“Why?” I whispered, my voice cracking. “I told you that I didn’t want it. That I never wanted to see it again.”
“I know, sweetheart, and I understand why you feel that way,” Aunt Rachel said, pain rasping through her words. “I’m still so angry at Rebecca that I can’t even think straight sometimes.”
I kept staring at the box. “But?”
“But there are still Reapers out there, and people are still in danger.” She sighed. “And as much as I hate to admit it, as much as I want to keep you safe, you are a Spartan warrior through and through. You would be a great asset to the Midgard. You could help them stop the Reapers.”
I stared at her. “But in the Bunker, you said that you didn’t want me to help them, that you didn’t want me to join their team.”
“No, I didn’t. I was so worried when you texted me that there were Reapers in the library, and I would be even more worried if you actually joined the Midgard. I don’t want to see you get hurt—or worse.” Aunt Rachel’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I don’t want to lose you too, Rory.”
Her green gaze fell to the black velvet box in her hand, and I knew she was thinking of her sister, my mom. Aunt Rachel’s fingers curled around the box for a moment, and then she stepped forward and set it down on the edge of the vanity table.
“But I also don’t want to hold you back. Linus was right. We’re Spartans, and like it or not, fighting is one of the things we do best.”
“I don’t want you to worry about me,” I replied. “And if that means not joining the Midgard, then I’m okay with that. You’re more important to me than this is.”
“I’m always going to worry about you, no matter how old you are. Being on the Midgard might not be safe, but if it makes you happy, then I’ll just have to learn to live with my worry.” Aunt Rachel gave me a grim smile. “Linus was right about something else: it’s your choice. We’ve both been at the mercy of your parents and what they did for far too long. It’s time for you to choose what you want. But know this—no matter what you decide, I’ll always support you.”
She leaned over and pressed a kiss to my forehead.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
She drew back and stroked my wet hair. Then she smiled and left my bedroom, shutting the door behind her.
My gaze zoomed over to the black velvet box. Anger roared through my body, and I thought about shoving it off the side of the table and into the trash can below. But the anger burned out in an instant, leaving behind the familiar heartache. Sighing, I grabbed the box and slowly cracked open the top.
A bracelet lay inside, with a single charm dangling from its links—a silver locket shaped like a heart.
I hesitated, then picked up the bracelet and opened the locket. The photo inside looked exactly the same as I remembered it. My dad, Tyson, was in one half of the heart, a rare smile on his face, while my mom, Rebecca, was in the other half. I was also on my mom’s side of the locket, standing between my parents, my arms wrapped around both their shoulders, grinning like a fool.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been that happy.
My parents had given me the bracelet, locket, and photo for my sixteenth birthday last year, a few weeks before they’d been murdered. I had loved the gift, especially the locket, and I’d jokingly said that I was wearing my Spartan heart on my sleeve for everyone to see.
The day of their funerals, I had torn off the bracelet and thrown it down on top of their graves, but Aunt Rachel had picked it up, saying that I might want it back someday. I had told her I never wanted to see it again and had stormed off. But here I was, holding the bracelet in my hands again roughly a year later.
I traced my fingers over the simple, delicate links, which were ice-cold against my skin. The small locket felt as heavy as a lead weight in my hand, and the heart’s sharp point pricked my thumb like a needle, drawing a drop of blood and making me hiss. I concentrated on that icy chill, on that heavy weight, and especially on that tiny sting of pain, letting the sensations ground me, steady me.
Holding the locket reminded me of all the times my mom had told me to focus on my sword during a fight, to really feel the hilt in my hand, to notice the blade dangling from my fingers, to listen to the whisper of the sharp edge slicing through the air, until the sword was a part of me, and I was a part of it. That was what having a Spartan heart had meant to her, and my dad too.
In that moment, I made my decision.
Maybe I had already made it back during the Battle of Mythos Academy, when I’d seen all the blood, bodies, death, and destruction. Maybe I had made it weeks before then, the day I first met Gwen when she’d come to Colorado searching for a cure for a poisoned Nickamedes. Maybe I had even made it long before then, in the instant I found out that my parents were Reapers.
Either way, I knew what I had to do now.
I was joining the Midgard, and I was going to get justice for Amanda and help Takeda and the others stop the Reapers from hurting anyone else. The bracelet and locket were both symbols of my parents and their mistakes—mistakes that I didn’t want to make. So as much as it hurt me, I wrapped the chain around my wrist and snapped the clasp shut.
The metal still felt cold and heavy against my skin but not unpleasantly so. I hoped it would remind me that I wasn’t my parents and that I didn’t have to follow the same dark path they had taken.
Time would tell.
I stared at the bracelet and heart locket glimmering around my wrist a moment longer, then closed the black velvet box, pushed it aside, and went to bed.
Chapter Nine
I told Aunt Rachel my decision at breakfast the next morning.
She was standing in front of the stove, making cheesy scrambled eggs, and she opened her mouth like she was going to try to talk me out of it. Then she shook her head, remembering her promise from last night.
“I knew it. I knew you were going to join the team.” Her gaze dropped to the bracelet around my wrist, and she brandished her spatula at me. “But I want you to remember something. What your parents did is what they did. It doesn’t have anything to do with you or me or anyone else. They made their own choices. You don’t have to try to make up for their mistakes.”
I let out a tense breath. “I know that, and I’m not doing it for them.”
Aunt Rachel gave me a sharp, knowing look.
I held up my hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay, so I’m not doing it entirely for them. I’m doing it for me too. Because this is the kind of person that I want to be. I’m a Spartan, and Spartans protect people, right?”
She nodded. Then she turned off the stove, dished the eggs onto two plates, and brought everything over to the kitchen table.
Aunt Rachel pushed a plate of eggs over to me. “That’s right. We protect people. It’s who we are, and it’s what we do—both of us.”