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  “I—”

  Her arms are around me before I can take it back.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispers against my hair. “I’m so sorry.”

  I don’t know if it’s the darkness or the emotion in her voice or the absolute craziness of the situation, but I find myself blinking back tears. I didn’t feel sorry for myself when I lived with Phil and Barb. I’m certainly not going to feel sorry for myself now that I’ve escaped them and made a bigger life for myself.

  Still, I can’t help lifting my arms to hug Greer back.

  I give her a quick squeeze that says Thank you and also Mention this ever again and I’ll glue your mouth shut while you sleep. She must get the message, because she takes a step back just as the door reopens and the golden maiden sticks her head into the passageway.

  “All clear,” she calls out.

  “Let’s go.” I step out of the tunnel. “Olympus awaits.”

  CHAPTER 7

  GREER

  I have been a guest in the most expensive, designer-created homes in San Francisco and in cities around the world. I have attended operas in ornate, gilded theaters, walked the halls of the world’s greatest museums, and shopped in the most exclusive boutiques in New York, London, Paris, and Tokyo. But I have never, in all my travels, seen anything as breathtaking as the halls of Mount Olympus.

  At first, I’m blinded by the brightness. Everything is sparkling white in brilliant light. It takes my eyes a full minute to adjust after the darkness of the passage and the abyss beyond.

  When I can finally look my fill without squinting, I attempt to take it all in.

  Every surface is marble—the floor, the walls, the delicate columns that sweep up to the marble ceiling. It’s the purest white stone I’ve ever seen, purer even than the coveted Makrana white Mother insisted on for her bathroom. There isn’t a fleck of color or a shadow of a vein in it.

  Capping the columns are intricately carved capitals forming graceful acanthus leaves. Set in the spaces between the leaves are fat, round gems in every color of the rainbow. Bright red rubies, rich green emeralds, and deep blue sapphires trail down the fluted lengths of the columns, sparkle like multihued stars in the ceiling, and paint the inlaid floor with a priceless mosaic of precious stones.

  To say I am in awe would be the understatement of the century.

  “Greer,” Gretchen hisses, gesturing at me from an alcove halfway down the hall, where she is waiting with Sillus, the golden maiden, and her human-looking twin.

  Almost as shocking as the gleaming halls of Olympus was stepping out of the tunnel and finding myself face-to-face with a flesh-and-blood version of our golden maiden. With the exception of their . . . material, they are identical—exact copies right down to the waves in their hair.

  Apparently Hephaestus crafted more maidens in his forge than the four known golden ones. When the door between realms was sealed and the golden maidens were deemed more monster than human or god, he created more human-like maidens to replace those locked into the abyss.

  The more human maiden calls herself Alaia, which makes me wonder if the golden maiden has another name.

  I push aside my questions and my appreciation of the surroundings. I cannot forget why we’re here and why getting caught would be a very bad thing. Some of the gods are the ones who want us dead to prevent us from opening the door. They would rather let the monster realm be permanently sealed away, killing every last creature that lives inside. They believe that is the only way to protect the human world. They are unlikely to offer us ambrosia and scones if we’re found on godly grounds.

  Maybe, if things go well, I can come back for a leisurely visit in the future. Another time, when so many lives and the balance of justice in every realm are not at stake.

  I hurry to catch up with the rest of the group.

  I’m still two alcoves away from Gretchen when I hear footsteps.

  I freeze, right there in the middle of the halls of Olympus, standing out against the gems and pristine marble like a moth on a Michelangelo. With the sound distorted by echo, I can’t tell where they’re coming from. I don’t know which way to run. My brain stops working and panic sets in.

  I drag in a breath to shout for Gretchen, who is watching me with an irritated look on her face—she can’t hear the footsteps yet—when a strong hand claps over my mouth. Thane drags me across the hall and behind a statue of Aphrodite in the nearest alcove.

