Alright, a fair warning for this chapter. It contains some ideas that might be . . . how do I say this . . . ideologically sensitive, especially concerning religion. If you're not cool with that, okay. Skip the chapter, or email someone who read it to ask for the details . . . I don't know.

Not even saying I believe this stuff, but I think it works well with everyone's character and meshes into the story nicely.

And it's long as hell, so it would be great if I could get a review or two. It takes like two seconds, and you don't even have to be honest.

Looking at you, person who un-faved and un-followed all my stories for unknown reasons. Looking RIGHT FUCKING AT YOU.

Not naming names, just saying there's a nonzero chance that I know where you live and am already inside.

It's against the rules to do this. It's against the rules to fight back against them, against the rules to disagree, to even think about disagreeing.

But the rules didn't matter when my siblings decided they were sick of this shit and wanted out, so you'll excuse me if I'm not exactly a goody two-shoes.

Really, the rules only exist to benefit them. Maybe benefit the ones who follow them, if they're very lucky, and, more than that, obedient. That's what they want.

But I'm here now, in the back of an alley, facing down a drug dealer and an unnaturally strong girl. It doesn't help that Ryan's fists are clenched, Rowan looks like she's hiding a dagger in her pocket, and I've got one hand on the hilt of the knife on my belt. It looks for all intents and purposes like we're about to start a fight — one of us, anyway.

But we're not. None of us.

Because Ryan recognizes me.

And if he goes for me, it's not because he's going to fight me.

It's because he's going to kill me.

I know that, even though I don't know how I know.

But I figure I may as well give him a chance to explain. I want to hear this. I want to hear what he comes up with. And I know he wants to hear what I come up with.

Then, we can decide who deserves to live and who doesn't.

But there'll be no fighting. We don't have time for that.

I still can't believe he let me shake his hand — I would've thought he would snap my neck as soon as the opportunity presented itself. But he's plenty ready to make up for lost time.

But not yet.

And neither of them are ready to have a rational conversation right now.

None of us has said anything since I shook Ryan's hand and retreated into the back of the alley while they were shocked into following me. But now Ryan turns on the girl, expression morphing from shock to fury. "Why the hell," he spits, "did you bring him here?" He's white-knuckling his fists, and he seems to be struggling to control his breathing.

Rowan glares furiously back at him. "I don't fucking know! I have no idea who he is, dumbass. All I know is he's one of them, and he's as good as told me he's one of them, and he wanted to see you. If I broke some ancient taboo with this one in particular, and if you want me to somehow break into Camp Half-Blood and kidnap another one, by all means, tell me, and I'll see what I can do if I don't fucking kill you first."

I have to admire Rowan, despite all the shit she's done. Anyone who can face down a murderous teenager almost a head taller than them, and practically spit back at them, deserves a round of applause in my book.

He glares back. "Didn't think to ask for his fucking name, did you? Could've told me you brought Will Solace. . . . I could have —"

"What?" Rowan shouts. "What would you do? Choke him? Already tried that. He threw you off. Face it, Ryan, he's half god. Knowing his name wouldn't have made him weaker."

"Uh," I interrupt, "I'm right here, you know. And I'd appreciate it if one of you could explain why I'm extra not-allowed around around here —"

Before I can finish, Ryan steps forward, face contorted with rage. Before I can step away or think of a way to finish the sentence, he grabs the front of my shirt, slamming me back against the filthy brick wall and pressing a forearm against my throat. It's the exact thing Rowan did to me three nights earlier, only he's not holding back. And I'm choking now; it feels like someone is trying to force a steel bar down my throat.

I notice with a jolt that several bruises are wrapped around Ryan's neck — hand shaped bruises. My hands.

My knees go weak, and if Ryan's fist clenched around my shirt wasn't holding me up, I would have collapsed to the ground.

I did that. Me.

Just like I hurt Jake.

Just like the people on the bridge.

Just like Kiera and Jace.

"Will?" Rowan's voice is alarmed, and I dimly feel her shove Ryan aside and grab my shoulders, holding me up. "Will? What are you—"

"Get off, Row," Ryan snaps. "He knows what he did."

I shake my head as if trying to throw off a blanket wrapped around it. "I — my throat —"

"Yeah, I know." Rowan's voice is surprisingly kind, and she pulls me away from the wall, gently pushing me down onto an abandoned crate. I have to force back a snicker.

She raises her eyebrows. "Something funny?"

"No, it's just . . ." I rub my eyes, trying to rid myself of some of the fuzziness. "Are you guy doing good cop/bad cop?"

Rowan and Ryan exchange mystified glances. "Well, at least we know Gracie was right about him," she mutters.

Gracie. Right. That's why I'm here. Because of Ryan and my sister. . . .

And she said something . . . I don't know what. That's why we're talking. Brawling. Whatever.

Okay, I was wrong about the no-fighting thing. That was a bullshit call. Happy?

"I'm not crazy!" I protest. "It's just — I'm —"

"Whatever," Ryan growls. "I'm done with this." He strides forward, grabbing my shirt again. (Jeez, what is it with these people and shirt-grabbing?) "You said Gracie . . . something. When you shook my hand. What?"

Fuck. I didn't think I'd have to repeat the information. . . . I thought getting it out of the way quickly would take care of that. Guess I missed the mark on that one. Again.

"She, ah . . ." I look at Rowan for help, but she just raises her eyebrows. Well? You got her killed. You made a bed. Now lie in it. I didn't, not really, but I didn't actually kill Kiera and Jace either. . . .

She's right, though. I'm here now. And I have to deal with it. So tell this kid his stepsister's dead. It's just a little piece of dogshit.

"She's dead," I mutter, staring down at my clenched hands. I could look him in the eye when I knew he wouldn't hear my words, but this . . . this is different. This is like killing her once and for all, and right in front of Ryan. "She died almost a week ago, maybe five days. I'm sorry."

For several long moments, I don't hear anything. Ryan's labored breathing has fallen silent, and for a terrifying moment, I wonder if he's just stopped breathing . . . gotten out before he had time to process my words. I don't want to look up. I don't want to know.

Then a soft voice, almost unrecognizable as Ryan's whispers, "Give me your knife."

"Ryan, don't . . ." Rowan whispers uneasily.

"Rowan. Now." There's still no hint of anger in Ryan's voice, but that somehow makes it more scary. And there's a soft shhh, like a knife being pulled out of a scabbard.

I weigh my odds of escaping. If I run, he'll be right there — and you can bet he won't give me a chance to explain.

I can fight back, and I might be able to overpower them. . . . I remember the dagger on my belt, and just as my fingers closer around the hilt, the cold metal edge presses against my throat.

"Don't. Fucking. Think. About it."

Somehow, even though I couldn't before, I find my traitorous voice. "What, I'm not even allowed to think about defending myself anymore? What is this world coming to —?"

A wordless scream of fury bursts from Ryan's throat, and he grips my arm hard enough to leave bruises, wrenching me off the crate and shoving me down to the alley floor.

He pins me down as I thrash and buck under him, trying to throw him off. "Let me go! I don't —"

"What'd you do?" he shouts, digging his knife in so hard that a thin layer of blood sheets down my neck, and I gasp as my head lightens slightly. "What'd you do? You try to choke her? You hit her? You slice her up like you slice up yourself? You fucking —" He doesn't manage to get another word out before I wrench my arms out of his grip, yank my knife out if its scabbard, and shove it upward.

There's a gurgling scream, and all of a sudden the enormous weight pressing down on me goes slack, and I'm able to shove him off. I scramble away, gasping for air, fingers slipping on the blood-slicked hilt of my dagger.

"Ryan!" Rowan screams, dropping to her knees over my attacker's body. "What the hell did —"

"I fucking defended myself!" I shout, struggling to think and speak clearly. "He was gonna kill me! What did you think I'd do?" The words are heavy on my tongue, and my words are slightly slurred. It's the hangover all over again.

"Well, now he's gonna fucking die!" Rowan shouts, pulling off her rain jacket and pressing it against the wound in Ryan's side.

