Goddess in Time Read online

  No way. Shoving the unwelcome emotion aside, I jam the egg into my pocket and take a deep breath. Just like the egg, Griffin and I used to be shiny. We used to have all the promise of a bright future, but the gods took that away from us.

  I refuse to let things stay as they are. All the egg needs is a little polish. All Griffin and I need is to undo that moment in the past. And I’m going to make that happen for both of us.

  Hurrying down the hall, I find myself on autopilot to Zeus’s chamber. Three right turns and one to the left. Last door at the end.

  I break into a jog—come on, like I’m gonna sprint? I still hate running—and quietly push open the door without stopping to think. But as I slip inside, I know I should have held back a little on the impulse.

  There, twenty feet across the room, bent over a huge stack of scrolls on his massive marble desk, is Zeus. My great-grandfather.

  My heart feels like it wants to pound right out of my rib cage, up my throat, out my mouth, and onto the marble floor at my feet. I can’t breathe. For at least thirty seconds, I stand there utterly still, my pulse throbbing in my ears, and not even daring to take a breath.

  Part of it is the fear of getting caught, sure. I mean, here I am in the office of the king of the gods and he is sitting right there! Getting caught could mean more than a simple banishment. Troy would have to search the four corners of the earth to find all the pieces.

  But the other part—probably the bigger part at this point—is seeing my great-grandfather. I haven’t seen or heard from him since the day we were sent from Olympus. It was like he disowned me when they banished us.

  That hurt. It took me a long time to come to grips with that.

  Even if your great-grandpa is an Olympic god with hundreds, if not thousands, of grandchildren—don’t even get me started on the great-grandchildren—you still want him to bounce you on his knee. You still want him to teach you how to climb a tree or to help you do your homework.

  The official punishment, being banned from Olympus, having my parents banished and Griffin’s smoted, was bad enough. But the emotional punishment was almost worst. The little girl inside me wants to run across the room, climb onto his lap, and have him hug me and tell me everything will be okay.

  Ha, as if that would ever happen. The little girl would be forcibly removed from the palace and probably chained to a rock or sentenced to a stretch in the hottest, driest desert they could find.

  Movement behind the desk catches my eye.

  A flutter of wings. The golden eagle sits on a golden perch—shocking—right behind Zeus’s shoulder. The bird preens a bit, rubbing a wing over its beak. When it straightens upright, I swear it looks right at me.

  From the seemingly vast space across the room, I hold my breath, waiting for the eagle to squawk and draw my great-grandfather’s attention to the intruder standing frozen in the doorway. Just my luck, too, being caught by something as stupid as a bird.

  But the squawk never comes. Zeus stays bent over the papers on his desk, scribbling on some, sliding them into piles, and shuffling them around. I can hear the scratch of his quill on parchment, scrape, scrape, scraping like the sound of steel dragging on concrete.

  I rack my brain for an excuse, a reason to be where I am—where I most definitely shouldn’t be. I’m on a quest? I’m lost? I’m looking for the bathroom?

  None of them even sound good in my mind, which means they’ll sound worse if I speak them out loud.

  I have to get out of here. I should slip back out the way I came in and get the heck off Mount Olympus. I know that means I won’t get the feather—at least, not today. It also means I won’t get caught, and I can’t exactly complete the quest and go back in time if I’m chained up in the dungeons of Mount Olympus. Besides, those dungeons smell awful.

  I’m about to reach behind me to grab the door, my escape plan in effect, when the sound of snapping fingers stops me.

  I look up, expecting to see Zeus glaring at me, waiting for his guards to show up to haul me away. But my great-grandfather hasn’t looked up from his papers. He snaps his fingers again and points at the golden chalice sitting at the corner of his desk.

  Then he returns his focus to his papers and I stand there staring. And blinking.

  Is he serious? He wants me to fill his chalice?

  My mind snaps the pieces into place. He must think I’m a serving girl, come to attend his every need. I couldn’t do it, could I?

