The library makes me uncomfortable. All that gold and marble and the smell of musty, old books. I’d rather be pretty much anywhere.
I start tapping my fingers on the surface of one of the ancient-looking tables. The place is empty. The Academy only offers a few summer programs—like the premed one Troy’s parents are making him take—so the campus is pretty deserted. Even Goddess Boot Camp, the training camp Phoebe had to complete to learn how to use her new powers, is over. All the snooty rich kids are off on their yachts in Ibiza or working at Daddy’s law firm or Mommy’s ad agency for the summer. The only ones left are the ones in summer school and those of us who have nowhere else to go.
I’m stuck on the island year-round. If I didn’t get a reprieve from all the godlets in the summer I’d go insane.
It’s been more than an hour since Troy said to meet him here. I’m getting antsy. If he can’t get his hands on the book, I don’t know what the next step will be. I can’t exactly knock on Headmaster Petrolas’s door and ask him how to travel through time.
It’s not like he can expel me—terms of the Olympic decree—but I’m sure I’d get a lifetime of his worst detentions ever.
If Troy can’t get the book, though, it might be—
Troy appears at the top of the grand, curving staircase looking very guilty. His eyes shift left and right before rushing over to my table and dropping into the chair next to me.
His hands are empty. My heart thumps.
“Your girlfriend couldn’t get it?”
He lifts his brows, spreads his arms out over the table, and then pulls something out of his left sleeve. His grin tells me everything I need to know.
“She’s not my girlfriend,” he insists.
Snatching the small, green book from his fingers, I ask, “How?”
Before he can answer, an annoying female voice says, “See you around, Troy.”
I turn to see Adara—aka evil cheer queen from Hades—waving as she crosses to the main entrance. My jaw drops. No wonder he didn’t want me involved. My temper has a short fuse around petty popular girls.
This descendant of Aphrodite is pretty much the antithesis of everything I am, was, or ever will be.
“What?” She can’t be his secret helper. She’s like our archenemy. “Not Adara?”
He can’t be interested in her. He can’t like her. He just can’t.
Troy waves to the cheer witch while shushing me. “It’s not what you think.”
“Oh, really?” I ask as the door closes behind her. “What exactly do I think?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“You dating that vapid cow is definitely something to worry about.”
He scowls at me. “We aren’t dating.” He nods at the book. “Don’t we have work to do?”
I’m torn between wanting to push him for answers and wanting to find out what the three offerings are. My best friend dating my worst enemy is pretty awful, but I have more important things at stake at the moment. I can grill him later. In the end, the bigger picture wins out.
I flip open Offerings to the Gods without hesitation. “Don’t think I’m letting this go indefinitely.”
Troy smirks and then bends his head over the book. “What does it say? What are the offerings?”
I quickly flip through the yellowed pages. It’s really short, maybe two dozen pages altogether—barely worth the binding—so it doesn’t take me long to skim the key points.
“It’s pretty straightforward,” I explain. “The three offerings are a gold feather, a silver seashell, and a ruby pomegranate seed.”
“That’s it?” Troy frowns. “Does that sound too easy?”
“The items aren’t the tricky part,” I say as I close the book. “Their locations are.”
“I have a feeling I’m not going to like this.”
“You won’t.” I twirl the volume under my finger. “The golden feather must come from Zeus’s eagle, the silver seashell from Poseidon’s throne room, and the ruby pomegranate seed from Hades’s palace.”
I nod. “I have to visit their homes.”
Troy is stunned silent.
The homes of the three god kings—also known as Mount Olympus, the seafloor, and the underworld—are not exactly open to visitors. They’re not exactly easy to access, either. Most hematheos go their whole lives without ever visiting any of the palaces, let alone all three. This is not my idea of a fun summer vacation, but a girl has to do what a girl has to do.
Troy sighs as I slip the tiny book into my back pocket.
We get up to leave just as Phoebe and Griffin walk in the door. A gift bag dangles from Phoebe’s hand. They’re stuck here for the summer, just like us: Phoebe because Headmaster Petrolas is her new stepdad, and Griffin because he has nowhere else to go.
I throw Troy a quick scowl—he’d better keep his trap shut about what we’re doing. These two don’t need to be involved. No one else does.
“Hey, guys,” Phoebe says, swinging the gift bag. “What’s up?”
“Hey,” I say back.
Griffin waves. “Hi, Nic. Troy.”
Troy stares at the floor.
Phoebe frowns at me. “I thought you hated libraries?”
“I do,” I reply. “We were just . . .” I glance at Troy, who shrugs helplessly. “Working on something. What are you guys doing here?”