"He's not going to die," I say grimly, dragging myself to my feet. "And stop pressing that jacket to the wound — God knows where it's been. For all intents and purposes, you're making it worse."

She turns a pair of furious, terrified eyes on me. "But —"

"He'll be fine," I repeat firmly. I drove the knife through his ribs, but the bones stopped the blade from reaching any vital organs, as is their purpose. I know my limits, even panicking.

On shaky legs, I make my way to Ryan's side, blood seeping into the soles of my boots. I kneel down, more blood soaking into the knees of my pants. I don't really mind — this is where I'm the most home, after all. Where I belong.

Rowan glares suspiciously at me as I gently lay a hand over the wound, making Ryan groan in pain. "What are you doing?"

"You forget I'm a medic." I pay close attention to the subtle signals my diagnostics sensors are sending me. It's bad, but not too bad. I can heal it. I've healed worse.

She's still glaring suspiciously, but she draws back a little and allows me to work. "Do you — do you need bandages, or something?"

"If I want to fix it properly, yes." Ryan groans again and attempts to rise, sending more blood leaking out of the wound. Rowan gently pushes him back down. "But I should be able to close it for now okay. Now shut up and stop talking to me."

Rowan obeys, and I softly begin muttering under my breath, a healing chant that doesn't take too much energy but is good at closing stab wounds. Still, it saps my strength much faster than it usually would; blood is still trickling from the wound in my neck and the light-headedness isn't getting any better. But I've been doing this too long to fail at something this simple.

Below my hands, the muscles begin to knit themselves back together, the skin sewing itself up. He'll be okay. I could stop now, and get better supplies later . . . but no, I've started this job, and I'm going to finish it.

I can feel the scratches on his ribs smoothing out, his muscles strengthening, and at the same time, I can feel my strength slipping away. I grit my teeth, ignore the sweat dripping down my face, and finish the job, then the shared pain in my limbs finally fades away.

I sit back on my heels, gasping as if I've just run a marathon. "It's done," I mutter. "He — he's good now."

Ryan sits up, clenching his teeth and rubbing his temple. "What the . . . what did you . . .?"

"Lie down," I say firmly, feeling the horrible weight of suffocating air pressing down on me. It takes my last bit of strength to force the commanding words out, but to my relief, Ryan listens. If only because he believes that I'll drive a knife through his heart.

"Ryan?" Alarmed, Rowan bends over him, pressing her fingers to the area on his ribs where his shirt is shredded and all the blood is centered. "You — wait, what? Where's —"

"Gone," I mutter hoarsely, dragging myself against the brick wall as the world spins dizzily. A thin sheen of blood still coats my neck. "I told you, I'm a medic. I know what I'm doing."

"I — yeah, but —" She shakes her head in amazement. "It's gone! I've heard about it, but I've never seen it done before. . . ."

"Rowan?" he mutters, his voice cracking. Pushing himself up on one elbow, he reaches for her hand, twining their fingers together. "Are you — am I —"

Goddamn, we're a veritable United Nations of unfinished unintelligible sentences tonight. True, I've never been the most articulate, but I'd hoped to find some better speakers . . . alas, we're all possessed by the spirit of Bill Denbrough.

"You're good, Ry," Rowan whispers, resting her chin on Ryan's hand. "You got stabbed in the ribs, but Will fixed it. You don't even have a scar, as far as I saw."

Ryan took this information with complete gravity, as if Rowan had told him he was going to eat a piece of toast tomorrow. (I don't know. It's late and I'm tired.)

"Yeah . . . Will. A pair of sharp hawk eyes lock onto mine, and I see a mixture of anger, guilt, fear, and resignation flash across them. "You better go check on him. . . . I don't think he's doing so good."

Rowan glances over at me, and then yelps with shock. She scrambles over, pressing her not-standard-medical-procedure raincoat to the wound on my throat. "Shit, Will, what the . . ."

"What do you mean what the?" I whisper, the words heavy and dragging on my tongue. My head seems to be made of air. "Your boyfriend's a fucking psycho, that's what the." I take the raincoat, turn it inside out, and press the relatively clean side against the shallow slice.

"He's not my fucking boyfriend, dumbass," Rowan says with a scowl and no hints of untruthfullness in her voice. "He's my friend. And he's not a fucking psycho, he's just . . ."

"It's okay," Ryan rasps from his spot several feet away. He hauls himself into a sitting position, leaning against the alley wall. "I shouldn't have done that. . . . I wasn't thinking."

"No, you weren't," Rowan snaps. "You thought you would fucking kill him, just because your sister's dead? His sister's dead, too. You think you're fucking special?" Her earlier relief and worry have been replaced by anger, and I don't blame her; I'm not exactly happy with Ryan at the moment myself.

"I know!" Ryan snaps back. "You gave me the fucking knife!"

At that, Rowan's eyes drop to the knife lying abandoned on the ground, smeared with blood. My blood. At that moment, I'd do anything to take back the past several days, to neer drink the liquor and never drag Jake into this and never run away and never get mixed up with these assholes whose personalities change every ten seconds. I wish more than life I could take that back. But I can't.

"I know," she says softly. "I wasn't thinking either. I didn't trust him. I still don't. But he healed you, and . . ."

"Yeah," Ryan mumbles. "I know he did. That's why we're both just letting him sit here."

"I kind of had to heal you," I force out through my swimming head. "It's my job."

"True." Rowan retrieves the knife, wipes the blood off the blade, and slides it into a belt I hadn't noticed she was wearing. It's the same color as her dark pants. "But still . . . I don't know."

She drops down between me and Ryan, making us look like more of a whole than three separate pieces. I think, in a different world, I would have been grateful for it, but all I can register is how unnaturally fuzzy my head is from the blood loss.

No one speaks for several moments, which is just as well. I don't really think I can force out any more words right now. I think that these people just enjoy random bouts of silence alongside grabbing people by the shirt. They're not bad pastimes, really.

I can feel the blood flow slow, then finally stop. The burn doesn't disappear, but it does lessen to a tolerable amount. My head clears slightly, and now it's the dark that obscures my vision, not the headache. The pounding of rushing blood in my temples is almost gone. Wow. I'm nearly ready to be a functioning member of society.

Finally, Ryan breaks the silence. He's picking at the shredded part of his T-shirt, running his fingers over the skin as if he can't believe it's smooth and unmarked. Probably phantom ache. Happens to a lot of people after we heal them. He doesn't lift his head, but when he speaks, it's easy to tell it's directed at me.

"How did it happen?"

That's a good question, as good as any, I expect. I honestly don't know how to answer it. I can say what I think happened; I can take my best educated guess. But I can't know for sure.

I know better than to tell Ryan that, though. So instead I direct my gaze back down at my own knife, running the pad of my index finger along the flat of the blade. "During a battle, we had to destroy a bridge to kill a shit ton of monsters. . . . My whole cabin was on the bridge at the time. A few of us got out okay, but the one who got pushed off . . ." I let the rest of the statement hang in the air, because some sentences don't need to be finished.

Ryan briefly presses a fist to one eye, breathing hard. A moment later, he lowers it, and it's glistening with a liquid that looks like water in the hazy moonlight. I don't say anything, and neither does Rowan. I run my finger along my blade a little harder, not taking particular care to stay away from the edge.

Finally, Rowan speaks up. "Was this one of the battles in the war with the Titans?"

I blink, surprised. "You know about that?"

She nods. "We both do. Gracie was our informant. . . . She dropped out of sight almost a week ago. She'd been talking about the war with Kronos, so we knew it would be happening any day now. We thought, when she didn't call us after three days . . . But we hoped. We thought there might be a chance . . ." She shakes her head. "It was stupid. We should've known."

Ryan bows his head. "We thought she had a chance. . . ." he says quietly. "She wasn't a great fighter, but she always just seemed . . ."

"Indomitable," Rowan finishes. "Yeah, she did. I kind of thought she was immortal."

"So did I," I say, "but that mindset can get you into serious trouble where I come from."