  I scan the room and spot the large pitcher on a side table. That would mean crossing to the side table, leaving myself vulnerable in the middle of the room, and then walking up next to him at his desk. Next to him. It’s a stupid idea. It’s a risky, ridiculous, moronic idea.

  I’m heading for the pitcher before I can talk myself out of it.

  As I wrap my hand around the handle I am overcome by the sweet scent of ambrosia. I haven’t smelled the stuff in years—not since the incident, when ambrosia sealed my parents’ fate—but the sense memory is overwhelming. There is a reason the gods love this stuff.

  Taking a quick breath, I lift the pitcher and carry it over to the desk. My legs are shaking. So are my hands. My everything is shaking as I walk up next to my great-grandfather.

  This is bad. So very bad.

  I know this, but at the same time the adrenaline is rushing my bloodstream, filling me with the thrill of danger. I’ve never been much of an adrenaline junkie—I prefer nonterrifying rebellion—but I have to admit, I’m almost as excited as I am scared.

  Holding the pitcher out over the desk, over the chalice, I hope Zeus doesn’t notice the hands of his serving girl are shaking like a kid with monsters under the bed.

  As the amber liquid pours from the heavy pitcher into the empty golden chalice, I try to stay back, out of Zeus’s peripheral vision. The last thing I need is him noticing anything about me—although you would think his serving girls don’t usually wear studded bracelets and combat boots. But I guess he’s absorbed in his work, because he ignores me.

  The eagle is on his other side.

  I lean back around the chair, trying to reach the long tail feathers without spilling ambrosia all over the very important paperwork. That would definitely get great-grandpa’s attention.

  I can’t quite reach, so I wait until the chalice is full before stepping back and making the grab.

  Right before I can pluck a single feather from the eagle’s tail, Zeus clears his throat.

  “Thank you.”

  I jerk back. The king of the gods deigning to thank a lowly serving girl? That must be a first. Hopefully he’s not feeling magnanimous enough to make eye contact. I need to stop wasting time and get the Hades out of here.

  Without another pause, I clamp my fingers over a feather and yank. The eagle squawks so loud I think it damaged my eardrum. Clutching the feather to my chest, I shrink back, waiting for Zeus to turn around and discover why exactly his bird is freaking out.

  But the god king barely notices.

  “Feed the creature,” he says absently.

  He pulls open a drawer, reaches inside, and then holds up his hand. There, held loose in his grip, is what looks like a dog treat.

  I glance nervously at the eagle, who is still scowling at me.

  This can’t be happening. It’s not like I have another choice. If I don’t feed the stupid thing, Zeus is going to wonder why his serving girl is disobeying him. Which means he’s going to look up and realize that I’m not his serving girl, and next thing you know it’s a one-way ticket to the dungeons of Olympus.

  So, as much as I want to do nothing more than run as fast as I can, I reach out and take the treat.

  As I do, my fingertips brush against his hand. My heart thumps in my chest as I realize this is the first time I have touched my great-grandfather since the Incident.

  Clearly he doesn’t feel equally affected, because he just drops his hand and goes back to work. Typical.

  I hurry around him, shove the treat in the eagle’s b
eak, and head back toward the door. My spine is stiff and my boot steps soft as I try not to draw any extra attention to my retreat.

  I swear, every last god on the mountain must be able to hear my heartbeat.

  By some miracle of luck—something I don’t usually have in great supply—I make it out of the office without notice. The moment I step foot in the hall I’m ready to break into a sprint—yes, an actual sprint. But before I can take a single step I collide into another person.

  “I’m so sorry,” a girl’s voice says. “I did not watch where I was going well enough.”

  Finding myself face-to-face with the serving girl I had just been impersonating is a little bit of a surreal moment. Of course, face-to-face doesn’t quite apply because she doesn’t lift her eyes to look at me.

  “No worries,” I insist.

  I step aside so she can continue on her path. The moment the tail of her flowy white robe disappears through the door, I’m in a full-out race for the front door.

  My luck holds, and I make it back through the back chambers, to the entrance hall, and out the front gates without being seen. The moment I’m clear of the protection, I autoport myself the heck out of there.

