Poseidon’s palace is way more intimidating than Mount Olympus. Probably because I’ve never lived here, never even seen it before. Also because it’s underwater, in an impossible-to-find cave, and surrounded by massive statues of sea monsters and trident-wielding mermen.
I swear, all the extra security is wasted. Most people would take one look and turn tail for home.
As I swim toward the palace, it’s not hard to locate the main entrance: a pair of silver doors that must be at least fifty feet tall and almost as wide. If Mount Olympus is a testament to marble and gold, Poseidon’s palace makes its statement in gray stone and silver. The palace looks like a mash-up of medieval castle and Victorian house, with towers and turrets and odd little statues and balconies everywhere.
Now that I’m here, I have no idea what I’m going to do. According to the nymph I only have twenty-four hours before this becomes an instant drowning situation. I have to act fast. The trouble is I’m going in blind. We couldn’t find any blueprints of this palace lying around the library—at least not anywhere I could access, since Troy’s secret girlfriend (gag) was nowhere to be found. I won’t be finding any secret entrances down here.
Even if I get inside, I don’t have the first clue where to find the silver seashell. In a place this huge, it could take months to see every room, let alone search them all.
It would take me half an hour to swim around the perimeter. I don’t have that kind of time.
I look up at the massive silver doors. This is insane. The whole quest is insane. Time travel? I have to be completely nuts to even think I can make this happen.
But for me, courage—and crazy—have never been in short supply. I know why I’m doing this, and nothing is going to stop me.
I just have to put myself on the line a little.
“Think, Nicole,” I mutter.
How do I get inside? I can’t break in. One push on a silver door reveals that it must weigh twenty tons. Even if it wasn’t pressured on both sides by a sea full of water, it would be impossible to force open. I’m not moving that.
Maybe I can sneak in.
Swimming away from the entrance, I head toward the nearest balcony. If I’m lucky—ha!—the door will be unlocked and I can be inside in seconds.
I don’t even make it to the balcony before smacking face-first into some invisible force. I press my palms against some kind of magical protection. I swim a few feet in either direction, but the field surrounds the entire palace. A supernatural security shield. Probably put in place to keep out thieves like me.
Great, no sneaking in for me.
If I can’t break in and I can’t sneak in . . . that leaves only one option.
Kicking my way back down to the doors, I suck in a breath of water, tighten up my courage, and raise my hand to grab one of the bull-shaped silver door knockers—why the god of the sea would choose a land mammal as one of his sacred symbols is beyond me. I only hesitate half a second before banging the knocker against the door. All in.
“No going back now.”
I wait, listening for any sounds from the other side of the doors. Not that I could hear an explosion through them. The water would muffle everything anyway.
I start counting in my head. When I get to fifty, I start thinking maybe no one is home. Maybe the palace is closed for the summer or something.
By seventy I’m pretty sure this is a lost cause.
At one hundred, my shoulders slump. What am I going to do? Between the fortress-like doors and the magic force field, getting into this palace is impossible. If no one answers I don’t know what else to try. I start to turn away, defeated. As I do, a swirl of current whips past me and spins me back around.
I find myself face-to-face with what looks like a palace guard. It’s not an impressive guess since he’s wearing a navy-blue uniform jacket that matches his navy-blue tail fin and is decorated with almost as much silver as the palace itself.
“State your purpose,” he says.
“What?” I ask before I can stop myself.
“Your purpose,” he repeats. “Why do you visit the sea god’s home?”
I’m so overwhelmed by the fact that someone is actually here and the door is open, that at first I can only stare.
He clears his throat. Loudly.
“Oh,” I say, coming back to my senses. Shoot, I hadn’t thought this far ahead. What should I say? I can’t simply ask for a seashell. What would any other hematheos come to this palace for? Why would they make this risky journey?
Without waiting to think up something tactical, I blurt, “I would like an audience with the sea god.” The guard’s eyes widen, but I nod. “I would like to speak with Poseidon.”
I expect him to slam the door in my face. Or maybe set the sea dogs after me. Who am I to ask for an audience with a god-king?
But the guard bows his head and says, “Please wait here.”
He closes the door and I can only guess he’s going to see if he has to let me in or if he can send me away. I don’t bother counting this time. The palace is huge—it could take him an hour to swim to the back. Instead, I amuse myself by studying the weird sculptures covering the palace. There are a lot of bulls and horses—another one of Poseidon’s sacred symbols—and plenty of half-naked mermaids. Typical.
But there are also lots of serpents and sea monsters, creatures with mixed-up features like the front half of a horse and the tail of a fish. There are about a million actual seashells inlaid into the palace walls. Not one of them is silver.
I float over to the statue of a beautiful woman, her mouth open like she’s singing an opera. A siren, one of the evil women who uses song to lure sailors to their deaths.
The sculpture is so realistic I can almost hear the—
“Be careful.”
Heart pounding, I spin around at the sound of the guard’s voice.
“You do not wish to wake the sleeping siren.”
I glance back at the sculpture—lifelike for a reason, apparently—and kick myself slowly away. I’m not a sailor and at the moment I can’t drown, but I’m not about to tempt fate.
“Sorry,” I mutter as I swim back over to the guard.
“The sea god will see you now,” the guard says, as if I hadn’t almost roused a murderous creature.
“Good,” I say, trying to act like I knew he would.
Inside, my heart and my mind are racing. Great, I’ve got an audience with Poseidon. Now what?
“I need a silver seashell.”
Did that just come out of my mouth? Seriously?