"I know." Ryan reaches down and, seemingly without thinking about what he was doing, pulls one of his shoelaces out of its eyelets. He begins fiddling with it, wrapping it around and around itself. Rowan and I should say something, but neither of us wants to — watching Ryan's practiced fingers flying absentmindedly over the string is kind of captivating, in a way.

And I guess I don't know my knots, because I had no idea what he was doing until he wrapped the loose end around his wrist several times, leaving a perfect noose hanging down. Almost as if we're going to play hangman with a real tiny person.

"Ryan!" Rowan says sharply. She reaches over and grabs the shoelace off Ryan's arm, untying the noose so easily and without thought that I wonder how often this has happened. Without a word, she hands the string back to him, where he sullenly begins threading it through the eyelets on his boot.

"Wait," I say automatically. "Can I see that?"

Ryan gives me a confused look, but I just stare resolutely back at him. I don't care what he has to say about . . . whatever it is I'm doing.

"Sure, I guess. . . ." He pulls the lace back out of his boot and hands it back to me. I try wrapping the end around itself and cinching a knot like Ryan did with apparent ease, but there's no tying going on to hold it in place, and after several moments of intense concentration, I've got nothing to show for my efforts.

Rowan seems to be having an intense debate with herself, her brow furrowed. Finally she just shakes her head with impatience and reaches over. "You started wrong. That's why it's not holding. You have to double it back on itself like this, and then after you finish wrapping it, you have a hole to tuck it through. . . . Yeah, like that. Now pull it tight." We both grin as I cinch the knot, leaving myself with a miniature version of the death penalty. Even Ryan has to smile.

I shake my head as I slide the oils up and down, changing the size of the loop. "Where did you guys learn this?"

Rowan smiles ruefully. "'Let's learn how to tie a noose; it's easy if you're not obtuse — '"

Ryan joins in. "'All you need is a piece of rope, and abandon all your hope —"

I stare at them. "What the —"

"Nothing. Rusty Cage. Can I have my shoelace back now?" Ryan holds out his hand, and I give the noose back.

He examines it. "Not bad. You'll get better." He unties it and once again begins threading it through the eyelets of his boot.

"So . . ." Rowan laces her fingers together and slips them over her knees. "You know we asked you to come here for a reason, and it's not so we can try to murder you and teach you how to make nooses out of shoelaces. You want to hear the story, no?"

"Yeah," I admitted, resting my shin on my knee. "And I guess I have to finish my story."

She shrugs. "I've never forced anyone to tell their story before, and I'm not going to start now."

I shake my head stubbornly. "No, I have to tell it. If I don't . . ." I trail off and shake my head.

Ryan gives me an unreadable look. "Then you'll never be able to, and you'll be stuck in your head forever," he finishes.

I look gratefully at him, thinking that I've maybe found someone who kind of understands. "Yeah. That."

"So . . ." Rowan raises her dark eyebrows. "Who's going first?"

We're like kids at a sleepover, the three of us. Waiting with baited breath around the campfire for the bravest kid to tell the story of the dead girl who used to live in her house. Waiting for something that we can pretend is real, that will send us biting our pillows and glancing apprehensively over our shoulders, that we won't remember in the morning.

Finally, I take a deep breath. "I'll start."

"So, I was going to talk about my cabin, and I still will, but I'm guessing you guys already know about the . . . everything."

Ryan nods. "We know almost all of it," he said quietly. "And about the traitors."

I smirk. "'The traitors.' Yeah, that's all well and good for you, but you already know I'm one of said traitors. . . . You saw the scars, yes?"

They both nod, and I see Rowan hook one of her fingers around Ryan's and squeeze it reassuringly. It almost makes me smile, except that was for a minute ago, when we were all ignoring the reason we're here.

"Yeah . . . I guess I may as well tell you about how I ended up there." I wrap my arms tighter around my knees and fix them both with a serious stare.

"Have either of you ever seen someone kill themselves?"

Rowan slowly shakes her head. "We've heard the stories, but we've never . . ."

I nod. "Good. That's how it should be. If we must, we keep it to ourselves. We don't shove depression this and done-with-this-shit that down everyone's throats. Only I guess someone forgot to tell Lee Fletcher. . . . I'm guessing you heard he killed himself?"

Rowan shakes her head again. "Gracie told us he died, but I'm not surprised he . . . You saw it?"

I grimace. "I was right in front of him. It was after a bunch of monsters got into camp and we had to fight them off. I knew about my cabin by then — I'd found Lee's scythe necklace under his pillow, and I'd heard the rest of my cabin talking about their allegiance when they thought Kayla and I were asleep, so I already knew. And I kind of agreed with them; that's the scary part. I was starting to hate the gods for everything they'd done to us, and I was starting to think a new leader might be a good thing. . . . Not the Kronos would've been any better, but I was eleven. And I was angry, and I was scared enough to shit pinecones.

"Anyway, I hadn't been able to even look at my siblings for a long time, and healing was starting to feel . . . wrong. Like I was a traitor to myself because I was helping the servants of the gods." I shrug hopelessly. "I am too, that's the thing. I'm no different. But I still had to work as a field medic, obviously. . . .

"I got distracted. I know, I should've just kept moving, and I wouldn't have seen anything. But I saw Harper, one of our most recent traitors — you guys know about Harper?" They both nod. "I believe it, but what you don't know is how close she and I are — were. We only knew each other for about a month at first, but when she left, it destroyed me. That was the first time I hurt myself on purpose. . . . Punched some rocks hard enough to shred my fists. But she was my best friend then, and I obviously hadn't seen her . . . but then she was at camp. Fighting. For Kronos."

I have to pause for a moment, wrestling myself back under control. I take a deep breath and continue.

"And then Lee found me. . . I forgot about Harper, needless to say. I told him I knew, and it turns out, he knew I knew. And that wasn't the only thing he knew because he knew he couldn't keep doing . . . this." I gesture hopelessly at the dark alley around us. "And I begged him not to, because I wasn't as much of an idiot back then as I am now . . . but that didn't do anything, obviously. And it wasn't exactly hard for him to find a way out; monsters were fucking everywhere. And then . . . he found a giant. Right in front of me."

"Jesus Christ," Rowan breathes. "I knew . . . but that's so much worse. You were eleven?"

I nod grimly.

Ryan balls one hand into a fist, looking as though he would quite like to smash it into a wall. "That asshole . . . he was your brother. And he —"

"I know," I say. "I'm not going to excuse him. He doesn't deserve to be excused. But I will say this — he was fucked up as a kid, and I don't blame him. I've tried myself."

"What?" they shout at the same time.

I shake my head, amused. "Honestly, how are you guys even surprised? You know what we're like . . . but that's not this story. Later, both of you. But after the battle, when I would finally form coherent sentences again, I went to see the bodies. . . . Michael didn't think anything of it, he just thought I wanted to say goodbye to my brother."

Ryan sighs. "No matter how many times I hear it . . ."

I rub my head. "I know . . . but I unwrapped the shroud — very boring, by the way; we never have time to decorate, but I took his scythe necklace, and . . ."

I self-consciously trace my fingers along the front of my neck, avoiding the scars of the scythe's edge. "By then I was already branded from the rock thing, so I figured, what the hell. Might as well go big or go home."

Rowan furrows her brow. "But you didn't leave to join the army?"

I shake my head. "No, I didn't want to leave Kayla. I didn't want to be like Harper, you know? I'm not abandoning my little sister to end up like the rest of them. Well . . ."

"The suicide thing," Rowan finishes.

I lower my eyes. "Yeah . . . that. I guess I should talk about that. It was the war, and all the cabins got split up to defend different bridges or tunnels. . . . We got the Williamsburg Bridge. And we had to set traps with flaming arrows and Greek fire and whatever bullshit. And then the monsters came. . . .

"About half the bridge burned down. Huge sections of it just straight-up fell off. I'm pretty sure it was illegal — anyway, when Kronos arrived, he hit the bridge with his scythe, there was a huge shockwave. . . . All of us — most of us, anyway — got pushed off the bridge. Well, the ones who were still alive. And I managed to grab a beam. Gracie —"

"Didn't," Ryan finishes. He's clenching his fist so tightly his knuckles are chalk-dust white. Rowan reaches over, gently takes hold of his fist, and begins massaging it back into an open hand.