  Step one: success!

  “I got it,” I shout the moment I reappear in my room. “Troy, I—”

  “Got what?” Phoebe asks.

  Mother of Zeus. I knew I hadn’t sold the nothing-is-going-on act in the library. She knows me too well. And she knows Troy is a pushover.

  I scowl at Troy, who shrugs and gives me an I-couldn’t-stop-her look, and then turn to face Phoebe. She isn’t cowed by my scowl.

  “Want to tell me what’s going on?” she asks.

  “Not really,” I say.

  “Too bad.” She crosses to my desk, pulls out the chair, and drops into the seat. “Tell me anyway.”

  5

  “Nothing’s going on,” I insist.

  “Right,” Phoebe says with a laugh. “You’re always hanging out in the library and autoporting into your room like the hounds of Hades are at your heels.”

  Crap.

  She doesn’t miss anything.

  The only way to get out of this is to dig in deeper on the library cover story.

  I flick a warning glance at Troy. Even he can’t miss the subtle go-along-with-this-or-suffer-dire-consequences look. He shrugs and backs up a step. Smart boy.

  Taking a deep breath, I walk up to him, reach down, and take his hand.

  “We’ve been trying to keep it a secret,” I explain.

  I look up at Troy, trying to bat my lashes like a lovesick schoolgirl. His face turns bright red and his eyes grow so wide I can see white all the way around. Way to sell it.

  If he throws up on me a cursed tongue will be the least of his worries.

  Finally, after what feels like an eternity—at least when you’re trying to fake romance with your best friend so your other best friend doesn’t find out about the golden feather stuffed down your pants—Troy clears his throat and manages the sickliest-looking smile I’ve ever seen.

  “No point in hiding it.” He swallows so hard I can hear the gulp. “Sweetie.”

  “Ha-ha ha-ha!”

  Phoebe doubles over with laughter, clutching her stomach like it hurts. I’m pretty sure her eyes are watering.

  “Omigods, you guys,” she gasps, “that’s the funniest thing I’ve heard all year.”

  While she gets lost in her hilarity, I yank my hand out of Troy’s. Good thing he doesn’t want to be an actor. I scowl at him—even though this might not be entirely his fault—and shove him back a step.

  “Sorry,” he mumbles.

  I shake my head. Whatever. It was a dumb idea in the first place, but it was the only thing I could think of to keep her from digging her way to the truth. I should have known Phoebe would see right through it.

  “Okay, guys,” she says, finally recovering enough to talk. “Now tell me what’s really going on.”

  “Nothing,” Troy and I say at the same time.

  Great, that doesn’t make us seem suspicious at all. I glare at him until he bites his lips.

  “Nothing’s going on, Phoebes,” I insist.

  If I repeat it enough, eventually she’ll have to believe me. Right?

  “Seriously, Nicole, I know you’re up to something,” she replies, all signs of humor vanishing. “So does Damian.”

  The hair on the back of my neck tingles. “Headmaster Petrolas?”

  Troy makes a choking sound.

  Great. Of course Phoebe’s stepdad—aka the esteemed leader of our illustrious secret school—knows what’s going on. He’s weirdly intuitive like that. I swear the man has better intelligence skills than the CIA, MI6, and Mossad combined.

  “What does he know?” I demand.

  “That you stole a book,” she replies. “From the secret archives.”

  “He’s going to kill us,” Troy croaks.

  I cut him a sharp look. “He’s not going to do anything to you. You didn’t take the book.”

  Me, on the other hand, he’s going to assign to detention for the rest of my life. I’m not the worst-behaved student in school history—I’ve never set anything on fire or encased a teacher in a block of ice or turned the cafeteria into a nightclub—okay, wait, I did do that last one. But just for one lunch period.

  Anyway, I’m not the school delinquent or anything, but I have tried the headmaster’s patience. Repeatedly.

  “I didn’t take the first book,” Troy whines.

  My elbow connects with his ribs before he has time to make a pouty face.

  “Ow. What?”