As the guard led me to the throne room, I tried to think of some reasonable way to ask for the seashell without having to explain why. I could pretend I was a jeweler who wanted to make a necklace in his honor. Or that I was trying to win a merman’s love. But never once did I think to blurt out my request without preamble until, well, it blurted out of me without preamble.
I feel my eyes widen as Poseidon studies me from the other side of his massive desk. It’s at least as big as Zeus’s and covered with as much clutter.
Sometimes I really need to think twice before speaking. Or at least once. I should try it someday. I’m going to get myself smoted.
“I mean, I was wondering if there’s any way I could—”
He holds up his hand and I stop midsentence. He looks so much like Zeus right now it’s easy to see that they’re brothers. Same square face, flowing gray hair, and intense stare. Except where Zeus’s eyes are stormy gray, Poseidon’s are deep sea blue.
“If you seek such a gift,” he finally says, “you must give a gift in return.”
A gift? I didn’t think to bring anything with me. I’m lucky I even thought enough ahead to leave my phone in my room. I tend to act first and figure it out later—shocking, I know.
“I’m sorry,” I admit. “I don’t have anything.”
He smiles. “But of course you do.”
Now why is the hair on the back of my neck standing up again?
He waves me closer to his desk. I inch forward, more than a little nervous to find out what he has in mind. I’ve heard plenty of stories from the old days—the really old days—when the gods were pretty much full-time hound dogs. How do you think we got so many hematheos in the first place? If he tries something, I’ll have to break out some long-lost martial arts moves.
But when I approach, he does nothing more than pull a silver seashell from his drawer and set it on his desk. I stare at the shell, seriously calculating the odds of grabbing it and getting out of the palace before he can stop me.
Very, very low.
“I have a daughter,” he begins, then laughs. “I have many daughters, but there is one.”
His eyes get this far-off, dreamy look, and I can tell that he loves this daughter more than all the others combined. Kinda sucks for the rest of the family, but she must be one special girl.
“She is an angel,” he continues. “Sees no evil in men.”
And by men he means one man in particular.
I get it. Naive daughter of one of the most powerful gods who ever lived. Less-than-naive guy who wants her for less-than-honorable reasons.
“You think she’s being conned?” I suggest.
“I—” Poseidon smiles and shakes his head. “Yes, that is it precisely.”
I watch him, waiting for him to explain what this has to do with me getting the seashell. What this has to do with my forgetting a gift.
He doesn’t speak, just sits there staring at the shell like he expects it to start talking to him.
“I’m sorry,” I finally say, “but I don’t get what that has to do with me. How can I possibly help?”
I have a sudden image of being asked to play cheat-catcher, acting as bait to lure the suspected con artist into hitting on me. So not my area of expertise. I’m better at scaring boys away.
“I would like you to tell me her future,” he says.
I twist my head sideways. Tell him her future? What am I, a fortune-teller?
“You’ve made a mistake,” I explain, backing away a step. “I can’t see the future.”
No, I’m trying to go back and fix the past.
“You have powers you do not yet realize.”
Poseidon reaches out and takes my hand, stopping my retreat. The moment his fingers touch me, my brain explodes with an intense image. I see a girl—a breathtakingly beautiful girl who could only be the daughter of a god—walking on a beach. As the image focuses in my mind, I see that she is walking hand in hand with a boy.
“What do you see?” Poseidon asks softly.
I don’t stop to ask how he knows I’m seeing something.
“A girl with pale blond hair and pretty green eyes,” I describe.
“My daughter,” Poseidon confirms. “What else?”
“She’s walking on the beach with a boy.” I squint my eyes, as if that will make the mental picture clearer. “He has dark blond hair and”—the image zooms in on his face—“a tattoo on the back of his neck.”
“That is the boy.” Poseidon releases my hand. “The con artist.”
The modern term sounds awkward in his accented voice.
The image fades and I open my eyes. “I—” I shake my head, not sure how I could possibly know this, but I feel it like a certainty in my gut. “He isn’t a con artist.”
“No?”
I shrug. “They seem . . .” I study the picture of the girl and the blissful smile on her beautiful face. “Happy.”
“Happy,” Poseidon echoes.
I can’t tell if he’s relieved or disappointed. Personally, I’m confused. What the heck just happened? One touch from a god and suddenly I’m seeing things I shouldn’t be able to know?
“Thank you,” he says, picking up the silver seashell and offering it to me. “It was not the answer I sought, but it is . . . acceptable.”
I let out a huge—water-filled—sigh of relief. Seems like I passed the test.
I reach out to take the seashell. Before I can grab it, Poseidon moves his hand back a few inches. When I look up, ready to call him out for pulling a dirty trick, he is giving me a serious look.
“You of all people, Nicole Matios,” he says, shocking the ever-loving crap out of me by knowing my name, “of all hematheos, should know that some things happen for reasons beyond our control.”
“I, um . . .”
Crazy guy says what? What kind of cryptic nonsense is that? Sure, the old guy gets points for knowing my name, but that ominous threat is filed under none of his business. He must be totally off the rails. If this all goes wrong at the last moment, I’m going to be seriously annoyed.
But Poseidon doesn’t spout any more of his crazy talk. He holds the seashell back within my reach.
I snatch it before he can yank it away again.
“Thanks,” I say, clutching the seashell in my fist.
I turn and swim for the door as fast as my mediocre swimming skills will take me. It’s not until I’m out of the palace, through the canyon, and kicking to the surface that I let out a sigh of relief. I did it. I actually got the silver seashell.
As I break through into the salty air, I don’t hesitate. I autoport back to Serfopoula, back to my friends, with the edges of the shell digging into my palm.