Cassandra woke to find a pigeon on her face.

  She tried to scream. Its feet were in her mouth. The pigeon shifted its weight. Now its cloaca was directly over her eye.

  Her bladder. No. She twisted left. Anaktoria's arm was a vice across her chest. Right. Damon's leg had her pinned at the knee.

  By the time she extracted herself and reached the pot, she was sweating. Every movement reminded her of last night.

  The pigeon watched her squat in the corner. Her hips worked different now.

  "This is your fault."

  It shit on the sill, then hopped to the window ledge. Spread its wings. Caught the morning air and just... went. Up and over the courtyard wall.

  Cassandra's shoulders lifted. Her arms spread wide before she caught herself.

  She stared at her empty hands. The morning wind pulled at her hair. Behind her shoulder blades, something ached.

  She sighed.

  The pigeon was already gone. She heard shouting outside.

  Odysseus was loose somewhere in Troy.

  Gates and Odysseus. Every time.

  "Yeah," she said to the window.

  Time to fly.

  The workshop district was empty except for smoke from one forge. Bronze and fire - mortal solutions. Distant shouting echoed off stone.

  She could already see it taking shape. Something that would scream.

  Inside the forge, a boy bent over something delicate. Maybe fifteen.

  "You're up early."

  He didn't look up. "No one asking for horseshoes yet."

  "I need to build something."

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  "What kind of something?"

  She drew on his bench, finger trailing through coal dust. Chambers. Compression. Fire.

  He studied the sketch. "What are those supposed to be? Wings?"

  "Yes."

  "Why?"

  "To fly."

  "People don't fly."

  "I used to."

  He kept studying the sketch. "Uh huh. And the explosions spin this blade?"

  His finger traced from chamber to propeller.

  "Twenty times per heartbeat."

  His eyes widened. "That's fast."

  "Yes."

  He set down his tools. "I'm Daedalus."

  "Cassandra."

  "The inventor of the thunder cock?"

  "Among other things."

  "This is better than horseshoes." He pulled out fresh wax. "Draw it all. Every part."

  By the time Damon and Anaktoria found them, the bench was covered in sketches. Daedalus was asking about compression ratios while guards ran past outside.

  "Found you," Damon said, setting down bread, olives, wine with an ease she hadn't seen before.

  "Wasn't lost."

  "Greeks escaped." He studied the sketches. "Another weapon?"

  "It's called an Engine," Daedalus said. "Turns thrusting into spinning."

  Anaktoria circled the bench. She stopped behind Damon, hip brushing his arm as she reached for an olive.

  "It's quite phallic"

  "It's not..." Cassandra started.

  "It's functional." Daedalus interrupted. "Like the thunder cock."

  "Right." Anaktoria's hand found Damon's shoulder. "Functional."

  Cassandra watched them. It felt good.

  "So it explodes," Damon said, still studying the drawings. "Then what?"

  "Spins this blade." She showed him the propeller design. "Pushes air, moves forward. With wings, we fly."

  "Simple enough." He was already looking for materials.

  Daedalus led them through back alleys, past abandoned shops.

  "Spirit merchant's still here," he said, pushing open a door.

  "Three denarii," the merchant said, then paused. "Actually, just take it."

  "Why?" Cassandra said.

  "Greeks."

  While Damon built the frame, Cassandra carved the molds. The bronze would know these shapes.

  By afternoon, they poured. Liquid bronze found its new forms - piston, cylinder, connecting rod, crankshaft.

  "The tolerances," Daedalus breathed, testing the piston fit. "How do you know exactly?"

  "I can see what it needs to be."

  "But how?"

  How could she explain divine perception?

  "I'm built different."

  Assembled, the engine sat heavy on the bench. Anaktoria touched it, pulled back.

  "It's warm."

  "That's just from casting," Daedalus said.

  "No. It feels... expectant."

  Guards ran past again. One was laughing and crying.

  "Everyone back," Cassandra said.

  She heated the hot tube until it glowed cherry red, checked the fuel valve, and spun the prop.

  Nothing.

  "Needle valve." Adjustment. Another spin.

  Pop. Then nothing.

  "Progress," Daedalus said.

  More adjustments. It ran rough for two seconds, shaking the bench before quitting.

  "Should we bolt it down?" Damon asked.

  "It's heavy enough," Cassandra said, adjusting the fuel mixture. More oil.

  Then it caught. The rough popping smoothed into a steady shriek. The propeller became a translucent disc. Tools scattered.

  "It's actually working!" Daedalus shouted.

  The engine agreed. It lifted off the bench.

  "MOVE!!"

  Too late. It launched across the workshop, hit the wall, bounced, kept running while spinning across the floor. The propeller caught a shelf. Shrapnel.

  The engine died in a corner, smoking.

  Dust settled. In the distance, someone was being murdered.

  Cassandra picked up the engine, cradling it. The bronze was barely warm.

  "We fly tonight."

  Are birds real?