“Cassandra cried that Greeks were hidden in the Trojan Horse but was ignored. Which begs the question how noble can Apollo truly be? When he fought on the side of Troy, yet compromise their victory, all because he was given the cold shoulder?”

“Gods, he’s so terrible,” Sybil said. “I don’t know why I didn’t see it before.”

“He’s abusive,” Persephone said. “Don’t blame yourself.”

“You should say that in the article!” Leuce said. “Apollo is an abuser—he has a need to control and dominate. It’s not about communication or listening, it’s about winning.”

They continued like that for hours, until Sybil and Leuce could no longer keep their eyes open. With the two asleep on the couch, Persephone was pinned against the armrest. The pallid glow from her computer hurt her eyes, but she continued to revise what they’d written together. The result was a critical and slightly hostile article about the God of Music. Persephone excluded Sybil’s story, even though she’d contributed a few lines illustrating her own experiences with the god. She didn’t want Apollo to retaliate against the oracle.

The more Persephone read and reread the piece, the angrier she got and before she could think it through, she composed an email to Demetri and sent the article. She felt triumphant for all of two seconds—before she scrambled from the couch, ran into the bathroom, and threw up in the toilet.

You are in so much trouble, she thought as she sagged against the bathroom wall. Her stomach felt like it was boiling, a combination of too much wine and guilt.

Apollo did this to himself. She thought, reminding herself why she’d sent the article. He deserves this. This is about justice, about giving a voice to his victims.

What about Hades?

Her stomach lurched and Persephone got to her knees just as bile rose to the back of her throat. She vomited again. Her nose and throat burned and all she could taste was bitter, acidic wine. She knelt for a while, breathing through her mouth until she felt steady enough to rise to her feet.

When she looked in the mirror, she didn’t recognize herself. She looked more like a soul that had just arrived in the Underworld, pale and shivering.

“Hades kept secrets,” she said aloud, as if that explained why she’d gone back on her word.

You kept secrets, she reminded herself as she rinsed her mouth and brushed her teeth. You didn’t tell him about Demetri’s ultimatum.

“That’s different,” she met her gaze in the mirror.

How?

It was different because it was her battle. She hadn’t wanted Hades’ help fighting it.

“It’s different because that secret won’t hurt him,” she said.

But the secret he’d kept about Leuce? It hurt.