“You aren’t going to survive this. You’re a monster, and you’re going to be punished for that. One way or another,” she said, her voice firm with her belief.

Sadness and guilt rolled through me. That had been me not so long ago. It was as if I were staring into a mirror of my past, and I didn’t like what I saw. “I’m so sorry,” I whispered. I turned away from her, not sure if I was apologizing to her, or to myself. That I’d let myself be taken for so long by a group that was so filled with hatred. Why couldn’t they be like other churches and just love everyone?

I sighed as I hurried around the back of the bakery and let myself in. Tad was sampling the partially mixed sponge cake. I pointed at the final ingredients, he grabbed them, and I whipped them up. This, that, the other, until I had it all put together, in a pan, and in the oven. Next was the frosting. Honey filled, that’s what I wanted. Maybe with a touch of cinnamon.

Tad cleared his throat. “I heard that Remo dumped you.”

“I heard that Dahlia dumped you,” I shot back.

“Nope, she didn’t. Told me she’d rather be kicked out than break up with me.”

I froze with the stand mixer half out of the bowl. “What?”

“Remo told her to dump me, that it would never work. She told him to . . . well, she told him off.” He winked at me. “Wouldn’t want to offend your virgin ears with the actual words she used.”

I snorted, and then my heart tugged at me. Dahlia loved Tad enough to defy Remo, but Remo didn’t care for me enough to defy those who were his superiors. I smiled at my brother, but I could feel the edges of it wobble. “I’m happy for you.”

“He’s an idiot, you know that?” Tad gave me a trademark one-armed hug that all brothers do when their sister is obviously on the verge of tears and they fear for their clothes. Like they think the tears of a sister are some sort of acid that will eat right through their shirt. Then again, for all I knew, mine might.

“That’s what I keep telling her.” Ernie flew down and wrapped his arms around my neck, squeezing me.

“You shouldn’t have done . . . what you did,” I said to Ernie, not willing to out him to my brother about the whole shooting-Smithy-with-an-arrow business. Tad didn’t always keep his mouth shut, so it was best not to give him ammo against Ernie.

“I did what I thought was best. Smithy would be good for you in a lot of ways, and you are obviously good for him. I haven’t seen him give a shit about the world in a long time,” Ernie said, then patted me on top of my head.

I pulled back. “Enough of my love life or lack thereof. I have a hero to deal with.”

“Who?” Tad and Ernie asked in unison.

I drew a big breath as I measured some honey into the filling. “Hercules.”

Ernie let out a low whistle. “Now that is surprising. He hates Hera. Evil-stepmother syndrome and all that. You know, she used to make him . . . never mind.”

That perked me up. “Make him what?” If I had some ammo, maybe I could convince him that I wasn’t the bad guy.

The cherub frowned and scrunched up his nose. “It was a long time ago; I’m not sure it even matters anymore.”

“Tell me. Please. It could help me figure out how to survive.” I put my hands together, literally begging.

Ernie seemed to waver, then he finally nodded. “Well, she was jealous of the bond between him and his father, mostly because Herc’s mom was human, you know? So Hera used to call him names, made him look stupid. Told him he was no good, that he was weaker than the other demigods. It went on for years and years. Every time he completed a quest or something, she talked it down. Told him it was something a simple human could have done. But she always made sure Zeus didn’t see it. So it was Hercules’s word against Hera’s. And to keep the peace, Zeus always sided with his wife.”

“She gave him a complex, you mean.” Tad snorted. “He’s a fool, then, if he really believed her words.”

Hercules had a complex of not being good enough? That was something I understood all too well. I wanted to cringe from Tad’s assessment, because it could just as easily be applied to me. Though I’d grown and moved past that kind of thinking for the most part, I understood it. And why it was such a hard cycle to break. When someone you loved or respected told you that you were weak, it tended to stick more than the words of some stranger.

“So how would she have gotten him to help her?” Tad asked. “I mean, I wouldn’t help someone who treated me like dog shit. Would you?” He looked at me, and I had to look away. The silence in the room grew to an uncomfortable level. I took a breath and pushed the words out.

“Yeah, I would. Just to show them that I was worthwhile. I mean, I did for years with Mom.” The words were soft, and Tad stepped over to me and slung both arms around me—a real hug, if you could believe it.

“You aren’t like that now,” he said.

“But I was. I . . . I would do anything to prove to Mom that I was good enough. Don’t you remember? How she pushed me and was always telling me I could be better if only I’d tried?”

“Yeah, you more than me. I never understood why. And Dad never stood up for us. Like his silence was his way of agreeing with her.” He gave me a last squeeze and then let me go. I hated that he’d said that. I’d always wanted to believe that Dad wasn’t the same as Mom, that his silence was his way of defying her. Yet . . . I could see that Tad was right. Dad could have stood up for us, but he hadn’t. He’d let Mom bully us—mostly me, really—into a place of no self-worth. So maybe it wasn’t all her fault.