Goddess in Time Read online

  I grab Xander by the sleeve and pull him a few feet away from the alcove, letting the curtain fall back into place to give us some privacy for discussion.

  “What does he mean?” I ask. “The power that binds her? What keeps her in Hades?”

  Xander jams his hands into his jeans pockets. “I don’t know. It could mean the pomegranate seeds,” he suggests. “She has to stay here nine months a year because she ate them.”

  “That seems too simple.” And again, when it comes to the gods nothing is simple. “It could be Olympic decree. The gods decided the terms of her sentence.”

  “Or the Fates.” Xander’s face lights up with inspiration. “Supposedly, it was the Fates who decided that anyone who ate something while in Hades could never leave.”

  Pomegranate seeds. The Olympians. The Fates?

  They all seem possible.

  But they all seem . . . easy. Nothing about those choices is a secret. They’re not things only Hades and Persephone would know. Those are details from the common myths.

  “It has to be something more obscure,” I insist.

  I start pacing.

  How am I going to figure this out? I’ve come this far, collected two of the three objects. I can’t fail now. I won’t give up.

  All at once, the sheer impossibility of my quest hits me. I’ve done two impossible things already; I’m not sure I can pull off a third. And then what? After I get the objects, I still have to call on Chronos and then my ancestor god. Won’t that be fun? The book was pretty vague after that. Who knows what I will face if I ever get the pomegranate seeds and get the chance to call the god of time.

  I stop midpace and cover my face with my hands.

  I was stupid to even think I could pull this off.

  As I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out the tears of despair that I feel tingling, I try to stop thinking about the big picture—the pressure and the desperation to undo what I did all those years ago. Instead, I think about the current step, the next action I’m trying to complete.

  The pomegranate seeds.

  If I think about Chronos and time travel and changing everything that happened in the last ten years, it’s overwhelming. The pomegranate seeds seem easy in comparison.

  My mind relaxes, and as it does it fills with an image.

  I see a man—tall, strong, broad-shouldered, with long, flowing dark hair and a matching beard. He reminds me of Zeus and Poseidon, which means he can only be Hades.

  He is looking at something. In the vision, I turn. No, he’s looking at someone.

  At Persephone.

  Pale blond hair and airy green dress blowing behind her as she races toward him. Her eyes are wide, desperate. Happy.

  I look back and forth between the two gods, amazed at the emotion burning in their eyes, burning for each other. When Persephone reaches Hades, she flings her arms around his neck, and he wraps his around her waist.

  With a gasp, I pull out of the vision, back into the ballroom.

  I turn to Xander, unable to hide my grin. “I know.”

  Racing back over to the alcove, I yank back the curtain and shout, “Love!” I laugh. “It’s love that binds Persephone to Hades.”

  I hold my breath until the guard nods and steps to the side of the alcove. Behind him, the black stone wall transforms into an archway.

  “Come on,” I yell at Xander. “Let’s get those pomegranate seeds.”

  The room is spectacular. Even compared to Mount Olympus and Poseidon’s palace, it is breathtaking in its splendor. Descriptions in the sources Troy and I found must have been only guessing at what the Hall of Springtime really looks like, because they aren’t even close.

  Mirrors line the walls on all sides, kind of like the fancy hall of mirrors at the Palace of Versailles. Weaving in and around and among the mirrors are inlaid mosaics of emerald-leafed trees with gold trunks and branches. The branches hang heavy with ruby-seeded pomegranates. The gemstone trees reach all the way to the ceiling—I mean all the way. It has to be at least thirty feet above my head.

  It’s like being within the canopy of a gemstone forest. This must be what the Emerald City in The Wizard of Oz really looks like.

  Through the branches, I see a sky of aquamarines and other pale blue gems. There is a giant golden sun—formed by real gold and amber-colored topaz. I swear I feel the heat from its glow.

  The floor beneath me is a flowing river of sapphires, with pearl and opal whitewater rapids. As I watch the water, it actually moves, undulating like a real river. I even see the little movements of fish beneath the surface.