  As the footsteps get louder, he presses me against the goddess of love’s flowing marble skirts. His entire body holds me in place, keeps me from slipping into view. His eyes—fierce and swirling, like the roiling clouds of a spring thunderstorm—are unfocused as he listens intently.

  I know it’s wrong, I know this is the worst timing ever, but I take a moment to study him. From this close, I can see the faint remains of several scars—around his eye, below his right cheek, and along the jawline in front of his left ear. They are pale and flat and must be from old wounds, unlike the ones in my vision of him dabbing green liquid on a trio of jagged lines scratched into his chest. That is recent, although I still don’t know if it’s past, present, or future.

  He’s strong, yes, but vulnerable, too.

  Thane looks down at me and catches me studying him. His eyes soften, and my breath catches. Something sparks between us, an energy in the air—invisible, but no less powerful.

  As he dips his head, the dizziness hits. My brain swirls and my knees buckle under me. Thane’s strong hands wrap around my arms, otherwise I would collapse to the floor. Then I don’t feel anything. I only see.

  The place is gray, dark and dripping. Smoke fills the space, casting everything in a hazy blur.

  There are two women—strong, beautiful, and in danger.

  One is tall, blond, statuesque. I recognizer her as Sthenno, my one-time therapist who is also Grace’s school counselor. Her pantsuit, the same soft gray one she wore when we saw her dragged into the abyss, is filthy and torn. She stands in her bare feet, wrists shackled to a damp stone wall like something out of a medieval torture chamber. Despite the fear I can sense in her, she stands tall and proud, spine straight and chin held high.

  The other woman—older, shorter, but no less elegant—is in worse condition. Her head droops, letting her long gray hair hang down over her face in tangled clumps. Her clothes are shredded, hanging off her frail body like rags of black jersey. She lifts her head, and I can see the resemblance. This must be Euryale, Gretchen’s mentor, Ursula.

  The immortal gorgons, our ancient aunts, chained like animals in a dank, dark prison.

  As I watch, a beefy bald guy with sweat running off him in rivers steps up to Euryale. He grabs a handful of her hair and yanks up.

  Looking at Sthenno, he growls, “Where is she?”

  Sthenno’s eyes flash almost imperceptibly, but she doesn’t respond.

  “She alone can find the door,” he barks.

  The man raises a stick with a leather strip on the end, pulls back, and then cracks it over Euryale’s tattered back. She doesn’t even have the energy to cry out. But Sthenno does. And I do.

  “Again,” the sweaty guy says. “Where. Is. She?”

  With a roar, Sthenno breaks free of her shackles and surges toward their attacker. Before she closes half the distance, a pair of massive guards grabs her by the arms.

  “Get her out of here!” the main guy shouts. “Put her in the impenetrable cell. Maybe that’ll keep her.”

  As the guards struggle to drag Sthenno away, sweaty guy turns back to Euryale and lifts the whip.

  “No!” I cry out before he can lash her again.

  “Greer.” Thane’s voice, calm and reassuring, penetrates my vision. “Greer, come back to me.”

  I open my eyes. The vision is gone. No more dungeon, no more gorgons, no more . . .

  I shake my head.

  “The gorgons,” I whisper, barely able to form the words. “We need to hurry.” I manage to tell him what I saw.

 
He nods, his dark gray eyes steady on me.

  “We will save them,” he insists. “It will take more than lashings and starvation to defeat a gorgon.”

  I can’t even try to smile.

  I hope he’s right. I hope that vision isn’t happening right now, because it didn’t look like Euryale could last much longer.

  I can’t imagine what kind of torture it takes to break down an immortal like that, but she looked as broken as anyone I’ve ever seen. Tears stream down my cheeks—for her and for Gretchen. My sister might put on a tough show, keeping her emotions locked up inside—I know a thing or two about that myself—but this will hurt her.

  All I can do is hope we get there in time, and that Gretchen lets her pain loose on whoever has been keeping the gorgons prisoner in that horrible place.

  When I tell the group about my vision, the anger rolls off Gretchen in waves—anger, and also fear. Those emotions she keeps hidden away are dangerously close to bursting out.