  Phoebe’s eyes widen. “You took two books?”

  Troy casts me a sideways glance. “Oh.”

  “He’ll know it was for me,” I insist, trying to make Troy’s color return to normal.

  “Either way, he says you won’t be in trouble if you return it—return them,” Phoebe corrects. “Just give them back and—”

  “I can’t,” I interrupt.

  “You can’t?” Phoebe frowns.

  “Why not?” Troy asks. “We already know what to—ow!”

  I shake my head as Troy protects his ribs. I can’t tell her. I can’t involve her in this. It’s bad enough I’m letting Troy in—at least he’s been a part of this world his whole life. Phoebe’s only known about it for a year.

  Besides, we might still need them. Surprise twists and all that.

  Phoebe crosses the room to stand in front of me. “Tell me. I want to help.”

  I open my mouth and close it again.

  “Tell her,” Troy nudges.

  Tilting my head back, I stare at the ceiling like I’m going to find some kind of answer there. Nope, nothing but boring white plaster.

  “We’re friends,” Phoebe says. “You can trust me.”

  “It’s not that,” I blurt. “I trust you, I just . . .”

  “Don’t want to involve me,” she finishes.

  I nod.

  “She didn’t want to involve anyone,” Troy adds.

  “Too bad,” she says, surprising me. “Friends don’t only help each other when it’s safe or convenient. Whatever’s going on, I’m in.”

  I want to argue, to tell her that this is too dangerous. Too risky. Too important. I’ve already been responsible for ruining too many lives. I don’t want them to risk their futures, too.

  One glance at Troy tells me he agrees with Phoebe.

  Two against one. He practically blackmailed me into letting him help. She probably would, too. Doesn’t leave me much choice, does it?

  “Okay,” I say, walking over to my closet, where the books are safely hidden under a pile of junk. “But you have to promise not to tell your stepdad.”

  She scowls. “Do you even have to ask?”

  Of course not. I dig the bigger of the two books out of the hiding spot. I only hesitate a second before walking back across the room. When I hand it to Phoebe, she reads the title and her jaw drops.

>   “You said it wasn’t possible.” She flips open the book and skims the contents. “You said it was ridiculously illegal.”

  “It’s both,” I reply.

  “Then why—”

  She starts to ask the question. Why would I do this? Why would I take such a huge risk?

  But then she jerks back, as if it all makes sense.

  She glances at Troy, who shrugs and nods.

  “Your parents,” she whispers.

  I jam my hands in my back pockets. “It’s the only way.”

  The gods know I’ve tried everything else. I’ve petitioned Olympus, scoured the legal section of the library, even asked Headmaster Petrolas for advice. The answer was always the same: the decree is irreversible without a unanimous Olympic vote. Hera will never vote in our favor.

  If I want to unbanish my parents and bring Griffin’s back to him, I have to try.

  “My only chance to make things right,” I say, “is to go back and stop it from happening in the first place.”

  Phoebe stares at me for a long time. Like, an insanely long time. I can’t read her thoughts—I mean, I could use psychospection if I really wanted to, but that’s rude. Instead, I wait for her to finally speak.

  “Changing the past,” she says. “Isn’t that dangerous? Wouldn’t you risk, like, unmaking yourself?”

  “I would already be born,” I argue.

  “But other things,” she insists. “You could screw up whole time lines that depend on that event happening. My mom used to love this old movie about a time-traveling car and—”

  “There are fail-safes.” Troy points at the book. “According to the text, existing time lines are inviolable. Changing something in the past changes it now, but it still happened then.”

  “What does that even mean?” I demand.

  “I know, I had to read it three times to understand,” he says. “But basically, the primordial gods—the ones responsible for all the laws of nature and physics—didn’t want time travel to break the space-time continuum. They ensured that going back can’t change anything that happened between now and then. Only what happens from now on.”

  I shake my head. I swear, that boy has too much book learning sometimes.

  “You’re sure?” Phoebe asks, and I can tell she is really concerned that I will destroy the universe by chronoporting.