  “This is incredible,” Xander says, trying to take all of it in at once.

  That is the understatement of the century.

  For a moment—a looong moment—I’m caught up in the beauty and magic of the room. But as I watch the tree branches sway in a magical breeze, big, fat pomegranates bouncing around on the verge of falling, I force myself to remember why I’m here.

  “We need to get the seeds,” I say, breaking the spell. “Fast.”

  Just because we got ourselves inside the hall doesn’t mean it’s all cake from here.

  “How?” Xander asks. “Those pomegranates must be two stories in the air.”

  “We’ll have to improvise.”

  I walk to the wall and study one of the gem-crusted trees. It’s a full, three-dimensional version, as if they took a real tree and dipped it in jewels.

  “I can climb it,” I say. I motion Xander over to my side. “Give me a boost.”

  “Are you sure?” he asks, lacing his fingers together to form a step.

  I place my boot in his palms and, bracing my arms on his head, push myself up. A few seconds of grappling later, I’m standing on his shoulders and reaching for the trunk.

  Xander braces his hands against the wall while I pull my weight off him and onto the tree.

  When I get to the first fruit-bearing branch, I climb out until I can reach the nearest pomegranate and yank. The branch sways beneath me, but the fruit stays securely attached. I try pushing with as much of my weight as I can without losing my balance, but I reach too far. In an instant, I’m dangling from the ceiling, the fruit still clinging on.

  “Are you okay?” Xander shouts.

  “Fine,” I call out, holding on to the pomegranate with all my strength.

  I swing my legs, making the branch bounce, hoping a little extra momentum will dislodge the fruit. The thing is not letting go of its branch, no matter how hard I pull.

  “You wanna play tough?” I grumble at the gemstone pomegranate. I glance down at Xander, anxiously standing below me like he expects me to fall at any moment. “Can you catch me?”

  “Yeah,” he answers. “Why?”

  “Get ready.”

  Swinging my legs harder, I manage enough of an arc to hook one boot back up over the unforgiving limb. I place the other boot against the bottom of the branch and—when I’m ready—I release the other and push against the tree with both feet.

  The pomegranate holds on for a moment and then—snap!

  Ruby fruit clutched in my hands, I free-fall for the floor.

  “Ooof!”

  I fall straight into Xander’s waiting arms. He manages to keep us both upright, too. I’m impressed.

  “Thanks,” I say as he sets me on my feet. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “You’re nuts,” he says.

  “I know.”

  Xander and I race out through the alcove, past the blind guard, who steps back into position, and across the ballroom. If only we could autoport back to Serfopoula. But the supernatural protections in Hades make Mount Olympus look like a preschool. No one wants the dead getting back to the world of the living.

  We have to return the way we came.

  We hurry back through the hallways, reversing our course for the side exit.

  The palace was so still, so empty on our way in, it never crossed my mind that we might run into someone on the way out. But as we
race out of a side corridor, back into the entrance hall, I crash full-body into someone.

  “Grnph,” I groan at the collision.

  A woman screams as she falls backward onto the tile floor.

  I stumble, but manage to stay upright.

  As Xander skids to a stop next to me, I reach down—instinctively offering to help the woman up.

  “I’m sorry,” I say as her palm connects with mine and she looks up at me, “I wasn’t—”

  My words freeze as I realize the woman on the floor—the woman I slammed to the ground in my haste to get the heck out of this place—is none other than Persephone herself.

  “No harm,” Persephone replies, pulling herself to her feet using my now-limp arm. “I am uninjured.”

  She smiles at me, a grin that embodies all the youth and rebirth and nature we just saw in the Hall of Springtime. Her blond hair, the same golden shade as mine, falls perfectly over her shoulders and her gauzy, light-green gown. She is the embodiment of perfection. No wonder Hades kidnapped her.

  “Hi,” I say lamely, with a lame wave thrown in for general all-around lameness.

