Something in his eyes both brightened and darkened. It was pure devotion. Gut-twisting worry. Sophie bit her lip, shocked by how hard her heart flipped over at the pained expression flickering across his face. “So, I guess you don’t have amnesia?”

His reply was a low grunt. How helpful.

A moment later, he asked, “Do you have a name?”

“Why?” she teased. She couldn’t help it.

His—Piers’s—lips twitched. “So I can stop calling you Pink in my head. Or The Woman.”

Sophie laughed. Considering how scared she’d just been, this whole conversation seemed surreal to her—as surreal as being helped by a gladiator named Piers of Sinta.

“It’s Sophie. Sophronia Iraklidis.”

“Now that’s a normal name,” he said with a firm nod of his head.

Oddly, he was dead serious. “You’re the only one who thinks so.”

“The prudent and wise descendant of Heracles.” He cocked his head, his coal-dark hair catching the first snowflakes as they fell. “If you’re Magoi, why not defend yourself?”

Magoi? Sophie was so confused right now, it wasn’t even funny. She was also getting really cold after the adrenaline rush and flat-out sprinting. She shivered. “Are you a classics professor? Were you at a reenactment or something?”

His nose wrinkled. “Or something.”

They continued toward Midtown. Piers obviously liked his secrets. She decided not to push. She had a thumb-sized secret of her own icing a hole in her pocket right now. Her teeth started chattering, the cold attacking her from inside and out.

“We should get you to shelter.” He made a beeline for the nearest shop. It was a frilly underwear boutique. Sophie nudged him one door farther down the avenue. As luck would have it, it was a men’s clothing store.

“Do you have anything to change into?” she asked. Somehow, she knew he didn’t. If it weren’t complete insanity, she’d think this was a bit of a Thor situation, but instead of finding a mouthwatering Norse god with a magic hammer, she’d found a tall, dark, fine-as-hell swordsman who seemed to have gotten lost on his way to the Trojan War. The whole thing was starting to feel less strange by the second—which was strange in itself. Sophie supposed people were adaptable. Human beings could get used to anything, good or bad.

Letting go of Piers’s arm, she headed through the automatic revolving door. Piers stayed on the other side, eyeing the transparent glass with suspicion. His hand slid toward his sword.

Sophie did the full circle and went back for him, the damp cold outside hitting her like a snowball to the face. She reached for his arm, drew him into the little moving wedge, and they shuffled sideways together, nearly chest to chest, until she stepped out and pulled him into the blissfully warm shop. The heater was going full blast, especially near the entrance.