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  As if he’d been a real person and not a story.

  Merlin said the true king would come to retrieve the sword from the stone, in their backyard. Merlin, as if he was a real person who’d yelled at her father through the closed door.

  Alex could be anyone. Or none of them. He was playing mind games with her. She put the books away, crumpled her list, and threw it on the floor. She ate one of the wilted sandwiches, thought about going to bed, but decided she wasn’t tired.

  She powered up her laptop.

  Write anything. How long had it been since she’d done that? No scripts, no deadlines, no proposals for new projects to pay the rent.

  Maybe she should try that novel.

  Tracker’s story was still unfinished, still tickling her mind, not leaving room for new ideas. She picked up the thread again. Tracker, Jeeves, and Matchlock were traveling across Siberia in search of American spies to rescue. Jeeves had just guessed her secret—she was in love with their commander. Rather cliché, that, looking back on it. Evie could put a twist in it somehow. Then they were attacked. Which was a cop-out, really.

  But she could explain it away. The Russians were suspicious of the Americans, had been following them, wanted to stop them, and hired mercenaries to make the attack look like the work of terrorists. Tracker was separated from Jeeves and Matchlock.

  The Jeep swerved to avoid an incoming missile—the bastards had rocket launchers. Sheltered by the sparse foliage that dotted the edge of the tundra, she saw another one taking aim. She didn’t think about it. She jumped, handgun ready, rolled to a stop more expertly than she had any right to hope for, and fired.

  She wasn’t a sniper. At this distance, with this much adrenaline in her system, she shouldn’t have hit him. But she did, and he slumped, his weapon falling. Jeeves, Matchlock, and the Jeep were safe.

  Rising from her crouch, she looked ahead. The Jeep had swerved to a stop. A dozen soldiers carrying automatic rifles surrounded it. Jeeves and Matchlock held their hands up. Tracker caught her breath and flattened to the ground. She waited for the sound of gunfire that would tell her that her friends had been murdered where they stood. But the sound never came. Instead, the soldiers hauled them out of the Jeep. A thumping noise in the air signaled the arrival of a helicopter. The mercenaries loaded Jeeves and Matchlock into it, climbed in themselves, and flew away.

  She didn’t have much cover here—a few tufts of scrub, a snowdrift. But they never looked for her.

  In a way, writing prose was like relearning how to walk. She had to think about complete sentences. Describe instead of label. She didn’t have Bruce to draw the pictures for her. Like Tracker, she was alone.

  She had a dilemma: Did she continue with the mission, or did she go after Jeeves and Matchlock? Her instincts told her it wasn’t really a dilemma. They could hold out for now. If the soldiers wanted them dead, they would have killed them immediately. She had no idea where the mercenaries were taking them. The helicopter had flown west, and Russia was a very big place.

  The bunker at the edge of the defunct gulag, where the prisoner was being held, was ten miles away. She could reach it before nightfall if she managed a good pace. Never mind that she had only her gun and a short-range radio with her. The bunker would have food and water, and the equipment to contact Talon.

  She could do this without Talon. If she ignored the pang in her belly the thought of him gave her. He’d tell her she was crazy, trying this on her own.

  No, he wouldn’t, a voice inside her argued. He has faith in you.

  She checked the body of the mercenary she’d shot, verified he was dead, and looted a pack of food rations and a canteen off him. The canteen held vodka. No good for survival—maybe she could use it to inure herself to a lingering death, if she became hopelessly lost or injured. She shook her head, chastising herself for such defeatist thinking. Maybe she could use the vodka as a bribe.

  Then, loosening the collar of her coat and hardening her will, she set off at a jog across the wasteland.

  Robin Goodfellow was matchless as a spy. But soon, Hera would need an army. She gathered the start of one in a bar outside town.

  The bartender, his eyes a bit glazed, his movements meticulous, as if he wasn’t quite sure what he was doing, or someone else was guiding his motions, stood at the bar and finished pouring a glass of wine. He set the bottle aside, his face slack. The next day, he’d remember nothing, he’d be convinced that his bar stood empty all night, and know nothing about the four people gathered here. The place was frequented by bikers and truckers. Transients. She couldn’t have her people trooping in and out of her hotel room, so she gathered them here. They might have been holding an informal meeting of some innocent town club.

  Smiling indulgently at the entranced bartender, she picked up the glass, took a sip, and went to the round table in the center of the room where the others waited for her, pretending to nurse their own drinks.

  They were frustratingly young to her eyes. The oldest among them had only two thousand years behind him. The youngest, forty. One learned so little within the span of a natural life. Despite their youth, their inexperience, they were used to wielding power, and the world was not so rich in magic as it once was. These people would have to do.

  She had drawn them here with a promise of more power than they could find or make in their individual spheres of influence. She had explained that through her, and only through her, they could combine their strength and reach for the divine. Because they were who they were, could do what they did, and knew something of power, however limited their understanding of it was, they believed her, and they answered her call.

  Now she had to prove that their faith in her was not misplaced.

  “I want to own this town,” she said.

