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Deborah whispered, although we were alone in her small office. “Kleos, you can’t go around asking forthem. They don’t…they don’t come on demand. They allhatewhen we show presumption.”

“Who do you mean?” I repeated, frustrated. “I’m just talking about an old man, not a bunch of people.”

“You really don’t know?” she shook her head. “I’d thought a Pendros would have been told.”

I flushed, feeling clueless and foolish.

Deborah came from a family like my mother’s, long integrated in Highvale. They had a tendency to keep details on the history of our city to themselves. If we’d been closer, perhaps my mother might have educated me, but Zenya Pendros was busy, almost never home, and when she found time for me, it was reserved for lectures and unending lists of expectations, not history lessons.

“Oh, the heavens forgive me,” Deborah murmured. “Thegods, Kleos. The gods come here occasionally. And if you were blessed to see one of them once, and survive it, unharmed? Take the win. Walk away. Don’t look back. And for pity’s sake, don’tdemandan audience.”

Oh.

Oh.

“Well, that makes an awful lot of sense.”

I actually feel rather dumb for not adding up two and two before.

Everyone knew, in theory, that gods had built this city. Only it was hard to imagine that when people were actually talking about real, living, breathing gods.

And yet…who else could have stopped me from burning inside out with just three runes, forever altering who I had been in the process?

“The gods can appear in their temples, or in the Hall of Truce—that’s why it’s called that. They’re all in agreement about playing nice in here,” Deborah told me. “But it’s rare, Kleos. And most of the time? Highly dangerous for mortals. There are stories—horrific ones. When Zeus visits?” She shivered, shaking her head.

Could it have been Zeus? Maybe. He had a horrible reputation, but I was a kid. He was known for doing awful stuff to women—and men—not seven-year-olds.

I decided it didn’t matter. There was no hope of finding the old man now. I thought he could have been a council member who chose to not socialize at the many galas my parents made me attend, or maybe a senior librarian who’d since retired. But a god? There was no way I could get his help.

I was back to square one.

9

LUCIAN

Iwished I’d just throw up already. The constant nausea was far worse.

Eyes closed, head back against the red leather of my favorite armchair, I attempted to tune out the world when a familiar, and deeply irritating voice disrupted my peace. “Why are you green? Why is he green, Lucky?”

"Oh, bollocks,” I groaned, hoping I was just having auditory hallucinations.

Except I couldfeelthem.

I cracked one eye open, and indeed, found two faces just inches from mine. Ronan’s curtain of silky iridescent raven hair, which had reached his shoulders last time I saw him, seemed even longer. The dramatic fucker’s journey into looking like Dracula was going according to plan. Next to him, Lucky—or Aristeia, but no one used that pompous name—had reverted back to her usual blue hair, darker at the roots, sky blue at the tips. She came by it honestly, but occasionally self-conscious about her naiad roots, the kid dyed it black.

Lucky’s parents lived next door to the Nachtigall, Ronan’s family. When they died tragically, his family took her in. We’ve all accepted her as an annoying but ever-present little sister.

“Oh, he talks!” she beamed, clapping her hands. “For a second there, I thought you might be decomposing. You’re so pale, usually, but the blue-green hue is new. Are you part oceanid, too?”

“What I am,” I said, slowly sitting up, “is too shit to deal with you guys.”

Ronan laughed. “Balls. You love us.”

“Debatable,” I groaned.

Lucky pouted. “You don’t love me? Should I remove you from the list of sloe gin recipients? Last year’s brew is ready, you know.”

Wisely, I backtracked. The kid knew her spirits. “You are the single most beautiful thing in this room, Aristeia, fiercest of the Priams.”