  I don’t blame her.

  She turns to Alaia.

  “Which way?”

  Alaia turns without words and starts walking down the hall. We silently follow. It’s as if everyone comprehends that Gretchen is a lit fuse and we don’t want her wrath exploding on us.

  She’s done with stealth. Her boots clomp on the marble floor, echoing off the sparkling surfaces around us. At this point, I don’t think she’d mind inviting a fight, except that it would delay the rescue.

  “Is it always so empty?” I ask the golden maiden. “I would have expected Olympus to be bustling with activity.”

  “A meeting has been called in the great hall,” she replies. “The gods and their servants are all in attendance.”

  “That’s a stroke of luck.”

  She glances at me. “We do not wish to be here when the meeting breaks.”

  I can only imagine.

  We fall back into silence as Alaia leads us down one long, columned hallway before turning down another. Even in our haste, I can still appreciate the breathtaking beauty of the building around us. Every so often we pass a window that opens either to a courtyard on one side or a sprawling green hill on the other. Each time, the pure brilliance of the sunshine and the vibrant blue sky above shocks me.

  It’s like the air itself is purer here.

  Which I suppose makes sense. If you’re going to be an immortal god living in a magical realm, wouldn’t you want the cleanest air around? Mother would be so envious.

  Halfway down the second hallway, Alaia stops in front of an open doorway. It is wider than a normal door—at least six feet across—and is topped by a graceful arch. Through it I can see a landing and the top of a spiral staircase.

  “This way lies the dungeon,” she says, leading us. Her voice quivers as she adds, “From here I go no farther. I must return to my master’s side before he notes my absence.”

  Gretchen reaches out and takes Alaia’s hand. “Thank you for leading us here.”

  “You are most welcome.” She turns to the golden maiden. “I wish you good speed, sister. We all hope you succeed.”

  The two women—creations—embrace.

  “We shall be united,” the golden maiden says.

  Alaia nods and then turns and retreats silently back the way we came. Without a word, Gretchen walks through the doorway.

  The winding staircase—again pure white marble—leads down into the bowels of Mount Olympus. We begin circling, leaving the brightness of the halls behind and descending single file in a spiral that seems like it will never end. Down and down. We must have traveled at least five stories when Thane suddenly grabs my shoulder.

  “Stop,” he whispers, loud enough for Gretchen, Sillus, and the golden maiden several steps below to hear.

  We all freeze, waiting. My heart thunders in my chest, and I listen.

  At first I don’t hear anything—just the echoing silence of our combined breathing in the enclosed stairwell.

  Then . . . I do.

  It starts as a soft purr, like a cat contentedly lounging on someone’s stomach—not my stomach, of course. I’ve never been allowed a pet. Mother is violently allergic.

  Gradually the purring gets louder . . . angrier. It turns into something more like a rumble, a soft roar . . . and then a louder roar.

  Then the creature reaches the top of the staircase. For a moment, there is silence, and I cross mental fingers, hoping that it moves on. The next roar echoes down to us, beating against us like a violent wind, the sound amplified by the solid walls and the narrow column of air, like a pipe in a church organ.

  “Run!” Thane shouts.

  No one stops to ask why.

  In a clatter of shoes on steps, we pound down the stairs, heading down to I don’t know what—danger? Safety? Uncertainty. Away from whatever is clambering down the stairs above us.

  I feel the heat first, blowing down from above like the waft of warmth radiating off a patio heater on a cool summer night.

  Then another blast, this time hotter. The white stone around us glows red-orange with the light of flames.

  “What is it?” I shout.

  The welcoming committee, a male voice says in my mind.

  “Thespian dragon,” Thane answers, urging me faster and faster down the stairs.

  Then, finally, in a rush, we’re running out of the staircase and into the dark, low-ceilinged space of what is obviously the dungeon. The walls are covered with the same damp, dark stone I saw in my vision.

  “Over here,” Gretchen calls out, heading for an innocuous door in the wall opposite the stairwell.