  “What will that gain us?” The Curandera was older than she looked, a mother and healer, a bringer of rain and storms, a speaker of the languages of the earth and sky. Still in her first lifetime, she was the youngest of them, but because her knowledge of magic had been passed down to her, from mother to daughter, for a thousand years, she was powerful.

  “Here lies a power that can dictate the fate of nations,” said the Marquis. He was in his third or fourth lifetime, a British nobleman from the last century steeped in the culture of empire and one of the few successful practitioners in the revival of what he called ceremonial magic. He could bind, curse, break, mold, and summon. If only Hera could teach him how to do all this without his props, tools, symbols, and erroneous scholarship. He looked uncomfortable in a suit and tie, his brown hair tied in a short tail at his neck, as if the modern clothing were a costume. He ought to be wearing a frock coat and powdered wig.

  “What power?” said the Curandera.

  “How much do you know about chemistry?” Hera asked. “What happens to an unstable compound, where the molecular bonds are weak, or require too much energy to maintain? It breaks down. A reaction occurs until the molecules form more stable compounds. Do you see what is happening in the world? The political situation is unstable. The artificial borders, the nations constructed out of blood and misguided diplomacy are falling apart. The world is an unstable compound, and it must break down if it is to form a more stable unit. I plan to guide that reaction. I have access to the catalyst that will ignite the final decomposition.”

  “That’s ambitious. Thinking you can mold the world, and that it will be better because you’re involved?” said the Curandera. Her eyes shone, and Hera knew the thought that inspired the brightness: the idea of a female divinity remaking the world, of a matriarchy restored.

  “Yes,” she said simply. “It certainly couldn’t be much worse.”

  The Curandera smiled.

  The fourth of their party sat a little ways off from the table, out of the light coming through the room’s only window. He was young looking, handsome in a tie and dark jacket, his short hair combed back. The Wanderer was the oldest of them, apart from Hera herself. Through sheer experience, he had
gained insight. He could see patterns of the past and how they would play into the future. He could look at a man sitting perfectly still with a blank expression, and predict what that man was thinking or might do next. He had become, by the stubborn nature of his existence, a seer.

  “It isn’t worse,” he said. He spoke slowly, with a quiet certainty that the others would wait to listen to him. “No worse than it’s ever been. Perhaps better in some ways. Always, there has been chaos. The world has broken and re-formed many times—I have seen it many, many times. It does so against the will of people, and without our guidance.”

  Hera said, “How many times have you wanted to take control—you can see what must be done, your wisdom tells you when you see madness, when the world is run by fools. Even you, Wanderer, don’t remember. There was a time when the world was not ruled by shortsighted mortal whim. I remember.”

  “Can you bring that time again?” he said flatly, like he didn’t believe her.

  If she had been able to act even a few hundred years ago, she would have gathered a very different looking army: witches, mediums, saints, prophets. People who knew magic for what it was, people who feared the dark it could do, but worshipped its strength, whether they called it God or nature or alchemy. These people before her—they felt the power, they touched it, they identified some destiny in their skills, the strength of their knowledge of what lay underneath the surface of emotions like love and hate. But they didn’t call it magic. Even the Marquis preferred to think of the power as a science that could be codified.

  “I can,” she said.

  “Then I will follow you, for it has been two thousand years since I have seen one with such a power.”

  She nodded respectfully, though the Wanderer might have caught the flicker in her expression, the surge of anticipation at once again having followers and servants. He tasted his martini and watched her over the rim of his glass.

  Soon, she would be able to break this world over her knee.

  The door slammed open and Robin burst into the room. She’d told him to knock first. She’d have to do something about his irreverence. The imp claimed to admire Hermes, but Hermes had never been so impertinent.

  Entering behind him, slouching in a felt coat, was the Greek slave who’d been at the Walker house.

  Hera gave him a welcoming smile. “Good evening. Please come in and make yourself comfortable.”

  Walking slowly, cautiously, the Greek approached. He pulled a chair away from a different table than the others and sat. He eyed the others carefully, as if memorizing their features.

  Robin stood apart, arms crossed and grinning, like he’d brought home the golden fleece all by himself.

  She continued. “How much of our little endeavor did Robin explain to you?”

  The Greek glanced at Robin and shrugged deeper into his coat. “Is that his name?”

  “I’ll take that to mean none, then. Would you like something to drink?”

  He shook his head. Not one for social niceties, it seemed. But then, she couldn’t blame him for being wary. He’d had experience with the old gods. What exactly had Apollo done to the lad to terrify him so?

  She stepped before him. “I’m prepared to make a deal with you. I need access to the Storeroom in the Walker house.”

  “What makes you think I have it?” he said with a half grin.

  “One step at a time. I’m a patient woman.”

  “I can imagine. It’s taken you a long time to get here.”

  He may not have had any power of his own, but she’d do well not to underestimate him. He was old, and age alone would give him a great deal of knowledge, perhaps even wisdom. “You as well. We might be able to help each other. What do you want from the Storeroom? What are you looking for?”

