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“Then tell me. Tell me now what happens to her.”

She did, the last pages of storyline, Tracker’s trek across Siberia, her loneliness, confusion, the desperation as she signaled for the helicopter, betting her life that whoever she called would help her and not kill her, and that moment when she saw the American flag, the symbol she’d devoted her life to, and didn’t know if it meant she was saved or damned. And she didn’t know what happened next. She hadn’t decided if the men in the helicopter were good guys or bad guys. It was such a little tragedy.

“I can’t decide if the end should be happy or sad,” she said. “By all rights, Talon should step out of the helicopter and save her. That should be his uniform she sees. But it seems too easy. She spent the whole book learning how to save herself.”

“I think it should have a happy ending. She learned to save herself, yes. But she can still get help now and then,” he said. “I’d like your story to have a happy ending.”

Me, too, she thought. “I hope Arthur and Merlin are okay.” She didn’t think she’d ever see them again. She and Alex had been yanked out of the old world and brought to a new one. She hoped they arrived here, too, and were just somewhere else. And Bruce, and everybody, and the world could get back to normal.

“I imagine they are,” he said absently. His touch against her scalp was hypnotic, and she let it lull her.

He said, “Was it worth it? Was that what you were meant to save?”

/> “Yes.” It had to be. It had to be enough. She stroked the edge of the box. It called to her; it was hers to keep and protect.

“What is it?”

She sat up, but stayed close to him, tucked under his arm. “Pandora’s box.”

His whole body tensed, a panicked flinch. “And that’s supposed to save us?”

“Shh.” Her father had been right. About everything, and the instinct spoke true after all. This was everything. They had saved it all. She unhooked the latch and opened the box.

Alex jerked, trying to reach around her to slam the lid shut, but she shifted, blocking him.

“It’s okay. You know the stories—it has only one thing left inside. The only thing worth saving.” Inside, resting on a piece of raw wool padding, was a small gem glowing with pure white light. No larger than a thumbnail, yet it filled her whole vision. “It’s hope.”

She closed the lid and latched it. The clouds swept across the sky, part of a storm, but the storm was passing. Low rumbles of thunder were distant.

“Wait here.” Alex eased away, preparing to stand. The back of his T-shirt was still covered with blood, where Robin had stabbed him. The blood shone wetly—was still damp. So not too much time could have passed.

When he saw her staring at the mess, he grumbled, and pulled the shirt off, showing his tanned, muscular body that had been fighting for three thousand years.

He still had the sword he’d claimed in the Storeroom. Holding it ready, he moved a dozen paces away and looked intently up the coast.

A figure approached, a woman in a black evening gown, a chiffon scarf dancing behind her in the wind. She should have had trouble walking across the soft earth in high heels, but she came with smooth, untroubled steps, her chin lifted, her arms easy at her sides.

Alex waited in a ready stance, standing guard. There, at last, Evie saw it: the Greek warrior who must have stood on the beach before Troy, his body sculpted, the muscles of his arms tensed, holding his sword at the ready, gripped easily in his hand. His face was calm.

The woman stopped, her gaze resting on Evie, who clutched Pandora’s box, then on Alex.

“You live,” she said, smiling. “It took me forever to find you. Relatively speaking.”

“But it’s only been a few—,” Evie began, but Hera silenced her with a look that clearly made a comment regarding Evie’s ignorance.

“I’ve vowed to protect her,” Alex said, indicating Evie over his shoulder. “If you come any closer, I will strike you.”

“Me? You worshipped me at your hearth fire when you were a boy. Your mother held your hand to help you light the offering. And you would strike me?”

“I’ve learned so much since then. We’re no different, you and I.”

She reached, like she was going to touch his cheek. He recoiled, leveling the sword’s point as a barrier between them.

“Oh, we are different. You are still afraid, and I am not.”

She slashed with her hand, an arc of motion across his middle. He parried, but she cut him without touching him, without coming close to his sword. The skin parted. Blood welled and dripped. He grunted and stepped back, holding his belly with one hand, keeping the sword leveled with the other. Then he straightened, ran his hand along the wound—and he was whole. The cut healed. Gripping the sword two-handed, he lunged, driving the point at her.

As easily as she might have touched the wind, she pushed his arm aside, stepped out of the way, and threw him. He flew back, smashing into one of the standing stones. A bloody wound flowered on his temple.