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“You have heard me, Deimos,” Eros answers, and now I hear the tremor in his voice—whether from sorrow or from anger, I can’t tell.

“Do not insult me by asking again.”

Deimos’s words shake too—with disbelief and hatred.

“You chooseherover me? This murderous, foul thing? She will kill you in your sleep!”

The words sicken me. I would never hurt Eros, never…and yet this pool of blood on the floor, this maimed creature crawling on the earth: I did that.

“I do not choose herover you.” Eros’s voice rises, though he is still imprisoned in his chair. He looks at me now.

“I choose her, I will always choose her”—his gaze turns back to his brother—“but I do not choose herover you. That was your choice, not mine. Remember that she has but one life, Deimos, and you would happily have stolen it from her.” His voice thickens. “She spared you, Deimos. Her aim is true. If she had wanted that knife through your heart she could have done it. She did not.”

Deimos howls again and arches his back.

“You are a fool, brother. You have always been a fool!” he shouts. “You are bewitched, a traitor in thrall to a mortal whore!”

“Watch your tongue,” Eros spits. “Call me what you will, but you’ll insult my wife no further.”

Deimos calls out from the ground.

“Or what? You will kill me, too? I suppose she’s promised you a share of that adamantine! You’re plotting against us now.”

“Don’t be a fool,” Eros scoffs.

“Me?Me, the fool?”

Deimos lunges, and snatches something from the ground: the knife. As he holds it aloft, it still drips with blood. I cry out as he swivels around, bracing himself to drive it into Eros’s leg. But Eros sees it too; he levers back his leg and kicks, landing a foot against his brother’s jaw. I see Deimos’s head snap back as the knife skitters across the floor to land at the foot of Eros’s chair. Eros picks it up and I feel Deimos’s fear—but all he does is cut the two remaining shackles. He stands, and Deimos stares; the stump on his back quivers.

“Youdare.”

Eros walks slowly across the room to where I’m standing.

“Psyche.”

I find it hard to look at him. But the touch of his hand—that, I feel. I feel it like a promise, like the first green shoots of life.

“Psyche. Take my hand. We must go. Now.”

I want to move, and yet the command seems not to make it to my feet. I take a step forward, but my whole body shakes. And then I feel him taking me in his arms—just as he did that first night. Only I can feel now how weakened he is, how changed.I did that.I caused this change in him. This weakness.

He lifts me; my neck rests against his shoulder. His great wings unfold.

I glance back, although I know I should not. The blood on the ground is almost black now, mixed with mud, but white feathers mark the darkness. Deimos hisses at the sight of me.

“Run while you can, worm.” His eyes burn with a fire I know will haunt my dreams.

*

Once clear of the cavern, Eros draws in his wings and lowers us to the floor of the tunnel.

“I cannot fly far,” he admits.

“I can walk,” I say, but he does not put me down. He walks on with me cradled against him. I struggle with the words I want to say.

“I’m sorry. I did not wish to hurt him.” There’s silence for a moment.

“If you had not stopped him, he would have killed you. And then I would have killed him.”