Chapter 3

I push myself up. My ears are ringing. Smoke and grit everywhere.

Up on the high temple, two figures in white. Castor with his arm around her waist.

His voice booms down through the temple horn, twisted by the bronze.

"Daphne. I knew it. You couldn't sell me crying, so now you're charging the mountain yourself?"

His voice drops cold.

"I knew you'd try something. I am not letting you ruin her night."

Another spear-streak. Closer.

"Hera — make him hear you!"

Hera drags herself to her knees and screams up the slope. "Castor!"

A pause from the temple. Then he laughs — louder, uglier.

"Daphne. You really hired an actress? You think I don't know my own mother's voice? My mother has both her arms. Stop. Embarrassing. Yourself."

Hera shakes. "I am your mother — you can't even tell my voice apart —"

Up there, Castor goes still for one breath.

Then I see Lyra reach up and tug his sleeve. Her voice floats down through the horn, all velvet.

"Castor — I knew Daphne never liked me. Let's just call it off. I'll go down. I'm used to being hated. Really. It's fine. I shouldn't even have been born —"

His face hardens instantly. Of course it does.

"Again," he orders.

More streaks rain down. They walk across the slope behind us, sealing the way back.

The moon climbs higher.

"No more time. I'll keep his eye on me. You go. Bring help back."

Hera's hand clamps on my shoulder, all bone and blood. "Every soul down there is waiting on you."

She shoves me off and starts dragging herself toward the temple steps.

I lunge for her. "Hera — they can't see you from up there. They will kill you."

The horn cracks again from above.

"Daphne. If you want to ruin her night so badly you'll die for it — let me help."

I look up.

A bronze javelin is balanced on his shoulder. Long. Heavy. The kind they say his father Ares forged in the deep fires. It catches the moon and a thread of lightning runs down the shaft.

He throws.

"Daphne — down —"

Hera slams into me. Her whole body covers mine.

The crack of thunder splits the air open.

Hot blood floods my face. My mouth. My eyes.

She's on top of me. The spear has gone clean through her back and out her chest, pinning her into the rock above my head. Her one good hand is curled tight in my hair.

"Hera — Hera, no —"

She doesn't answer.

Her blood is still hot on my face.

Above us, through the horn, Lyra's sweet little voice floats down.

"Sister. Push her off the cliff. The blood will pull them. You'll die too."