Prologue Sing, O muse . That's how the old stories used to start. At least, that is how they used to start in Hellas, Greece--of all realms the most jealously guarded by its gods. A lightdrenched land set in winedark waters, its craggy hillsides dense with pine, bright with acanthus, loud with the constant thrum of cicadas. Hillsides crowned with the cities of men: Mycenae, citadel of longdead Agamemnon; warlike Sparta; rocky Aulis, where Iphigeneia died at her father's hand. Pylos of the golden sands, on which the palace of wise Nestor once stood, looking out across the Ionian Sea. And mightiest of all, Thebes, from where Orpheus the Tyrant sends out his armies, cutting down kingdom after kingdom. Sing, O muse, a song of Death .

There's the city of Iolkos, high on its hill above the Gulf of Pagasae. One-time home of Jason, secondrate hero, thirdrate husband, and thief of the golden fleece. But the heroes--good and bad--dwindled and disappeared long ago. Now there are gods, and there are men, and there is Orpheus--a mortal who thinks he is a god. Iolkos is just a backwater, another place caught within his net. And there, in a granitewalled complex beyond the boundaries of the city, in a small lamplit room with its windows open to admit moonlight and the scent of rosemary from the garden beyond, lies a girl who is dying. Sing, O muse, a song of Death and the maiden . Sickness stalks the broad streets of Iolkos, and Death follows in its wake.

After all, he is everywhere, in all living things: their beginnings, their endings, and each moment of existence between. Built into every atom of the space they inhabit. He is only, and always, to be expected. Whether through disease or violence or the swiftfooted passage of the years, all life eventually falls beneath the shadow of his wings. A plague has left fresh scars on this girl's cheeks. Her eyes are mismatched--one dark brown, one gray green--and half veiled by feverfluttered lids. And there's a symbol on her forehead. She's one of the Theodesmioi, the godmarked.

Marked by Zeus, king of the heavens and the earth, or by Poseidon, lord of the seas, or by Hephaestus, hammerwielding master of metals, or, in this girl's case, by Hades, ruler of the Underworld. Serving the city in Hades's name and drawing a fraction of the god's power in return. A very small fraction. Not enough to save herself. Death tightens his grip on his sword. Swings back the blade, ready to sever her lifeline and unship her soul from its earthly vessel. The movement brings him closer to her face. Her unseeing eyes open.

For the first time in more centuries than he can remember, Death hesitates. A ring of gold has burst into being around the pupil of the girl's dark brown eye like the sudden unfolding of a sunflower. She gasps with pain and sinks back into oblivion. His sharpedged blade is still ready. He knows he ought to use it. And yet . And yet, who's to say she can't survive? She's strong. A fighter.

Perhaps there's something she wants very badly. A reason for her to try to stay alive. Death sheathes his sword, doing his best to ignore the voice he thought he'd long since silenced, the insidious whispering of hope. What if she could be the one? The girl's existence hangs by a fraying thread, fine as spider's silk, brittle as old bone but not quite broken. Death lingers, warming himself at the flickering embers of her life. She can't see him. She can't hear him. Still, he murmurs two words into the darkness.

Fight harder.