought you might want it,” Miles said quietly.

  Lore couldn’t bring herself to speak. She nodded, opening the clasp to put it on. Whatever power it might have had was gone, leaving behind its slight weight and the meaning she had come to attach to it. The one that had never been more important than now.

  Not lost. Free.

  Castor went still beside her. Lore followed his gaze to the door.

  Iro stood there, breathing hard. She was no longer wearing the black robe of a hunter, but the typical clothes worn beneath them—dark shirt, loose-fitting pants, body armor.

  The look she gave Lore was one of pleading, but she didn’t speak.

  Lore stepped in front of Castor. “What are you doing here?”

  “She’s helping us,” Miles told her.

  “No. She’s not,” Lore said coldly.

  The other girl flinched, her eyes darting to Castor. “I—I know I made a mistake. What happened was a mistake. I—all of us—wish to make amends. We wish to fight. To stop Wrath.”

  Lore looked at her in disbelief.

  “It’s true,” Miles told Lore. “Iro found us while we were on our way to meet the Achillides. They’ve shared supplies and information.”

  Lore opened her mouth to speak, but Castor’s quiet voice cut in.

  “Do you mean that sincerely?” he asked Iro. “What changed?”

  “I changed,” Iro said. “Someone told me that there is a better world waiting to be chosen, and I know that it will vanish the moment Wrath’s plan comes to pass. If you can believe nothing else, believe that I will not allow my father’s killer to emerge the victor of the Agon.”

  Castor seemed to consider her and her words carefully before he said, “All right.”

  Lore spun toward him. “What?”

  “I accept your apology,” he told Iro. “Thank you for helping the Achillides.”

  Lore blew a piece of hair out of her face. “This is why I always had to hold all of our grudges as kids. You’ve never had the heart for them.” To Iro she said, “If this is another trick . . .”

  “This is no trick,” Iro said. “I’ll swear an oath to you now—”

  Lore held up her hand. “Please. I can’t take any more oaths. I’ll just take your word for it.”

  Heavy steps bounded up the stairs behind Iro. They all turned to find a slightly winded Van sagging against the stairwell rail. A plastic grocery bag, laden with water bottles and packaged food, hung from his wrist.

  “Are you all right?” Miles asked.

  Van held up a hand, waving him off. He turned his face back down toward the stairs behind him, but not quickly enough for Lore to miss the way his lips compressed and his eyes squeezed shut in the kind of relief that was so sharp, it became painful.

  This, she realized, was her family now. This was what had been right in front of her, waiting to be seen, the whole time she’d been chasing the past.

  When Van looked at them again, he noticed who wasn’t there. “Where’s Athena?”

  Miles shook himself, as if he hadn’t even realized it. “Wait . . . I just thought she was—actually, I don’t know what I thought.”

  Lore drew in a deep breath.

  “I need to tell you all what happened,” she said, leaning the covered aegis against a nearby wall. “And then we need to figure out a plan.”

  “Well,” Van said elegantly as he rummaged through one of his bags of supplies. “Damn.”

  It was a while before anyone else spoke.

  “Gil . . . was Hermes . . .” Miles said, looking like he might faint out of his chair. Lore sat beside him on the ground and placed a steadying hand on his leg. “A god . . . washed my unmentionables. . . . He came to Family Weekend at Columbia with me. . . . We ate pizza together.” He whispered the word again in disbelief. “Pizza.”

  “Yeah,” Lore said softly. “We did.”

  “Why did he take me in?” Miles said. “Why offer me a place to live? It must have been to help disguise the fact you were there, I’m just not sure how.”

  “Maybe he just liked you,” Lore said. Maybe Hermes had thought she would need someone like Miles.

  “No wonder you were so upset,” Castor said, his voice strained. “I knew it had to be something terrible, but I’m not sure I could have imagined that.”

  “And Athena . . .” Van shook his head. “I should have seen it. I should have believe
d the stories about her, even as she worked with us.”

  He opened a small white package, then he crossed the short distance to where Miles sat and carefully brushed the hair from his forehead so he could apply the bright-blue ice pack to the bruise.

  Miles stared up at him, eyes wide. Van, as if realizing what he’d done, pulled back, quickly handing it to him.

  “Here,” he said. “I . . . It looked bad.”

