Goddess in Time (12 page)

“I’m not okay,” I blurt. “I’m scared.”

I can honestly say that those are words I’ve never said to anyone before in my life. I don’t get scared. And on the rare occasion that I might, I push the pointless sensation aside. Fear is a waste—it doesn’t accomplish anything.

But today, no matter how hard I shove, the fear stays lodged in my heart.

I stand there, watching Troy, waiting for him to respond. Waiting for him to laugh or say something
sarcastic like,
Never thought I’d see the day.

But he doesn’t.

He steps forward, wraps his arms around me, and squeezes tight.

“It’ll be okay,” he whispers against my hair. “Everything will be fine.”

As I relax into his hug, I want to believe him. More than anything in the world, I want to believe things will work out.

I’m just not used to fearing that they won’t.

“Don’t jinx her,” Phoebe says. “She hasn’t done it yet.”

“There is no such thing as a jinx,” Stella replies.

“Just curses,” Xander says.

Griffin adds, “And luck.”

“It doesn’t have to be real,” Phoebe argues, “to mess things up.”

Troy hushes them.

I don’t turn to look at my friends. My mind is focused on the temple door above me and what is waiting for me inside. I spent the entire night wide-awake, sitting on Troy’s bed, thinking about this moment. Dreading it—but also anxious for the time to get here already.

“Stella’s right,” I say, not looking away from the door. “I don’t believe in jinxes.”

But I do believe in action.

Without another word, I put one boot in front of the other and march up the steps. This shouldn’t be so hard. I faced down one of the old gods yesterday. How much worse could Persephone be?

At the door I hesitate for only a second—I don’t allow myself any longer—and then push my way inside.

Sliding the door shut behind me, I scan the temple interior. The mosaic murals covering the walls on all sides depict major events in mythology. The battle between the Titans and the Olympians. The Trojan War. Hades kidnapping Persephone. Clearly, all the high points.

I walk over to the one depicting my ancient ancestor getting carried away into the underworld, hanging over Hades’s back like a sack of stupid potatoes. How is it possible the dimwit and I share blood?

“Stop stalling,” I finally mutter, forcing myself to turn away from the mural.

Time to get this over with.

I walk to the center of the temple, close my eyes, and shout, “Persephone!”

I shake my head as I open my eyes, bracing myself for my first conversation with my ancestor goddess. Nothing happens—no bright light or puff of smoke. The temple remains as empty as when I walked in.

“Persephone!” I shout again. “Here, dummy, dummy, dummy.”

Nope.

I try a dozen more times, a dozen different ways.

Nothing.

Oh my gods, I have the dumbest ancestor in the history of all mythology. She doesn’t even come when one of her own calls for her.

I keep shouting her name as I make a tour of the temple, yelling for her at every corner and column.

“Listen, you dumb cow,” I shout, reaching the end of my admittedly short rope, “I need your help. Trust me, if I could do this any other way I would. Aaarrgh!”

Did I really expect anything more from the idiot queen of the underworld?

I stop in front of her mosaic—the depiction of what should be her greatest shame—and just stare. Other than our blond hair, I have nothing—
nothing!
—in common with her. I would never let myself get kidnapped. If I did, I would never agree to stay with my kidnapper. And I would never, ever, no matter what, abandon my friends or family when they need me.

With a primal scream, I slam a combat boot into her mural.

“Come on,” I scream one last time. “Don’t you want to get away from the underworld for a few minutes?”

“Why would I?” a lyrical female voice says from behind me. “It is, after all, my home.”

I spin around—stunned, relieved, and furious to find Persephone standing at the center of the temple. She is a vision in a flowing golden gown, her hair piled up in a mess of yellow curls.

“I—uh—”

My mind goes blank for a moment. I’m stunned silent.

Persephone closes the space between us, moving so smoothly that it looks like she’s floating. Who knows? Maybe she is.

“Why did you call me to the temple?” she asks, a confused but kind look on her face. “What can I do for you, child?”

What can she do for me? She’s talking to me like I’m a total stranger, not one of her unlucky descendants. For the love of Zeus, she’s dumb.

My anger returns tenfold.

“I need a golden coin,” I snap. “I have to go back in time.”

She tilts her head slightly, making her look like a curious poodle. “
Chronoportation
is illegal.”

“I know,” I say with tense growl. “I still need the coin.”

She shakes her head and smiles. “But why would you call me?” she asks. “You must request the coin of Chronos from your ancestor god.”

“That
is
why I called you.”

Seriously. If this conversation goes on any longer without her handing over the coin, I’m going to strangle her.

“But why?” she repeats. “I am not your ancestor.”