"Yeah, so, there's Gracie's story, and I guess it ties with my KYS story. I said I grabbed a beam, and I was trapped there less than a minute, but it felt a lot longer, and I didn't want to do it anymore. . . . The worst part is, Kayla knew. She found me, and there was no way for her to reach me . . . we both knew it. I told her to run. She did."

Two sets of sad eyes meet mine. They don't look angry, just resigned. And why shouldn't they be? They've already heard the story. It being me doesn't make much of a difference.

"And I would have let go, so don't go thinking I changed my mind and decided I wanted to live or anything. But Harper got to me first. And I didn't know she was there, but it was enough to snap me back to reality, because this sister I thought was dead was alive. And then we had to run, because the bridge was already on its last legs. Just made it.

Ryan lifts his head, dark slate eyes meeting mine. "So she's alive?"

"Uh — no. A while later, an arrow got her. . . . I don't know who shot it, but I have a pretty good idea."

Rowan raises her eyebrows. "Do tell."

I shrug. "Nothing's for sure, but my cabin's petty and vengeful as fuck."

"Oh my God," Rowan mutters.

"Agreed. But that's just how it goes. And it turned out I wasn't as alone that day as I thought, because my necklace . . . I left it on Mount Olympus. Something Harper made me promise, although I wasn't arguing. And later . . . I guess it's time for the drinking story."

Rowan nods. "About time, too." She's teasing me, but she's curious. I don't blame her. She well should be.

I straighten up, raising my chin. I first meet Rowan's eyes, then Ryan's. Neither of them look away or take their gazes off of mine. I have to admire that.

"You already know a lot about my cabin — probably more than I do — but something that I don't think anyone knows is that is where they hid their moonshine."

"Moonshine . . ." Rowan mutters. "You mean, smuggled liquor?"

"Coffin varnish, yeah. I didn't even know that I knew — well, I did, but I spent years never thinking about it . . . but I knew. It was the back room in the infirmary, the broken down one we call No Man's Land, or a lot of way more colorful names. But I was there because — because —"

Ryan traces a finger along the damp asphalt. "You're one of those addicts," he mumbles. "Gracie told us — and when Rowan first met you —"

I nod, grateful that I don't have to explain the full story when I don't know it myself. "Yeah, and I was there because I — I was in trouble, long story short. Trouble with myself. Because I almost cried — it's a long story. But I'm not supposed to. And I have to learn."

Rowan glares at me. "Bullshit."

I lower my head. "I know. But I was fucked to hell and back that night, and I didn't even know I was doing it. . . . I didn't know he was with me, I swear. I never would have done it. But I woke up later that night, and . . ."

"Jesus," Ryan mutters. His face is pale in the dark. He's leaning into Rowan's side, gripping her hand so hard he's probably cut off all blood flow.

"Yeah . . . I know. But I woke up, and I didn't remember anything, and I mean anything. Losing an entire night like that . . . I never want to have an experience like that again. It's . . . scary, to say the least. But like I said, when I was drinking . . . I wasn't alone."

"Shit," murmurs Rowan. She looks terrified, and I know I would probably look the same if I hadn't learned better. If I hadn't been raised by my cabin.

I have to force back tears, digging my nails into my arms with enough force to tear the skin. "My — my best friend, Jake . . . he was with me. I made him drink. I didn't know it then. I don't know it now. I would do anything to take it back. But it's not even as bad as what I did after that.

"I mentioned the scythe charm on my necklace, and how I left it on Olympus. I did — I'm sure about that. But it came back, and I don't know why or how. It just did. I didn't know it until I woke up later. I'd taken the charm, and broken glass from the bottles, and I —"

Rowan holds up a hand. "Will, it's okay. You don't have to —"

I shake my head instantly, digging my nails in harder. "When I woke up, his chest, I'd sliced it and stabbed it with everything my drunk self had, especially around his heart. . . . Rowan, I tried to kill my best friend."

I think about mentioning the never-ending chorus of voices that shout in my head and hover over my shoulder, but somehow that seems too personal. I don't even know how to talk about it.

"And I knew I couldn't stay in camp one second longer, because it was more of a prison camp than anything by that point . . . suffocating. And remember when I said I got high on pine sap? That's an exaggeration, but it does kind of feel like it's choking me.

"I'm getting off track. I couldn't stay there. So . . . I ran."

"And ended up here," Ryan finishes.

I grin ruefully. "I ended up here. And the rest is history. Recent history, but still history."

We're all silent.

I was sure that any second, one of them was going to lean over and punch me in the face, possibly knocking out several teeth, or just get up and leave.

I'd been drunk. I'd tried to kill my best friend. I tried to kill Ryan. I tried to kill myself. I didn't deserve this — this whatever. This half-kindness — this willingness to listen. More valuable than most precious metals, in my opinion.

More silence.

Quiet breathing.

Eyes directed down at the ground.

Secrets.

Blame.

Guilt.

Finally, after what may well have been fifteen minutes, Ryan looks up. "Will?"

I try to keep my voice from shaking. "Y — yeah?"

"Fuck you."

I smile crookedly, running my fingers through my curls. "I know."

Rowan rubs her forehead and laughs shakily. "And I thought food would be my biggest hurdle."

And somehow that was the funniest thing any of us had ever heard.

"Alright, your turn."

Ryan looks up, wary now. "Our turn to what?"

I sigh impatiently. "You know. Tell your story. I just told mine, now —"

"Uh, wait," Rowan interrupts. "There's one more thing I want to know."

There's a hint of apprehensiveness now, and Ryan's not the only one on guard. I don't know what Rowan wants to know, but I don't think I want to talk about it . . . but she and Ryan are about to tell me some shit, and I guess I can live with one more story.

"Okay, hit me with it."

"What about your mom?"

Ryan's head jerks sharply up, and I can almost hear the world doing a screeching rewind.

"I'm sorry?" I can hear the coldness in my voice, but I don't care. I won't go there. I won't talk about him. Ever. I don't care what I owe her and Ryan, that particular question, they can shove up their ass.

"You hear me." Rowan fixes me with a resolute gaze. "You said you loved her, and from what you said, it sounded like you would have missed her when you came to camp, even if you were happy about it.

"But you never talked about only being a summer camper, or visiting her, or even just calling her. . . . I know it's a personal question, but if you don't mind answering it . . ."

I relax slightly. She's not making me answer it; I can refuse. Thank God. Because I can't talk about it. It's not that I don't want someone to know. I've just spent way too long . . .

"I'm not — I can't talk —" I shake my head. "I'm sorry, Rowan. You deserve an explanation, but . . ."

The corner of Rowan's mouth twitches. "Yeah, I thought you'd say that. I'm sorry too . . . you don't have to say anything."

And she already has a pretty good idea, and so does Ryan. But none of us say that. We know better.

I can't say anything. He's not done with me. I'm not a little kid anymore, but to him . . .

Ryan's expression clears slightly. "Okay, so, got most of that out of the way. . . . You said it was our turn?"

I feel a pit of terror close in my gut. I'm done; I'm okay. For now, at least. But I can work with for now. It could be a lot worse.

"I did. And it is."

"Okay, so . . ." Rowan meets my eyes, and her expression is more carefully directed than before, as if shutters have closed behind her eyes. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything," I say automatically. "I want to know as much as you can tell me — if that's okay, I mean. You don't have to —"

Ryan shakes his head. "It's okay . . . we can tell you most of it. It's a long story — several shorter stories, actually."

I shrug. "That's okay. It's like an origami cube. You fold six separate pieces of paper, and put them together. . . . That was a really bad analogy, wow."

Rowan smirks. "Child of the poetry god."

I reach over and shove her shoulder. "Hey, shut the fuck up."

"Stop it, you idiots," Ryan orders. He turns to Gracie. "He wants the story? You start. And give him a goddamn warning."

