“He looks a lot like me,” Ares said. “But that’s where the similarity stops. I’m the god of war. You’re just a kid. And I don’t know what they think you’re going to do against Achilles except die.”

“I’m the only one who can kill him,” Henry said, and hated the way his voice sounded.

“You?” Ares shook his head. “Not you. Hector of Troy maybe, but not you.”

“I know what you’re saying,” Henry said calmly. “And I’m not doing it. This is as close to Hector of Troy as you’re going to get.”

“Not even if it would give you the juice you need to stay alive? Haven’t you noticed that you past heroes who die and come back with your old memories tend to wake up … supercharged?”

“Supercharged,” Henry whispered, remembering how Odysseus had taken out Famine in the tunnels of Olympus. How he’d managed to survive a sword through the chest long enough to fall all the way to the underworld. Achilles, Cassandra, and Odysseus. They were all more than they were before. They weren’t just heroes. They embodied their myths. Odysseus, once only clever and quick, was now fast enough to take down wolves, clever enough to hide Achilles and his own strength for most of a year. Cassandra, once a doomed prophet, was now the doom of gods, with eyes to the future that rivaled the Fates’.

And Achilles. The myths said he was invincible, and now he was impossible to kill.

The myths also said that of all others, only Hector could stand against him. What would that Hector be now, if not the one who could truly destroy Achilles?

Henry looked at Andie. She stared at him with wide brown eyes and shook her head.

“Why would you tell me this?” Henry asked Ares.

Ares shrugged.

“You seem to care about my brother, so maybe I want you to live. Or maybe I could just tell that you didn’t want to know.” He shrugged again. “I just do things. Let other people figure out the whys.”

*   *   *

Cassandra was so angry she thought her fingers might melt together. She wanted to hurt something so badly she was moments from hurting herself. Her fingernails were bloodied and cracked from breaking across Athena’s door, and their sharp edges dragged up and down her wrists. But it wasn’t enough. Her wrists itched down deep. She’d have to claw her way under the skin if she wanted to scratch it.

“Why did you bring me here?” she shouted.

“This is where you needed to go,” Thanatos said quietly.

“I’d almost gotten it down. I’d almost swallowed it.” She wasn’t making sense but it felt good to yell. To hell with the right words. Screaming eased the itch in her chest. Yelling loosened the tightness in her throat.

In the car she’d started to feel better. Breathed deep and closed her eyes, let the cold wind come in through the window and blow Ares right off her shoulders. Calypso, too, had helped. She’d closed her eyes and thought of Calypso.

Then Thanatos turned the car into the cemetery and pulled her by the wrist to Aidan’s grave.

“You can’t swallow it,” Thanatos said. “You almost killed them back there, going after Ares. You’d have gone through Athena. You’d have stepped on Hermes’ chest if it would’ve gotten you closer. Did you really want to kill Ares so badly?”

“Yes, I wanted to kill him! I want to kill all of them. Athena, Hermes, Odysseus. All of them. I hate them.” She paced in front of Aidan’s grave. The letters on his headstone curved down in pity. She ran at it and shoved it hard. Two hundred pounds of marble fell over in the grass. It seemed to Cassandra that it flew.

“I hate you,” she said, and then she screamed until she thought her vocal cords would rip, would snap like weak twine. “I hate you!”

What else she said in the next several minutes, what expletives, what names, what elaborate curses, she didn’t know. Maybe it was none of those and she stood screaming nothing in an empty, sunlit cemetery.

Thanatos stood to the side and ignored her until she was through.

Wrung out and guilty, she felt sort of ridiculous, and her broken fingernails throbbed. But when she glanced at Thanatos, his expression was neutral. Her lip curled to say something like, What was that? Death therapy? Should we hug it out now? but her voice was too tired for it. Instead she asked, “Am I crazy?”

“If you are, people have gone crazy for less.” He looked at Aidan’s headstone, helpless on its back. It reminded Cassandra of a lobster she’d seen in a tank once, hopelessly flipped over, no longer trying to right itself. Why bother? It was headed for a pot of hot water anyway.