  “Hello,” she replies with a vague smile.

  Then, as if I weren’t standing right in front of her, she sidesteps me and continues on her way. She heads for the back room—for the ballroom and the gem-encrusted hall beyond, I’m guessing—and I turn in a half circle to watch her walk away. Without another word.

  “That was close,” Xander says, shaking his head as Persephone disappears from view. “You’re lucky she didn’t—”

  “Stupid cow,” I mutter.

  “Whoa.” Xander lifts his hands in a defensive gesture. “That’s a little harsh.”

  “She didn’t even recognize me.”

  Xander scowls. “Should she have?”

  “You would think,” I say, jamming my hands through my hair. “An ancestor god is supposed to recognize their descendants.”

  Yes, weak-willed, harebrained, damsel-in-distress Persephone is my godly ancestor. Makes a girl proud. It’s not hard to guess why I’ve kept that juicy embarrassment a secret all these years.

  I barely register the shock on Xander’s face before I turn and race away, ready to get as far from the underworld as possible.

  9

  Xander and I autoport back to the stadium and are immediately surrounded by our friends.

  “Are you okay?” Phoebe asks.

  I nod and she smiles.

  Stella looks relieved as she launches herself at Xander.

  While the pair attempts to make kissing an Olympic sport, Troy steps in front of me and pulls me into a crushing hug. I don’t know if it’s the odd sensation of his strong arms around me or the change to blue-sky Serfopoula from the darkness of the underworld or just the gravity of everything I’ve done—of what I’m about to do—but for a second I can’t breathe. I lift my arms and hug him back. My emotions crash down around me and I lean into him, grateful for his strength.

  He has always been there for me, supporting me in whatever crazy thing I’m doing. I don’t think I ever realized how much I need him—and how much I take his presence in my life for granted.

  It feels nice to be in his arms.

  And Troy isn’t the only thing I’ve taken for granted. This world around me—with friends and trees and air that smells like the sea and sweaty teen athletes—is amazing. After trips to three other realms—every one but Abyssos—I’m prepared never to leave this one again.

  Except that I have to.

  Releasing Troy from my grip, I step back and ask, “Did you bring them?”

  He drops his arms slowly, like he’s not sure what to do if he’s not hugging me anymore, and shoves his hands into his pockets. “You’re going now?”

  “Troy,” I warn. “I told you to bring them.”

  “I did.” He pulls his hands out of his pockets and holds out his palms, revealing the golden feather and the silver seashell. “Are you sure you don’t want to take a few days to think about—”

  “No,” I interrupt as I snatch the objects from his hands. “I’m not wasting any more time.”

  I am so not in the mood for a think-about-what-you’re-doing lecture. He has no idea what it’s like to live with this kind of guilt for so long. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t hate myself for what my younger self did.

  It’s time to make things right and get that burden off my shoulders.

  It’s time to call Chronos.

  “We need to talk about this,” Griffin says.

  I frown at him as he steps closer. “What’s to talk about?”

  “I should be the one to go back in time.” His golden eyes burn beneath his dark, scowling brow. “I’m the one who fed ambrosia to the baby. I’m the one who should fix things.”

  “No.”

  I place the ruby seeds in my palm alongside the feather and the seashell.

  “No?” Griffin jerks back. “Just like that—no—and we don’t get to talk about it?”

  “No,” I repeat. “We don’t get to talk about it.”

  “Nic—”

  “Do you know what the next step is?” I ask, getting bored with this argument. I know he wants to be the one to save his parents. I know how he feels—better than anyone—but I also know why it’s not possible. “After calling Chronos, do you know what you’d have to do next?”

  His eyes darken. “No, I—”

  “You have to call your ancestor,” I explain. “You have to call your god and ask them for a golden coin.”

  Griffin jerks back. Clearly he sees my point. His whole body softens a little and he leans back, away from me. Away from the argument.

  Phoebe, on the other hand, doesn’t get it.