Rowan sighs. Immediately, her expression darkens again, and she seems to age several years. She leans back against the wall, lacing her fingers together and staring seriously at me.

"Okay, we've all been laughing, but just like with your story, nothing about this is going to be funny. We're going to be getting into some shit that you don't have to agree with — I don't think you will, not fully, but I don't think you'll ditch us and never talk to us again over it. But then again, you might."

I feel a tug or nervousness in my gut. I don't know where this is going, but I have a feeling I won't like it. Still, though, I don't have anything better to do. "Okay . . . Get on with it, I guess."

Ryan leans back against the wall next to Rowan. He smiles darkly, his flint eyes seem to stare straight through me.

"Will, do you believe in the gods?"

The question is so unexpected, so unprecedented, that for a moment, I just stare at him like an idiot. No one asks that. No one. You don't go there. You don't even think about going there. It's such a taboo that nobody even tells you not to do it. You just don't.

If there's anything that's been irrevocably ingrained into my soul by the camp, my cabin and all the things they've forced down my throat included, it's that you always, always, always believe in the gods.

Maybe you're allowed to secretly be a little pissed off at them, but you keep that the fuck in your head. You're their servants, their blind worshippers.

Maybe if someone stopped to think, they'd draw a different conclusion. But nobody does.

Because nobody goes there.

And now, leaning against a crumbling brick wall, sitting on a dirty alley floor, facing two homeless teenagers who are meeting my eyes with seriousness that even old Greek statues can't replicate, somebody dared to go there.

And I don't know what to do.

"I — I —" I shake my head. There's nothing to be said; I'll be killed. By the gods.

But that means I believe in them, doesn't it?

But do I? Gods are supposed to be wise, benevolent, caring, everything our gods aren't. Deserving of worship.

But just thinking that . . . they aren't killing me for that.

I don't know what to say.

I don't know what to think.

I don't know what I think.

"I don't know," I say softly.

Ryan nods, his cynical smile fading away. "That's okay. You don't have to know who you are now, or even in a hundred years from now. It doesn't matter."

"No, no, hell no! It absolutely matters." I shake my head violently. "I have to — I don't —"

Rowan leans her head back against the wall, closing her eyes. "It doesn't matter, Will," she said quietly. "You have to. You said it yourself. You don't need that. That's bullshit. You can think whatever you want, or don't. It's your choice. It's your life. You live it."

And now I nearly gag, because God, that's exactly what Harper said to me, isn't it? Those exact words. And she believed them, too. I could tell.

And Harper . . . Harper wouldn't have wanted this for me, would she?

Did she believe in the gods?

Did any of them?

I don't know.

Maybe someday, that won't matter.

But that day isn't here yet.

"I don't know!" I say more forcefully. "I don't know what I really think, and what I just think because they told me to. I don't know what I believe or don't believe. I don't know whether I worship some deformed statues built thousands of years ago or not! They never let me! THEY NEVER FUCKING LET ME!"

Before either Rowan or Ryan can stop me, I twist sideways, slamming my fist into the rough bricks.

"Will!" Rowan shouts. She scrambles to my side, wrapping her hand around my crooked fist. My knuckles are smeared with blood, and more of it is smeared on the wall. The heat lightning is gone, replaced by a creeping numbness.

"You idiot," Ryan growls. He pulls himself over to my side, drawing his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. "What the fuck were you thinking?"

I glare at him as the throbbing in my hand begins to return. "I don't know! We already established that! Or were you not listening?"

"You said you don't know. . . ." Rowan muses. "I think you're closer than you know. But you have to stop taking out your anger on yourself. One of these days, you're gonna hit a major artery and not care enough to stop the bleeding."

I glare down at what I can see of my blood-spattered fist through Rowan's dark fingers. "Good."

"Will!" Ryan snaps forcefully. "Look at me."

I keep glaring down like a petulant child. Well, I am.

Ryan isn't standing for it. He grabs my chin and roughly forces my head up, giving me no choice but to let my eyes lock onto his. "Will, it's okay. It's okay you don't know. God, nobody does. Everybody's just trying to figure out what they know and what they don't. Hell, even I'm not sure what I believe. It's not a big deal, and isn't something worth breaking your fucking fingers over!"

I maintain my bitter glare, but I relax slightly. I know he's right; that's what pisses me off. I've been trying to convince myself of that for years. And it hasn't worked, obviously.

Still, though, nobody's ever told me that before. . . . It does help, hearing it from someone else. Confirmation that it's not just me, going crazy. Well. Okay, I hear myself. But when you've spent so long being the only one telling yourself something, and you hear someone else say it . . .

We're herd animals. I can't help it.

Ryan isn't finished. "Can I let go of your head now, or are you going to punch the wall again?"

"You can let me go," I mutter. It's kind of humiliating, but I know I deserve it. I don't blame him.

"Good. My hand was starting to hurt." He drops my face, and I rub my sore jaw, wondering if I'm going to wake up unable to chew. Ryan's grip is firm. Or maybe it's just a Will thing. I tend to have that effect on people.

"Okay, no one is punching any more walls!" Rowan looks thoroughly sick of my shit, and I don't blame her either. I'm sick of my shit too. I'd be surprised if Rowan wasn't. She shouldn't have to deal with this.

"Yeah, I know," I grumble. "I wasn't planning it. It just kind of . . ."

"Happened," Rowan finishes. "It wasn't exactly hard to tell. No one plans shit like that."

"Bullshit," Ryan mutters.

"What?"

"Bullshit. Some people plan it. They know what they're doing."

"He's right," I say quietly. "It's not always spontaneous. Sometimes I —"

"Okay, okay, point taken!" She closes her eyes briefly, probably wishing she was anywhere but stuck with these two assholes. "That's not what we were talking about."

I sigh. "I know. I just never thought I would hear — that."

Rowan lays her head sideways on her knees. "I'm sorry. That sucks. But I told you we were getting into the serious shit, and we got distracted."

"Sorry."

"Stop apologizing!" She rubs one temple, trying to think. "The gods. We asked you if you believed in them. You didn't know how to answer. That's where we were."

"Yeah, and . . ." I picked at the soaked ground, alley filth lodging itself under my fingernails. I can't bring myself to look at them again, not when I know what they might say. But I have to hear it anyway . . . I have to know. They asked me, and now I know what power the answers carry. I have to hear this. "Do you guys believe in the gods?"

"No."

Both of them speak at the same time. No hesitation. No secret glances. No ellipses.

Just no.

God, I wish I could do that.

I raise my eyes now; harm might come in the explanation, but no is okay.

Both of them look slightly amused, crooked smiles similar to my own tugging at the corners of their mouths. They don't look half as serious as they did when they asked me if I believe in them.

I have to do a double take. "Care to explain?"

Rowan shrugs. "Why should we?"

"Because . . . because . . ." I scowl at the ground. I want a fucking explanation, but I honestly can't think of a single reason why they should give one. "I don't know!"

"No, you don't." Ryan leans back against the wall next to me, lacing his fingers behind his head. "And I would be concerned if you did."

"What do you —"

Rowan smirks. "Only people who are insecure as hell about their beliefs need reasons for why others think the things they do. They need that validation, because they can't accept that other people just think the things they do because they do. They have to find some reason because they can't accept that anybody has a different opinion than theirs, even though they don't think they have to explain themselves. I don't owe you anything, and I'm not going to give you anything."

I drop my gaze back to the asphalt. "I guess that's fair . . . I don't know. I just — I don't —"

"You don't get how people can be so sure about their opinions," Ryan finishes. "I get that. You never got to believe what you wanted."

"I guess not," I say softly. "But — but if you don't believe in them, where do you think I . . ."

"Yeah, well . . ." Rowan slips her arms around her knees. "That's a long story, and I guess Ryan and I have to tell it or it won't make sense. We're not here just to diss the gods, remember."

"Alright." I rest my chin on my fists like a little kid at storytime. "Tell it, then. Or I won't know what to do with any of this."

So they told me.

"You already know Gracie and I — were — siblings," Ryan starts. "I guess you can probably tell we were only stepsiblings . . . obviously."

