“Enough wars have been started over this face. My face. My curse—and my mother’s curse, and her mother’s curse, and so on all the way back to the first woman to ever wear this face. Helen of Troy.”

“[...]Since then it’s been passed from mother to daughter, along with The Face.”“The Face?” Lucas asked.“That Launched a Thousand Ships,” Daphne said, repeating the title automatically. “It’s our curse.”

“They want to see my face—they need to see it.”

“Get this. So he comes up to me at lunch, right? And he starts asking me all these questions about you. Like, how long have I known you, where are you from, did I ever meet your mom before she skipped town...''My mom? That's weird,' Helen interrupted.'And I start answering him with my usual flair for clever repartee,' Claire said, a bit too innocently. 'Translation: you insulted him.”

“Made dinner," Helen told him in a flat voice. "Did I do something wrong?" he asked tentatively. "Of course not. Why would you ask that when I just cooked you dinner?" "Because usually when a woman spends hours cooking a complicated meal and then just sits at the table with a pissed off look on her face, that means some guy somewhere did something really stupid," he said, still on edge.”

“What are you doing?'Helen put her hand over his to stop him from shifting. 'I'm going inside to talk to your dad. I don't want him to feel like he can't trust me with his daughter.''Lucas, I swear to whatever god you think is holy that I will get out of this car and walk to school if you go inside and talk to my dad.'Lucas smiled and shifted back into first, driving away from her house. 'Who told you the gods were holy?”

“Lucas Delos stood over her, his body tense, his eyes scanning the distance for something that Helen couldn’'t see from her position on the ground.“'Are you injured?'” he asked in a low, unsteady voice, still looking out over her head. There was blood on his lip and his shirt was torn. Helen had a bare moment to say she was fine before she heard the sobbing sisters start to whisper.”