  “Where did you find an ice pack in a city with no power?” Miles asked faintly.

  “Still doubting my abilities, I see,” Van said. “I always get what I want.”

  “Here, let me heal you,” Castor said, starting to rise.

  Miles waved him off, holding his ice pack to his bruise.

  “I really should have figured it out,” Van said, finishing his earlier thought. “If not her role, then the fact that Wrath already knew what the poem said.”

  “He gave no indication that he already possessed knowledge of its contents,” Iro told Lore apologetically. “I would not have kept that from you.”

  “I know. And if it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine,” Lore told them. “I’m the one who brought all of you into this. I’m the one who let her in.”

  “You’re really okay?” Miles asked Lore, reaching over to grip her hand.

  “I’ve been better,” she told him. “But Castor found me in time.”

  Van pressed his cellphone to his forehead, thinking. “And the new lines . . .”

  He trailed off in thought again.

  “And you did take the aegis,” Iro said, her dark eyes soft. “All this time, you never said a word . . . not even when we talked about it while training.”

  “I didn’t let myself think about it,” Lore said. “Let alone talk about it.”

  “Where is it now?” Iro asked.

  Lore stood, working out the stiffness in her joints as she went to retrieve it. She didn’t bother with the knot this time. She tore the bag off it, kicking away the scraps as she held the aegis out to show them.

  The phone clattered from Van’s hand.

  “I know,” Castor said to him.

  Van and Iro came toward the shield slowly, stunned. Iro pressed a hand to her mouth, crouching in front of it.

  “That’s—” Van began.

  “Yes,” Lore said.

  “Carried into the Trojan War—”

  “Yes.”

  “Born from Hephaestus’s hammer—”

  “Yes.”

  “Bearing the Gorgoneion—”

  “Do you need to sit back down?” Lore asked him, seriously. Van stretched his hand out toward it, only to pull it back before his fingers could touch Medusa. As if she might bite. But none of them were afraid—Lore wondered then if she had to be holding the shield to use it to instill terror in others, and if she had to will that effect into being.

  “This is so cool,” Miles said, dropping onto a knee. He glanced up at Lore. “Can I take a picture with it?”

  “What?” Lore said, pulling it back. “No!”

  “Was that you, an hour or so ago?” Iro asked. “It sounded like thunder at first, but . . .”

  Lore nodded. “I wanted Athena to know that I was alive, and that I had it. I might not know what she’s planning, but at least this will help draw her out.”

  “Do we need to draw her out?” Miles asked, pained.

  “We do,” Lore confirmed. “If we’re going to end the Agon, she can’t survive it, otherwise there’ll be no place in the world we’ll be safe from her.”

  The new god let out a noise of frustration. “We’re missing something, here.”

  “Of course we’re missing something,” Van said. “You can’t remember how you became a god, but you seemingly can’t be killed. Why is that?”

  Castor had told the others the truth about his ascension, but the story had only brought more questions.

  “It might not be connected at all,” Miles pointed out. “Maybe it’s just Apollo’s power healing him fast enough to prevent any injury from killing him.”

  “If that’s true then I doubt the original could have died,” Lore said. “And he was shot through the heart.”

  Iro looked to Castor. “Sorry.”

  Castor’s shoulder lifted in a shrug.

  “What if Wrath is taking the lines literally?” Van said. “Instead of building a temple or calling worshippers back to honor Zeus, he’s planning a ceremonial sacrifice of animals or something else in Zeus’s name? Conquest final and fearsome . . . conquest . . . Do we know where he is now?”

  “He’s back at the Waldorf Astoria,” Iro said, pressing a hand to her face. “I almost forgot to tell you, and that was the whole point of my coming here. We have eyes posted nearby, and they reported that all the Kadmides returned. I can only assume that he did as well.”

  “He was at the Waldorf Astoria?” Lore asked, looking between them. “Did I miss something?”

  “Oh, yeah—you actually did,” Miles said. “That’s what the source in the Kadmides told me during that last meeting. The hotel has been closed for remodeling for years now and isn’t set to reopen for a few more months. The Kadmides paid an eye-watering amount to the owners to stop construction work for the week. They’re using the penthouse suites.”