  She grabs the handle and pulls. When the door doesn’t budge, she lets out a primal roar and twists the handle as hard as she can, and the lock gives way.

  She jerks the door open, waves us all through, and then joins us inside what appears to be an unused closet, pulling the door shut behind her with a solid clank. Once again, we’re plunged into darkness. No one makes a sound, not even the whoosh of panting breath, as we wait.

  The growling we heard in the staircase becomes louder. Closer. Beneath the crack in the door, amber light seeps in along with a hot puff of air.

  The dragon is right outside the door.

  I bite my lips to keep from shaking. The warmth of a hand on my back calms me. Even in the dark, I know it’s Thane. I feel something stronger than touch whenever we connect, something there in my core. I reach around and take his hand in mine, squeezing as another burst of light and heat invades our little space.

  Then, after an eternity of our not moving and barely breathing, the light is no more. The heat is gone, and the growling and purring are replaced by an eerie silence and the soft drip of water on stone.

  Still, we wait. Just in case.

  It feels like forever as we sit in darkness, wondering if the dragon is gone yet. The feel of Thane’s palm reassures me. His pulse, surging against mine, gradually returns to normal.

  Finally, when I can’t stand it anymore, I ask, “How did it know?”

  “Know what?” Gretchen asks, turning on her flashlight.

  “That we’re here.”

  She and the golden maiden exchange a look.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Too many,” Sillus says. “Monster notice.”

  Thane frowns.

  “Should we separate?” the golden maiden suggests.

  With Grace back in our realm, we are already divided. Splitting up further can’t be a good idea. I squeeze Thane’s hand again.

  “That won’t help,” Gretchen says. “We just have to move faster.”

  The door creaks as Gretchen pushes it open and peers out into the dungeon. It must be all clear, because she slips out and gestures at us to follow. On my way, I glance at Thane. He is watching me and scowling.

  I start to ask, “What?” but Gretchen notices my hesitation and snaps, “Hurry up.”

  Thane shakes his head and nudges me out of the closet. Then I’m running to keep up with Gretchen’s breakneck pac
e, and I don’t have time to think about anything except not falling behind—not the strange connection between me and Thane, the monsters that keep showing up wherever we go, or the little voices that are whispering in my mind.

  CHAPTER 8

  GRACE

  I can’t stop shaking. Across the room from where Nick is holding me, his arm tight around my neck as if he’s going to crush it like a bad guy in a spy movie, is a guy with a dog’s head and flippers for hands.

  Clearly Nick knows him.

  This must be the boss.

  “You need her,” Nick says to the guy. “The Keys can’t open the door if one of them is dead.”

  That’s reassuring, I guess.

  The guy claps his flippers together in mock applause. “Nice move, Niko. You play the game well.” He jerks his head at the hulking dude with charcoal-coated feet who is hovering just to our right. “Too bad you’re playing for the wrong side.”

  “That’s a matter of opinion,” Nick replies.

  For a moment—it feels like an eternity—they stare each other down. I can’t see Nick’s face, but I can feel the tension in his body. He’s coiled tight, ready to react. Or act.

  My initial panic starts to wear off, and I realize that if Nick wanted me dead, he’d have broken my neck already. I take a deep breath, trying to calm my thinking so I can help him get us out of here alive.

  “I’d rather let the door seal forever,” Nick says, his voice low and menacing, “than let you take her.”

  The boss studies Nick, maybe trying to judge his commitment to that threat. I know exactly what Nick is threatening. I don’t approve. The door seals if my sisters and I can’t open it in time. We can’t open it at all if I’m dead. As much as I’d like to not go with this slobbering guy and his hulking bodyguard, I’d rather not be dead more.

  “Nick,” I whisper.

  He squeezes tighter, just enough to get his message across without cutting off my air. I’m just not entirely sure if that message is “keep quiet and let me handle this” or “keep quiet or I’ll crush your windpipe.” Either way, I keep quiet.