"I shot him." Paris stood in Helen's doorway. "The heel came apart like bread. He fell."

  Menelaus set down his cup. His body knew the motion. Rise, grab sword, kill rival. But his sword was across the room, and his hand went to Paris's throat empty.

  Paris didn't move. Couldn't with Menelaus's fingers finding his pulse, thumb pressing the corner of his jaw.

  "You killed Achilles?"

  "The donkey showed me where." Paris's voice was unsteady. "I didn't mean..."

  "Stop talking."

  Menelaus meant to squeeze. Instead his thumb traced the bone beneath skin, the angle where jaw met ear. Paris tried to pull back. Menelaus's other hand caught him, held him still. Brushed the hair out of his face.

  "Stop shaking."

  "I can't..."

  Another explosion outside. The walls trembled.

  His thumb followed the jaw's line. The fever-hot skin, pulse hammering against his palm. Menelaus leaned closer, studying how terror sat in those perfect features.

  "Your mouth," Menelaus said.

  "It's..." Menelaus couldn't finish. His thumb had found Paris's lower lip. The soft give of it. Unfair.

  Paris's breathing changed. "Please..."

  "Please what?"

  The question hung between them. Another explosion shook dust from the ceiling.

  Helen watched from her chair. "You're seeing him."

  "I'm just..."

  "You're just seeing what I see." She sipped her wine. "He's prettiest when frightened."

  Menelaus's hand tightened on Paris's throat. Possessive. Paris tried to speak... not quite yes, not quite no.

  "Sit," Helen said. "You look better by the window."

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  They didn't move.

  "Both of you. Now."

  They sat.

  Kyros pushed through Troy's gates in borrowed armor that bit into his merchant-soft flesh. The spear kept rotating in his grip. Five days since the prophet destroyed him.

  His wife had taken the children while he was at the council hearing. They had taken everything else. When the fleet came collecting, he couldn't afford the exemption fee.

  The other conscripts moved with purpose. Kyros hung back, calculating. Let the heroes die for glory. He was too important for this shit.

  But the prophet was here, that foreign bitch with pointed ears who'd turned him into this. In Troy. He'd heard the soldiers talking.

  His fantasy had been building since the first day. Finding her alone in some palace corridor. Those strange, beautiful eyes recognizing him. "Remember me, prophet?" The fear when she understood. How she'd try to bargain, claim the spirits made her do it.

  His hand drifted to adjust himself under the armor. She'd beg. He'd take his time. Make her understand with her body what her mouth had done to his life. Then he'd put that clever mouth to work...

  "That's a lot of cock."

  Someone ahead had stopped. Kyros stayed back, let others push forward.

  The fountain square opened before them, lit by torches. Bronze phalluses pointed at them from every angle. Decorations? They had to be. Typical Troy.

  Smoke drifted from the bronze tips.

  "Shields up!"

  Kyros didn't have a shield. Merchants who couldn't pay got spears and helmets. He raised his spear like it would matter.

  The smoke increased. Gray wisps from each bronze mouth, perfectly aligned. They were all pointed at—

  The sound arrived.

  The sound pushed through armor, through skin, through skull. The man ahead of him continued walking, his mind elsewhere. Three steps, then down.

  Perfect. While everyone screamed, Kyros moved.

  His shield was still warm. Good bronze, worth a farm. A proper sword. He was already backing away when he saw another Spartan opening up for the first time.

  The purse at the man's belt, heavy with campaign gold. He was making a killing.

  Multiple sounds. The bronze cocks erupted again. Stone chips became horizontal rain.

  Kyros touched his own face. Wet. Everything was bleeding.

  He turned to run. Tripped on something soft.

  Kyros saw his intestines before he felt them leave. Pink loops, steaming in the cool night air.

  He fell to his knees. Around him, men were coming apart like spoiled meat.

  She'd done this too. These demon dicks were hers somehow.

  Wet ropes full of shit. He tried stuffing them back in, but the hole was too wide, his fingers too weak.

  "You're all I have left," he told them.

  Above Troy, Cassandra circled silently in her bronze eagle. She caught thermals from the burning city. It was peaceful. Like old days. Anaktoria's arms tight around her waist, chin on her shoulder.

  Her divine eyes saw everything despite the darkness. Each soldier's face. The fountain square had been repainted in men. She shouldn't have been surprised. Mortals never ceased their art.

  There... that was the grain merchant wasn't it? She recognized his slimy beard. Her hands twitched automatically. Weight training. He was on his knees, holding his pound of flesh.

  She banked left, circling once more. The bronze tubes had stopped firing. No one left to shoot.

  "Let's go," Cassandra said.

  "Where?"

  "I know someone."

  The bird turned inland, bronze fury reigniting with a shriek.