"I mean, yeah," I say. "It's not hard to tell you aren't a child of Apollo. I kind of assumed you had a mortal mom Apollo had an affair with."

I almost wish that he was my older brother, just so I would have someone that could take responsibility and not force me to be in charge . . . but no. It did no good to think like that, I remind myself. I was the leader. Better not to think of anything else.

Rowan grins ruefully. "Bingo. But before that, there's a bit more you should know." She elbows Ryan. "Come on, tell her about your dad."

Ryan sighs. "Do I have to?"

"Yes, you idiot. Come on. Will didn't want to tell his drinking story."

He closes his eyes briefly, takes a deep breath, and opens them again.

"My dad . . ." he starts quietly, "He tried. He tried everything. He did the best he could. He never wanted to end up like — like that."

He never meant for that to happen. I can feel my palms grow slicker and my breath quicken slightly. I want to close my eyes, but I can't leave Ryan alone like that.

"He was — I don't know. He never hits me . . . not yet, anyway. Except — well, you'll hear about that in a minute. And he hasn't always been like this. He was — better, back when he was younger. Only it didn't last.

"He was . . . sixteen, I think, when he first started snorting coke. He lived in a way worse home than mine."

"Ryan!" Rowan snaps.

"I know! I'm sorry!" Ryan glowers at the ground, not wanting to fight but not having a choice. "But his dad used to burn his mom with cigarette butts every time he did something wrong, which was most things. . . . Finally, she fucked the hell off. And she got lucky, because she would've soon had to deal with both a degenerate husband and a degenerate kid.

"She couldn't have stopped him from twisting Dad up to be like him. No one could have.

"She left . . ." I pick at my fingernails, trying to process all of it. "And she didn't take the kid with her?"

"Ha!" Ryan snorts. "Yeah, she tried . . . it didn't work, needless to say. My dad wouldn't have left his dad because he knew he would kill himself from drinking and drugs."

"I would've just let him," Rowan mutters. "Good riddance, I'd say."

"Yeah, but I guess he still felt some kind of twisted allegiance to him. And yeah, they ended up a lot alike. But that didn't stop Dear Old Granddad from beating him up every chance he got. And when he was sixteen . . . I just told you.

"Well, you guys already know what cocaine does . . . releases a ton of dopamine chemicals, that feel-good shit, and helps you forget your problems. Only the highs don't last long, and you're left wanting more. . . ."

I'm shivering, even though the night's not really cold. I don't care about the weather.

I just think I might be a little too close to Ryan's family.

"Couple of times, and he was hooked. I think it was about twenty when he started dealing."

Something in my mind clears, and I look sharply up. "Rowan said something . . . your dad made you work as a drug dealer?"

Ryan's face is completely expressionless. Shutters seem to have closed behind his eyes. Rowan reaches for his hand and twines their fingers together. "Yeah, that's me. But that comes later.

"When dad was twenty-five, he met my mom. She was eight years younger than him —"

Rowan and I both grimace.

"Yeah, I know. But my dad kind of . . . changed. He stopped dealing, even for money, and about two years later, he stopped doing coke. He got a job working at a grocery store — shitty money, but at least it was honest money. He cleaned his shit up, stopped mixing with some of his shadier friends, and a few years after that, I was born.

"My parents dreamed of having me, raising me, building an ideal family. Giving me a future." He snorts. "I know, white picket fence, right? Never works out.

"When my mom was twenty-two — about five weeks after she had me — someone showed up. Someone who ruined everything." Ryan's expressionless face is now stone-cold with anger, and I know he doesn't mean to direct it at me, but he doesn't know what else to do with it. I'm his bastard, after all.

"My dad," I say quietly.

He nods. "Mother fucking Apollo, god of whatever bullshit. God of ruining unlikely chances for a better life.

"This is where the story gets a little confused, because I'm not really sure how Mom and Apollo hooked up. It could have been rape —"

"Wouldn't put it past him," I mutter.

"They could have both been into it. Maybe it wasn't exactly rape, but he pressured her — I don't know. I don't want to know. She didn't even know he was a god. He never told her.

"One night. One night was all it took to ruin everything we'd built. Because when Apollo finally left, ascended to Mount Olympus to eat peeled grapes and play lyres or whatever, my Mom was pregnant. She tried to hide it, but soon enough, Dad found out. . . .

"What was she supposed to tell him? 'Sorry, babe, but it wasn't my fault! It was the god Apollo!' Yeah, that wasn't going to cut it. I don't think I have to tell you how pissed he was.

"He had thought she was his teammate against the world. That he could count on her for anything. I don't think it was so much the cheating on him as the fact that she'd betrayed his trust.

"He didn't make her leave. He's selfish as fuck. He couldn't live without her. And he never hit her . . . he couldn't bring himself to do that. But she was terrified of him, because she didn't know that.

"I think she might have ran, but she didn't."

"Because of you," I guess.

"Because of me," he confirms. "Like I said, I was only a few weeks old. Mom didn't want to abandon me. But I was a lot of work — and I mean, I was a baby. How could I not be a lot of work?

"But it turned out that there would be plenty more work soon enough, because within a week of meeting your dad, Mom had a little girl. Gracie."

"Wait," I interrupt. "How does that —"

Rowan snorts. "They're gods, Will. Don't question it."

"My head hurts."

"I should hope so. Anyway, that's why we're only five weeks apart."

"Five weeks . . ." I pause, thinking. "That would make you about two years older than me."

"Yep," he agrees. "Just like Gracie.

"Anyway, since we were the same age, we pretty much just grew up together. . . . We were basically twins. We were each other's only person we could trust, really. We always leaned on each other, were always there for each other. And we both had to deal with our dad. He didn't hit us, not at first. And we thought it would stay like that.

"But it didn't.

"When we were both eight years old, late at night, when Dad was asleep, Mom called us into her room. She was terrified — messy hair, shadows under her eyes, dirty clothes. She begged us to leave with her. At first we didn't understand. Then we did.

"She wanted us to go with her. We wanted her to stay with us. She should have been right. I know that now. She was right. But we couldn't stop her. I swear to God, we tried, but we couldn't have stopped her.

"So she left. Gracie and I should have gone. But we didn't want to leave our dad for the same reason he hadn't wanted to leave his. We knew he couldn't take care of himself, and we didn't want him to die. . . .

"I swear, if he hit us, we would have been gone. But he didn't. We thought things would be the same. Remember, we were eight. We didn't know.

"We were smart enough to know that Dad wouldn't be happy about it, though. We didn't want to tell him. Whatever we did, we didn't want to tell him.

"We hid, all night. Under the bed we shared, because we only had three beds. We were hugging each other, crying because of how scared we were. We knew that Dad would blame us, somehow. We didn't consciously know what a piece of shit he was, but we knew that.

"But he found us the next morning. And he asked where Mom was — didn't even ask why we were hiding under the bed. And we told him —"

Ryan is shaking now, even worse than I am. Rowan wraps an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close and gently murmuring to him. I could hear the words if I tried, but I don't try.

After a moment, Ryan's able to pull himself together. "We told him she ran away. That she was gone. And we begged — begged, Will — for him to forgive us. Sobbed that we were sorry, that we would do anything. Groveling like dogs. Crying like our arms were being ripped off."

He pauses for a moment, looking disgusted with himself. I can almost see him — curled up on the floor, sobbing violently, desperately begging for forgiveness. He doesn't look too much different from me, and I have to look away.

"And at first he didn't say anything, which was even scarier. Instead, he left and went to the kitchen. We heard bottles clinking."

He leans on Rowan's shoulder, clearly struggling not to cry. A moment later, he pulls away, rubbing his eyes. "We hid again, this time in the closet. We weren't crying. We were barely even breathing. We knew we had to be quiet.

"And it didn't take too long before we heard him coming. We had backed ourselves into a corner. No where we could go. And what we'd felt when he found us under the bed . . . that was nothing compared to this. I'd take that a million times over a fraction of this time. . . .