  The prestigious hotel undergoing renovations in midtown east seemed like a strange pick to her, aside from it being empty, but Lore let it go. “But he left at one point?”

  “All the Kadmides evacuated during the flooding,” Van explained. “Interesting that they came back . . .”

  “He would only go back if he had to go back,” Miles said. “Don’t you think? If Van’s right, maybe that’s where they’ve built their altar for the sacrifice.”

  Van rubbed at his chin. “Why would he need Tidebringer to cause the flood, then? He could have just taken people off the street— Oh.”

  “Oh what?” Lore pressed. “Oh no?”

  “They’re not going to attack the Waldorf Astoria,” Van said. He looked to Miles. “It’s empty except for the hunters. But what happened when the floodwaters came in?”

  “It broke water mains, disrupted our electricity and all of our transportation systems . . .” Miles stood up. “Oh.”

  Van nodded. “It forced people into shelters. That was the whole point of it: to ensure that people—a lot of people—would be gathering in a few places around the city.”

  “You think he’s planning a human sacrifice?” Iro asked, aghast. “Knowing it is forbidden?”

  “Conquest final and fearsome,” Van repeated again. “It’s a conquest of those who worship rival gods—at least it would be in Wrath’s eyes.”

  “But at any point during a weekday there are thousands of people in office buildings, schools, trains, and in subway stations,” Lore said. “Why did he need Tidebringer to cause a flood?”

  “To render city services useless, and keep everyone preoccupied with relief efforts,” Miles said. “To move around the city unnoticed because of the flood and its fallout. Everyone they haven’t paid off will be overwhelmed by ensuring the city’s security.”

  “Where are the biggest shelters?” Iro asked.

  “A lot of the usual designated shelters were also affected,” Miles said. “They’ve been using big structures like Madison Square Garden, Central Park, Grand Central Station. . . .”

  He went very pale, then looked at the time on his phone.

  “Miles?” Lore queried.

  “I know why they picked the Waldorf Astoria,” he said. “And if I’m right, we don’t have until the Agon ends on Sunday at midnight. We only have until tomorrow to stop them.”

  “I MEAN . . .” MILES CONTINUED, taking in the faces around him. “I might be wrong. I hope I’m wrong.”

  “Let’s operate under the assumption you’re not,” Van said, guiding him back over to a chair.

  “They’re evacuating the people in Grand Central and the other temporary relief points starting tomorrow night—Friday night—a
nd taking them to a better-equipped shelter in Queens,” Miles said, sounding more and more disturbed. “But construction aside, it’s definitely not a coincidence he chose that particular hotel.”

  “What makes you say that?” Lore asked.

  “Have you ever heard of Track Sixty-One?” he said, pulling out his phone and quickly searching. “It’s a so-called ‘secret’ subway track beneath the hotel, built for President Roosevelt—the F. D. one, not the teddy-bear one—so he could move between Grand Central Station and the Waldorf Astoria without the public seeing that he couldn’t walk. I got to take a tour once with my internship boss—but most people have no idea it still exists.”

  Miles handed Lore his phone. She scrolled down through the article there as Castor read over her shoulder.

  “It looks like FDR would be put in his armored car and they would drive that into an elevator, which led into the Waldorf Astoria’s parking garage,” Castor said. “Whatever the Kadmides brought over from River House could be hidden there, on the track.”

  “But I thought the subway tunnels were flooded?” Lore asked.

  “Some of them are,” Miles said. “I can see if there are any updates through work, but they might have their own motorized system for getting around without using the tracks themselves. What do you think it is, though? A bomb?”

  “A sacrificial offering to the gods is usually made with fire,” Lore explained to Miles. “So the smoke rises to where they were believed to reside in the sky. If it’s not a bomb, it’s most likely some other incendiary device. Are we betting on Grand Central Station as their target?”

  “They could connect to a number of different subway lines there,” Miles said. “But they would definitely need to pass through it.”

  “You are forgetting a few steps,” Iro said. “For it to be a proper sacrifice there would need to be libations. An animal’s throat would be cut—there’d be prayers.”

  “I think he’s likely moved beyond proper,” Lore said.

  Iro nodded. “Fair point.”

  “There’s another problem,” Castor said. “Even if we’re right, how are we going to narrow down the potential window of the attack?”