He held back, tugging against her like an anchor. “You’re not going to hurt her.”
Hera gave him a reassuring smile. “Of course not. I’m not a brute.” With her urging, she started him walking again, guiding him to the northern edge of the cemetery, where the town lay.
Robin and the Wanderer followed a few paces behind.
“Where did you find Robin?” the Greek said.
“Sulking in a pub in Dublin. I’ve found my lieutenants in the strangest places. I’m not picky. All I ask for is loyalty. Have you thought about joining me?”
“I served a god once. It didn’t suit me.”
“You wouldn’t be a slave with me,” she said with a laugh, putting seduction in her tone.
“Can you get rid of this?” He hooked his fingers around the chain on his neck.
She touched it, running her fingers along the skin underneath as she did. She was disappointed that he didn’t flinch. “I don’t know. I could have my friend the Marquis have a look at it.”
“The Marquis?”
“A scion of the British aristocracy and a student of magic. Formal for my taste. But he has his talents. He found the Storeroom for me.”
“Did he? He must be powerful.”
“It’s not so impressive as it sounds. He didn’t find the Storeroom so much as follow the path of one who already knew where it was.”
The Greek hesitated a step.
Hera studied him. “How did you find the Storeroom?”
“I looked for it,” he said.
She said in a low voice, “I could use someone of wisdom. Of age. That’s what my people lack. The experience that comes with the age of an immortal. We gods were thousands of years old by the time we came to Greece. We’d ruled in other lands under different names. But the old ones in all the lands are gone. The pantheons seemed to have a knack for killing themselves off. Everybody had a Ragnarök. You may be pleased to hear that you are one of the oldest people I’ve encountered in my recent travels.”
“That doesn’t comfort me, my lady,” he said. He glanced over his shoulder at the ones who followed, and his voice changed, becoming colored with false brightness. “I’d like to meet this Marquis of yours.”
“He’s busy,” said Robin, overhearing them. “Spending all his time trying to crack that shell around the Walker house.”
“Having trouble with that, is he?” the Greek said.
Robin said, “He insists it’d be easier if he knew who cast the spell in the first place. It certainly wasn’t the Walkers.”
“I see.”
The Wanderer moved forward to speak softly in her ear, “He’s hiding something.”
The Greek was a game escort, holding her arm politely, if not affectionately. He walked at her pace, which was slow. She could study him at her leisure. He stared ahead, his face still.
“What do you know of that family?” she asked.
“What would you have me know?”
“You have some affection for them. For all I know, you might have been following them from the beginning. What do you know of the magic that protects them?”
His mouth remained closed. Hiding something, indeed.
“It’s a simple question, my dear. If you don’t know, say so.”
“It’s very old magic. Older than you.”