"I'm not going to make you listen to what happened that night. Sometimes, it doesn't even feel like it happened to me . . . like it was just something that happened to Gracie and I was just watching. I guess it was the same for her.

"And after that, he never hit her again. Me neither, I mean. But we thought he would. And that was almost worse, because we never knew . . ."

"Alfred Hitchcock always said that knowing something is going to happen is scarier than not knowing," Rowan says quietly.

I blink, confused. "What do you mean?"

"The example he would use is, there's two men sitting at a table, talking about football. Suddenly, a bomb goes off. No warning. That's surprise.

"Now say you somehow know there's a bomb — maybe the camera panned over it one time. So you know it's gonna go off, but you don't know when. You're sweating nervously, on the edge of your seat. That's suspense. See the difference?"

"I think I get it," I say. "And even if the bomb never goes off, it's still scarier, because you had no way of knowing that?"

Ryan nods. "Right. And that's how it was for us . . . for a while, at least. Gracie didn't stay with me forever."

"Camp," I guess.

"Camp," he confirms. "We were only nine. . . . Mom had managed to get us into elementary school, which wasn't hard — it was free, after all. But Grace and I managed to keep going, although, for obvious reasons, we never had anyone show up for Parents' Night."

"Ouch."

"Yeah, I know. . . . Were walking home one day. We weren't attacked by monsters. I almost wished we had been. One of your goat people found us . . . a satyr. He just showed up, said my sister had to go with her. She said no. I said no. He said she didn't have a choice. Gracie told him to go fuck himself."

I almost laugh, but that doesn't feel appropriate for the situation. That was Gracie, all right.

"He told her she was coming with him. By then we were both scared out of our minds. We thought she was going to be kidnapped and sold to kiddie-fiddlers or something. We tried to turn and run. He grabbed her."

Ryan pauses, and chokes back tears. When he speaks again, I can hear the emotion in his throat. "She tried to get away. I tried to grab her. It was useless. We were scrawny little kids.

"He left with her. I thought I would never see her again."

"Wait," I interrupt. "Was the satyr kind of a weird-dressing old dude?"

Ryan's eyebrows narrow. "Yeah . . . why?"

I drop my gaze. "That was Maron. My satyr."

"Oh." He's silent for a moment. "Well . . . that sucks."

"Agreed."

"But I was crushed, Will. I tried to follow them. I tried to ask anyone if they'd seen her. I don't even know if they understood me — I was crying too hard to talk properly. It was like a piece of me had been torn away.

"I searched for hours, until it was well past midnight and the streets were empty. I'd had several people try to call someone to help me, but I always ran before they could. I didn't want to be helped. I just wanted my sister.

"I thought I would never see her again, but I knew I would never go back to our house. Not without Gracie.

"I didn't mean to, but I fell asleep on a bench. Nobody noticed; they just thought I was another homeless kid.

"I slept there for about an hour, and then kept looking. . . . Dad found me first. He didn't hit me or anything — didn't even yell at me. He never liked Gracie. He knew she wasn't his — she was just a reminder of the day he's lost everything.

"So he dragged me back to the house — crying and screaming the whole way — and I thought I would never see her again.

"Dad made me stay in the house for weeks, only letting me out when he was watching me. He wouldn't let me run off. That might have been the scariest few weeks of my life, because I knew I could never leave him. He wouldn't let me.

"Finally, I gaze up. I said I didn't care about Gracie anymore, and that it didn't matter that she disappeared. It wasn't that far from the truth — I'd convinced myself of it to hide the pain. After a while, there wasn't any pain anymore. That was just who I was then.

"And not long after that, Dad lost his job. He started snorting coke again. Started selling it to make ends meet. But it wasn't enough, and we lost the house.

"That's how we ended up down here. And it wasn't much longer before he made me join the family buisness."

"Shit," I breathe. That was . . . a lot. "But you said you've been talking to Gracie . . . how?"

Rowan smiles wryly. "You ever send an Iris-message before?"

I blink. "That's how she talked to Ryan?"

"Yep," he says. "It was about a week after we ended up here, when I had turned ten. . . . Out of nowhere, a rainbow hologram showed up in the air. I would have panicked, except that Gracie's face was in it, and she talked to me. . . .

"I'd rebuilt myself by that point, but not as much as I thought. Gracie explained everything to me — the camp, the gods, the I-message, everything. I listened without talking for hours, not knowing what to believe or who to trust.

"She seemed to get sadder and sadder when I didn't talk, and by the end of the story, she looked ready to just give up.

"But she didn't. Because finally, without even thinking about it, I asked how she was doing and if she was happy.

"She said no . . . I didn't know why until later.

"I know why," I mutter.

"We all know why," Rowan adds, shooting me a you're-not-special glare.

"Quiet, both of you," Ryan orders. He twists his fingers together, his joints popping and cracking like bubble wrap.

I remember how Gracie used to do the same thing, and it feels like a punch to the gut. Gracie wouldn't have left. Gracie, I could count on. I miss her so badly it hurts.

I can't even imagine how it must feel for Ryan.

But we cried together for hours," Ryan continues. "We were sure that I-messages were the only way we'd ever get to see each other, and it wasn't the same, even if it was better than phone calls or texting. And we knew that Gracie would be safer this way, but neither of us cared. And my sister was already learning that there was something seriously wrong with her cabin."

"Already?" I say incredulously. "After only a few weeks? Took me a while — well, a while to acknowledge what I knew, anyway."

He shrugs. "Yeah, she already knew. Guess she was just stronger. No offense."

"Ryan," Rowan says kindly, "just because it's true doesn't mean you have to point it out."

I hold up a hand. "No offense taken. I know what I am." It damages my pride a little to hear it out loud, but I never had much of that in the beginning, and it does people good to hear their flaws out loud. . . . He's right. Gracie was stronger. A better sister, a better person.

"Well, in that case . . ." He shrugs again. "Yeah, she knew how fucked up you guys are right away. Well, after less than a week. She didn't tell me. She knew how much it would hurt me, to know what she was going through. . . . She was kind of — fiercely empathetic."

I nod, smiling sadly. "Sounds like Gracie. Fiercely empathetic."

"But she couldn't hide it forever," Ryan continues. "I'd start seeing how constantly exhausted she was, or how she seemed almost scared to talk, constantly looking over her shoulder like someone was going to sneak up behind her and hit her. I knew she didn't want to talk about it, and I respected that. . . . Honestly, I kind of just thought fighting monsters and shit made her tired and paranoid.

"When the bruises started showing up, I finally jumped on her. You should have heard me — it was pretty impressive. She didn't even try to dissipate the I-message. She just broke down and told me everything.

"Will, this is where you might want to start paying attention, because I don't know how much of this shit happened to you."

"I'm listening."

"She said that one of her brothers, he used to force her to stay up for days at a time, making her heal the most tiring, difficult injuries he could find. If he couldn't find any, he would dart himself with an anesthetic and snap his own arm or drive knives into his legs."

I'm quiet, racking my memory for things I might have buried a long time ago to protect myself, but to no avail. That was one torment I was spared.

"No," I say quietly, "I don't think they ever did that to me. But it doesn't surprise me. It seems like something a few of them would have — would have done." I have to work hard to keep my voice from breaking.

Ryan looks both regretful and disgusted — with me, with my cabin, with the whole fucking lot of us. "Guess you just got lucky."

Rowan snorts. "Nothing luckier than a cutting addict who saw multiple siblings kill themselves. Nothing luckier than a little kid who's had people die by their hands."

I lift my chin, scared but defiant. "I'm not lucky. I was raised by your sister. And I know you know that's nothing to be proud of."

Ryan holds my gaze for a moment, before sighing and dropping his eyes. "I know." He doesn't apologize, but that's okay. I wouldn't apologize either. I mean, not again I wouldn't.

"Can I ask you something, though?" It's not really a question, but he's already furious with me for letting his sister die, even though he hides it. . . . I don't have to give him another reason to hate me.

"I guess you're going to regardless of whether I say yes or not," he says wryly.

"What was the other medic's name?"