  “Hasn’t your spy told you?”

  Hera made a noncommittal sigh. “The only reason any of us—people like us—are interested in the Walker house is the Storeroom. I believe you’re trying to get into it through the girl. I would only like to propose that when you reach your goal, you keep my interests in mind. I could make it worth your while.”

  “How?”

  Here came the problem in dealing with immortals: What could she offer to someone who’d been alive for so long? What experience could she give him that he didn’t already have, what wealth that he hadn’t already collected and squandered a dozen times over? Immortals were so jaded.

  “Name a price,” she said, shrugging.

  “I want to hear what you’re offering.”

  What had he been, before he wore Apollo’s chain? What had he become, after Apollo was gone? If nothing else, he was pleasant on the eyes. One could never have too many nice-looking men around.

  “I can offer you power,” she said. “I’m rebuilding a pantheon. I’ll need help to see it established.”

  “You’re offering divinity?” he said.

  “Is that what you want?”

  He kept his expression still. His gaze revealed nothing, not desire, fear, shock, nothing. But it was so clear. She could give him what he hadn’t found in over three thousand years of life. Power. Godhood. He was a servant, like Robin. He needed only a worthy master to guide him. She could use him like a tool, and make him grateful for it.

  “That isn’t what he wants,” the Wanderer said. He’d been staring at the Greek, studying him with his focused intensity. Looking inside him. To his credit, the Greek didn’t flinch.

  “What does he want?” Hera said, not taking her gaze from the Greek.

  “Ask him about the chain he wears around his neck.”

  Hera lifted her brow. “Well?”

  The Greek grimaced and said, “I want it off.”

  Ah, three thousand years, his master dead, and he was still a slave.

  “Then I will find a way to remove it. If you will help me.”

  The Greek had just exposed a great deal about himself, so she didn’t fault him for his stony reaction. He’d locked himself behind an emotionless wall—which he was wise to do, in a room filled with so much power.

  He said, “You have a plan.”

  “There is a golden apple. It was mine by rights when it first came into being, but it was stolen from me. I would have it now. Since the Walkers won’t give it to me, I must take it.”

  He nodded slowly, with understanding. “Discord’s apple. The Judgment of Paris.”

  “You know the story. Good.”

  “I fought in the war over Helen, my lady. Of course I know the story.”

  She regarded him with renewed curiosity. Who was he?

  “Can you find a way for me to get into the Storeroom, or bring me the apple yourself?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “See that you do, and you will be rewarded.”

  “My lady, can I ask you a question?”

  “You may.”

  “How did you survive?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “When Zeus set the trap at Olympus, how did you survive?”

  She considered. He knew too much. Even if he was Apollo’s slave, Apollo hadn’t known anything. The stupid boy had fallen straight into Zeus’s trap, along with the rest of the family. In the stories, the gods had lived on forever. Only disbelief caused them to fade into myth. No one ever learned of the destruction of Olympus. She would have to watch this one closely indeed.

  “I nearly didn’t. But you must understand, Zeus was my husband. He didn’t think I knew what he had planned, but I did. I had a plan of my own, and though his power nearly found me out, it didn’t.”

  His gaze became unfocused and thoughtful.

  “Does that agree with what you know?” she said.

  “Yes. Yes, it does. Thank you. I should be going, I think. I have work to do.”

  He stood, turned up his collar, and let himself out the door.

  The Wanderer said, “He’s hiding something.”

  “Of course he is,” Hera said curtly.

  “He never exactly agreed to h
elp you, you know,” the Wanderer added.

  “Did he really fight at Troy?” asked the Marquis.

  “I believe he did.”

  The nobleman continued. “There’s something else you should know. He’s the one I followed. He’s the one who led us to the Storeroom. I suspect he possesses a great deal of knowledge we could use.”

  Hera tapped a finger on the rim of her wineglass. “Robin, you must keep a close watch on him.”

  “Absolutely I must.”

  Vita chopped vegetables while Sylvia, six years old, stirred the soup, or tried to. Vita hoped it didn’t burn too badly, but she didn’t have the heart to shoo her daughter away.

  “When was the Trojan War, Mother?”

  “Oh, hundreds of years ago.”

  “Then how do people know what happened?”

  “They tell stories. That’s why stories are so important. They help people remember.”

  “Why didn’t anyone believe Cassandra? I would have believed her.”

  “No, you wouldn’t have. Apollo made it so no one believed her.”

  “Why?”

  “Cassandra made him angry, so he cursed her.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that’s what gods do.”

  “Is that why we pray to them? So they won’t curse us?”

  Oh, the blasphemy, Vita thought, biting back a smile. “Yes, my dear. That’s exactly it.”

  Lucius came in then, and Sylvia screamed a welcome to him, ran, and hugged him. He snatched her up and spun her around until her brown hair tangled in front of her face, then he held her upside down while she screamed some more, and he leaned over to kiss Vita on the cheek.

  “Supper soon? I’m famished,” he said. It was planting season. He’d been in the fields since dawn.

  “Yes.”

  “The Mouse been helping you?”