  “What?” she asks, coming to Griffin’s side. “What’s wrong with that? Griffin can call Hercules and—”

  “No,” Griffin says, his voice low and hard. “I can’t.”

  “Hercules is a demigod,” Troy explains. “He doesn’t qualify.”

  “So. Then he can call . . .” Phoebe begins, but trails off before she can argue. “Oh.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Oh.”

  On the best days, inviting the god of war over for a visit is a dangerous proposition. Ares is too volatile, too unpredictable, too . . . likely to wind up inciting a battle or two while he’s here.

  On a day when we’re looking to break one of the unbreakable rules, messing with the space-time continuum and changing everything that’s happened in the last ten years, the god of war is the last person we want to ask for help.

  “I’m going,” I say, fingering the objects in my hand. “Because Persephone is the safer bet.”

  Phoebe makes a sound that is halfway between laughing and choking.

  “Persephone?” she gasps. “She’s your top secret ancestor?”

  It’s not like I don’t get why she thinks this is hilarious. The descendants of the underworld queen are known for being insipid, idiotic, and totally spineless. I pride myself on being original, street-smart, and borderline mutinous. We’re not exactly cut from the same mold.

  Which is why I distance myself from the clan and keep my ancestry as secret as possible. Until now, only Troy and Griffin—and now Xander—knew the truth.

  I cut her a hard glare, but she can’t stop laughing. Only Phoebe could get away with that—anyone else and I’d turn their tongue into snakes.

  “I’m sorry,” Phoebe says, clearly not actually apologizing, “but that’s just . . .” She finally looks at me and must see the steam shooting from my ears. “Not who I expected,” she finishes quietly.

  “No one ever does,” I reply.

  As Phoebe bites her lips to keep from laughing, I hold out the objects in my palm. I open my mouth, ready to call the god of time and get this time-travel ball rolling, but Stella autoports to my side and slaps her hand over my mouth before I can say a word.

  “Not here,” she admonishes.

  I shove her away, wiping the feel of her hand of
f my lips.

  Ignoring my glare—does no one respect my anger anymore?—she says, “If you’re going to call an ancient one, you need to be in the pantheon temple.”

  “She’s right,” Troy says, exchanging a grateful look with the queen B.

  “Fine,” I say, shoving the objects into my pocket as I autoport to the temple.

  Shutting the temple doors behind me, I leave my friends standing on the steps outside and I tighten my grip on the three objects in my fist. I have worked so hard to get them, and now it’s time to put them to use.

  This is, without a doubt, the scariest—and possibly the dumbest—thing I have ever done.

  What I’m about to do makes all my past infractions look like little rebellions. Not that I thought Headmaster Petrolas would dismiss the incident with the baby oil in the boys’ bathroom very lightly. But time travel? That’s a whole other level of trouble.

  “Stop stalling,” I whisper to myself.

  When have I ever been afraid of trouble? Even when it comes in the form of a primordial deity? With every last drop of courage I possess, I close my eyes and shout, “Chronos. God of time, I call you to my presence.”

  I open my eyes, expecting to see him standing before me.

  Nothing. Empty space.

  “You cannot be serious,” I grumble. “Stupid, selfish, obstinate gods. Chronos!” I shout again. “I call you, Chronos. I need you.”

  “No need to yell, child of gods,” a deep, rumbling voice says. “I am here.”

  I spin around.

  Standing ten feet away, just inside the temple doors, is the god of time. When I first look, he appears to be a gray-bearded old man who resembles the god-kings. Then, right before my eyes, his image wavers into that of a three-headed serpent. One head is that of a young man, one is a lion, and the third is a bull.

  As I stare, the image continues to flicker back and forth between the two.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to make the images settle on just one appearance, but when I look again it’s still the flickering cycle.

  Guess I’ll have to deal with it.

  Focusing my gaze on his eyes—first those of the old man, then the human head on the serpent—I hold out my hand.

  “I want to travel back in time,” I say, weaker than intended.