Ryan stares at the ground, trying to remember. "I think it was . . . Eddy, or something. I don't know. She only mentioned it once, and I didn't ask for further details."

I feel my stomach curl into a ball. "Was it Ean?"

"Could be, yeah. Ean . . . that sounds right. Then again, I could be wrong." He catches my look. "Why? Did you know him?"

I fall back against the wall, heart racing. So the mysterious other medic who was Gracie's first kill was also her abuser. . . .

I wonder what she had felt when he died.

Maybe she didn't try to save him.

"And I was furious, but I obviously couldn't do anything," Ryan continues. "When she was . . . twelve, I think, Ean died. She didn't say how."

"Training accident," I mutter. "She couldn't — didn't save him."

Rowan shakes her head. "Ean was a piece of shit . . . thank God he's gone. I hope Gracie found some peace."

I shrug. "I mean, she still had to deal with the others, but she was a little better than they were."

Ryan nods. "She promised me she would be better than they were."

"I promised that," I mutter. "It didn't work."

"Gracie was different."

"I know."

We're all silent for a moment, and then I turn to Rowan. I trust her more than I trust Ryan, although I really don't trust either of them. . . . Rowan's better, in any case. She doesn't have a grudge. That I know of.

"You said you didn't believe in the gods . . . I know you aren't going to give me an explanation, and that's okay, but I just want to know . . ." I shake my head. "I don't even know."

Rowan sighs. "You're damn right you don't need an explanation . . . but I guess we can tell you a little more. Ryan?"

Ryan sighs. "Goddammit, Rowan. Do I have to?"

"Yes."

He turns to me. "You already know we don't believe in the gods, but you're wondering why we talk about them like we do, right?"

"I — yeah, that works."

He winds one end of his shoelace around his finger. "They're not gods, Will. You have to know that by now."

I shrug apologetically. "I was never allowed to think about that."

"So yes. As close as you can get, anyway. They're people, same as us. People with better homes and better looks and better skills. I think they honestly believe they're gods . . . and so you have to, too." Ryan doesn't look like he's lying, and I know he's completely confident about his beliefs . . . or lack thereof.

Rowan smiles crookedly. "If we believed in the gods, we would always have someone to blame for bad luck or our own idiocy, and someone who we counted on to give us everything instead of letting us work out our own goddamn lives. No sane person would purposefully live like that."

"Religion was invented by lazy people, stupid people, and corrupt people who wanted to be able to do whatever depraved shit they wanted. 'Oh, no, it's okay that I raped that little girl, because God contacted me and said I could. It's alright to hate people for things they can't control, because God said we could. Do this thing I want you to do, because God also wants you to do it.' That's culture for you. People invented God so that they could force people to do what they wanted. And that's capital-G God. It's the same with the Greeks, or the Romans, or the Hindus."

I stay silent, my mind racing. Ryan sees my expression, and snorts. "See? You don't even know what to think. You're a fucking kid, forced to believe this stupid shit because those supposed gods said you should. Was it the gods, or did the other humans just want an excuse to control you?"

"It's fucking disgusting," Rowan mutters. "It makes me sick as hell when I see people bringing their little kids to church, or making them celebrate certain holidays. . . . That's not teaching them to be loving and faithful Christians or Jews or Muslims or whatever. That's forcing them to believe something without ever giving a thought to the fact that they might not want to believe it. It's brainwashing, in other words."

"Puppet masters," I mutter without thinking. "They're puppet masters."

She smirks. "And it's worse for you than those other kids. You were forced to be a healer, a life saver, and what happens when you can't save a life? 'Fuck you. You're useless. You're weak. Why are you even here?' Then, a second later, as soon as they need you for something, 'Wait, I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry. We need you.' Then, if you try to speak up, 'Shut the fuck up. Get back to work. You're just a field medic. You don't get to complain. You're not even fighting. Your life is easy as hell.' It just goes on and on. They believe in the gods, and it's your job to heal, so get the fuck working or get the fuck out."

"Isn't that kind of . . . extreme?" I ask. "I mean, just taking Christians, aren't they taught to — I don't know — love and respect all their neighbors or something?"

Ryan snorts. "Yes, and they somehow find a way to twist that into hating anyone who doesn't buy into their bullshit. . . . Honestly, what's done in the name of God by some so-called Christians is fucking disgusting. Love your neighbor, but not if they're gay. Respect everyone, but not if they don't believe in God. Be kind to people, but not if they're 'woke' — which, by the way, is just a dehumanizing term for people who don't support massacring people because they're strong women or whatever."

Rowan smiles humorlessly. "If Jesus was still alive, he would be horrified by what people have twisted his teachings into."

I'm still trying to corral my thoughts. "So, if you two are atheist or whatever —"

"Not 'atheist,'" interrupts Ryan. "The term 'atheism' makes it sound like another religion — and atheism is a religion the way silence is a style of music."

"Oh." I'm silent for a moment. "Well, I was going to say, if you two don't believe in religion, why do you —"

"Say 'oh my God' and 'Jesus Christ'?" Rowan interrupts with the same wry grin.

"Well, yeah."

Ryan groans. "I hate when religious people make that argument . . . bud, they're exclamations. They're easy to say and they get a point across. We don't save them because we believe in the people; we'd still say them even if they were obscure names that meant nothing. Goddammit." He leans back against the wall.

"I will never understand how people even started using those as exclamations," says Rowan. "Isn't it a fucking sin? And yet . . ."

Ryan shakes his head. "Moving off that tangent, I don't get how people can seriously go and sit in a glorified shrine, reading fanfiction written by some random dude thousands of years ago, and swallow everything they're told about some presence that created the world, when there is real, provable evidence that it's fucking science."

"They're pigs, that's how," mutters Rowan.

I blink, confused. "Pigs? Like, the stereotype of pigs being stupid and dirty or whatever?"

She shakes her head. "No, I mean they'll swallow anything. Christians, slap a generic name and a couple of numbers in front of it, and they'll believe — eat — whatever's put in front of them."

I don't even know what to say. I still don't know what I believe. So I just say, "Is it okay if I don't fully agree with you guys?"

Rowan sighs. "Christ, Will, why do you even have to ask that? Wait, don't answer that. I know why. Yes, obviously it's fine. Believe whatever you want."

I sit back, digesting that. It makes sense, most of it, but I'm not ready to believe that all religious people are either corrupt or idiots . . . I guess that's because I was raised on it, ever since I was ten. And I can definitely say I understand the whole brainwashing thing.

I think that people aren't exactly evil if they decide to become religious, but not until they're fully functioning adults. Kids don't know what they're doing, but they're easy as hell to manipulate.

I don't know how to just stop believing in the gods, and even if I do, I'm not going to act like I've been 'saved' or anything. That's what they do. I'm not saved. I'm not ruined. I just am.

I'd worship that, but the Cult Of Self is just another cult.

I guess there's nowhere to go from here.

"So . . ." I look at both of them, both smiling wryly as they lay down their cards for me to do what I will with. "Sun's coming up soon. I should go."

Both of them wince, and I do, too. I hear myself. "I know, but I can't leave my little sibling. Can I meet you guys — I don't know, in another three days?"

We have at least another hour before the sun comes up, and we all know it. But neither of them argue.

Rowan nods as she stands up, pulling Ryan up next to her. "Okay. Maybe at two o'clock, so we have more time?"

I nod gratefully. I don't know when these two became my escape — especially since one of them has tried to kill me multiple times — but they have.

I stand up, brushing my pants off and stretching my stiff legs. My neck throbs, and I wince as I brush my fingers along the thin scab. I'll have to do something about that.

I turn to say goodbye to them, or thank you, or something, but they've both melted into the shadows.

I shake my head. Even they can't resist an exit.

Guess that leaves me with no impressive shadow-melting opportunity, so, ignoring the hollow numbness of my legs, as if I'm dragging around two wooden clubs, I head out of the alley.

It's not until I reach the main road that I realize Rowan never told me anything about herself.

And Ryan never explained what was wrong with me in particular.

Goddamn, that was a long chapter. And for a story like ten people read.

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