She holds up the bag. “I got Mrs. Philipoulos a thank-you treat from the bakery. For helping with my dad’s trial record.”
“We’re going for a run after,” Griffin says. “What are you working on?”
“Did you read the record yet?” I ask Phoebe, hoping that will divert them from what Troy and I are doing, even though I already know the answer. If she’d read it, she would have told me.
“No.” She looks down at her running shoes. “I will. Soon.”
Griffin wraps an arm around her shoulder.
“When the time is right,” I say. Then, patting her on the arm as I walk past, I add, “We’ll let you get on with your gift giving.”
“And your running,” Troy adds.
He hurries out in front of me, throwing Phoebe and Griffin a quick wave as he escapes out into the hall. I turn and follow him before they can ask any questions. Now that I know what needs to be done, I’m eager to get started. And without an audience.
“I don’t like it, Nic,” Troy says, pacing in my room.
“I’m not asking you to like it,” I reply. “I’m not even asking you to be here.”
He flashes me an angry glare.
“Well, I am here,” he says. “And I’m staying. I’m not letting you do this alone.”
“Then enough with the warnings and disapproving looks.” I shove both books onto the top shelf in my closet. Just because we know what we have to do doesn’t mean we might not need them again. The gods are brilliant at surprise twists. “Or I’ll neofacture a gag and some handcuffs.”
For a second, he looks like he wants to argue.
“You’re right,” he finally says. “What’s the plan?”
I grab my desk chair and swing it around so I can drop into the seat with my arms over the back. “The golden feather,” I say. “That’s definitely the easiest.”
“Easy?” Troy says with a cough-laugh.
I scowl and he snaps his mouth shut.
“I can autoport to Olympus,” I explain. “I’ve been there before.”
Back when all this started. The memories are still so fresh they could have happened yesterday. If I close my eyes, I’m there, in the gleaming halls of Olympus. I can see my younger self, blond hair bouncing in pigtails as little Griffin and I race toward the nursery.
I carried the ambrosia. It was a tiny amount, a small cup of the glowing golden liquid.
We snuck into the room where Hera’s new baby slept. His nanny, we knew, always drifted off to sleep as soon as the baby fell quiet—being Hera’s servant was an exhausting job. As we tiptoed across the floor, she didn’t stir.
Peering over the edge of the crib, I was excited. I thought we were doing something great—feeding the baby the nectar of the gods. The grown-up gods drank it like water, but the poor baby had never had a taste. He would grow up to be a god, too, and I thought he deserved a taste of the magical food.
I had no idea it was poison to any god under the age of two.
I had no idea it would steal his immortality.
“Nicole?” Troy’s voice penetrates my memories.
“What?” I snap, to cover up the emotion pulsing through me.
I’ve relived that memory so many times in the years since, it’s seared into my brain like a red-hot brand. The only way to get rid of it is to undo what we did.
To change the past.
If I could go back and stop the prank, maybe even stop my seven-year-old self from thinking up the idea in the first place, everything would go back to how it should be. We would all—me, my parents, Griffin, and his parents—get back the lives we were supposed to have.
“When do you want to go?” Troy asks, ignoring my glare.
I push up out of my chair. “Now.”
“Now?” he chokes, then catches himself before I can threaten to restrain him. “Right. Now. Sounds good.”
“Relax,” I say with a grin. “I’ll autoport to the gates, sneak into Zeus’s office, and be back here before you can blink.”
Troy doesn’t look convinced. But he keeps his concerns to himself. He nods. “I’ll be waiting.”
At the fearful look in his eyes, I hesitate. He’s really scared for me. He’s my friend and he cares whether I get hurt or in trouble.
“I’ll be fine,” I promise.
He takes a deep breath and nods again.
Then, before he can say anything, I close my eyes and concentrate. I picture the massive golden gates at the entrance to Mount Olympus. They’re purely for show—the gods have other protections in place to keep out the riffraff—but they are impressive.
I focus on the spot to the right of the entrance, behind the column of white stone that anchors the gate to the wall surrounding the entire Olympic complex. That spot is hidden from anyone standing at the gate, and out of the sight of the golden gargoyles that guard the wall from above.
It’s the only place I know for sure I can zap into Olympus without being seen.
My skin tingles and bright light glows through my closed lids. When the sensations are gone, I open my eyes. And find myself standing face-to-face with a golden giant.
I open my mouth to scream, but quickly slap my hand in place.
The giant is a statue, an unmoving sentry guarding the gates of Olympus. He’s a new addition since I used to play out here as a child.
“Get a grip, Nic.”
When I whisper the words, the statue’s eyes blink open.
Crap. Crap, crap, crap.
This must be a creation of Hephaestus, Olympus’s handyman. It’s an automaton guard to protect the precious gods around-the-clock.
I wait, heart pounding, expecting the guard to reach out a beefy gold hand and grab me in its unyielding grip. But as much as I want to run, I stay utterly still. So does the guard.
It’s eyes swing side to side once, like it’s checking the area, and then glide shut.
I bite my lips to keep from exhaling a sigh of relief. I should have known. Old Heph’s creatures are never quite perfect. This one must have a vision weakness—like it can detect movement, not shapes.
Lucky me.
Tiptoeing lighter than I’ve ever stepped in my life, I inch my way out from in front of the guard, around its massive gold body, and make my way for the tall hedge that surrounds the outer wall of Olympus. The bushes are dangerous—thorns tipped with poison that is designed to torment more than kill. Anyone trying to sneak in this way is in for a serious hurt.
I only hope the password hasn’t changed.
Facing the section twenty paces from the front gate, I close my eyes, take a breath, and say, “Gia tin agapi.”
For love.
If I remember the story right, after a pair of human adventurers found their way into the hallowed halls of mythology, Zeus called for major renovation of the Olympic security system. The upgrade included doubling the height of the wall, activating non-Olympian sensors, and installing the poisonous hedge. At the time, one of the gods was having a love affair with human. That god convinced Hephaestus to leave an access point. A way for the human lover to get in and out of the palace without detection.
My mother told me it was Aphrodite, but I’ve always suspected it was Zeus himself. Total hypocrite.
After speaking the password, I wait a few seconds, kind of expecting something to happen—a movement or a sound. Nothing.
I can’t stand here all day. I have to risk it, to go on faith that the password worked. I’m not big on faith. I prefer action. But I don’t have a choice.
Reaching out, I brace myself for the scratch and sting of poison thorns as I shove my hand into the hedge. Instead of pain shooting up my arm, I see the hedge flicker like a bad computer screen.
My body sags with relief as I step through the false image. A hologram. The gods are getting computer savvy. One challenge down, about seventy thousand to go.
I emerge from the hedge and look up at the massive wall. Good thing I don’t have to scale it, because I’m not a fan of heights. Breaching the wall is actually easier than the hedge—probably because the gods think no one will make it through their poison bushes. I step up to the gleaming white surface and scan the smooth stone blocks for the one with a faint handprint burned into the marble. The sign is only visible from a sharp angle, but even though it’s been a decade since I tried to sneak inside, when I step up to the wall and turn my head to the side, I immediately see the hand.
I allow myself a small smile. Despite assuring Troy that I knew what I was doing, part of me wondered if things had changed too much in ten years, if I might not even make it inside.
My last thread of doubt evaporates as I place my palm on the marked block and the section of stone in front of me sinks back into the wall.
The moment the opening is big enough, I slip inside. No point waiting out in the open just asking to be caught. I weave my way through the carefully carved labyrinth—a dark passage barely taller than I am and with only the fading glow of the outside world to light the rocky way.
I wish I could use my photomorphosis power to illuminate the creepy space. Yet another supernatural protection: no hematheos powers on Olympus grounds.
With a suffocating whoosh, the secret door slides shut, plunging the passageway into darkness.
Don’t freak out.
I place my palm on the wall and hurry forward, trusting my memory of the twists and turns to get out into the main hall as quickly as possible.
And I’m right. A few seconds later, I slam face-first into the end wall. Yeah, should have seen that coming.
I kneel down, feeling for the trigger I know is there. Even in the dark, my fingers find it almost instantly. I pull on the handle and then jump up out of the way as the interior door glides open.
For a moment I’m blinded by the glow. I’d forgotten just how bright Mount Olympus can be. Squinting against the burn, I step out into the hallway . . . and am overcome by memory.
The brightness wasn’t the only thing I’d forgotten. As I scan the space around me—the long, impressive, intimidating hall leading from the main gates to the Hall of Gods—it’s like I never left. Every surface is carved from the purest white marble, the kind that can only be quarried from the bowels of Hades, and inlaid with every color of glittering gemstone imaginable. Bloodred rubies, sea-blue sapphires, and grass-green emeralds. Pearly opals, golden topaz, and bright purple amethyst. And every carving, every inlay, every spot that looks like it could use a little shine, is gilded with twenty-four-karat gold. It’s a treasure hunter’s dream.
Since the day my parents got banished from Olympus, and me along with them, I’ve imagined this moment. I pictured myself brought to tears—a rare thing for me—or seething with fury or raging with disgust. But never once did I imagine what I’m actually feeling. As I stare around at the palace that used to be my home, I feel . . . joy.