“You’re not—” I shake my head. “Of course you are.”

“I’m afraid not.” She gives me an amused look. “Do you not think I would recognize my own children?”

“No, actually I—”

Before I can finish telling her exactly how dumb I think she is, the goddess of Spring smiles and vanishes in a puff of shimmering smoke. Just like that, she’s gone and I’m alone in the temple.

I’m so stunned by her disappearance that my mind freezes, stuck on her words. Replaying them over and over.
I am not your ancestor. I am not your ancestor. I am not your
—

It can’t be true. Can it?

“Holy Hades.”

Is it possible that she really isn’t my ancestor? That I’m actually not a descendant of Persephone?

On any other day that news would leave me elated. Thrilled. Over the freaking moon to find out I’m not related to the most embarrassing goddess on the family tree.

But today? I’m pissed. I don’t have time to celebrate. I need to find out who my ancestor is so I can get that second gold coin.

And I know only one person who might know the answer.

The moment I open the temple doors, I’m bombarded with questions again. Everyone rushes me, assuming I’ve gone back in time and changed things, and eager to hear all the exciting details.

They have no idea.

“What happened?”

“Did you get the coin?”

“What was she like?”

“Did you go back already?”

“Did you fix things?”

Only Troy seems to notice that I’m fuming and stomping down the steps at an angry pace. I brush past them, intent on my destination.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, grabbing my elbow before I can escape.

What’s wrong? What
isn’t
wrong?

I try to pull away, to blow them all off because the emotions bouncing around inside me are too volatile, too close to the surface. Even the tiniest crack will send them all pouring out of me.

But Troy won’t let me off so easily. He moves around to face me. “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Nicole,” he says, his jaw set.

As if sensing my raging emotions, the rest of my friends stay silent. I think Stella backs up a few steps. But Troy . . . he holds my gaze steady, unblinking, and silently demanding I tell him what’s
going on. Finally, I can’t hold it in any longer.

“I’m adopted,” I blurt.

“You’re what?” he asks.

Everyone else gasps.

“I think I’m adopted,” I repeat, letting the realization fully sink in as I say the words. “Persephone said she isn’t my godly ancestor.”

Which can only mean I’m adopted. My dad is Persephone’s son—the gods know I’ve done enough Spring Welcoming rituals in my lifetime to prove that fact. Mom is from a family of minor forest spirits, but she pledged herself as a Servant of Spring when she and Dad got married.

Persephone is the HGIC—head goddess in charge—in our household.

Which means that if Persephone isn’t my
goddess,
then my parents aren’t my
parents.
I’m adopted.

It makes so much sense. My mom has almost-black hair and Dad’s is a dark chocolate brown. Sure, my hair was darker before the bleach obliterated the color, but not
that
dark. We have different eyes, different noses, and I’m four inches shorter than Mom and six inches shorter than Dad. I don’t know why I never considered the possibility before.

And I thought Persephone was the dumb one.

“Then who is your god?” Stella asks, apparently deciding that I’m past the dangerous stage.

“I—” I shake my head, trying to make sense of this new reality. “I don’t know. But I know who to ask.”

“Who?” Griffin asks.

I exchange a look with Stella that she doesn’t need
psychospection
to read.

“My dad,” she says and, continuing her streak of being surprisingly willing to help, she adds, “He’s working in his office today.”

“Thanks,” I tell her. Then, to everyone, I say, “I need to do this alone.”

I look everyone in the eye, making sure they understand I’m serious. Everyone but Troy nods. He just stares back at me, keeping his reaction hidden.

“Call me if you need anything,” Phoebe says, stepping forward to give me a big hug.

“Thanks,” I say, hugging her back. “But I’m good.”

When everyone else is gone, Troy says, “I’ll walk you to the school.”

“Troy, I don’t need—”

“I know you don’t,” he answers before I can finish. “But you’re going to let me anyway. You can’t do everything alone, Nicole. You don’t have to.”

I never realized he was so stubborn. Must be one of the reasons I like him so much.

We don’t say another word—there’s no need. He falls in step beside me as we head to the school. And I have to resist the odd impulse to reach out and take his hand.

“Good afternoon, Miss Matios,” Headmaster Petrolas says when I barge into his office. “What can I—”

“Who?” I demand.

To his credit, he doesn’t flinch. “I beg your pardon?”

I’ve been in the headmaster’s office enough that the place feels like a second home. The headmaster and I have stared each other down across his wide desk more times than I can count. I know how to read him.

He may act innocent, but his eyes narrow the tiniest bit and he straightens in his chair. He is notorious for knowing things he shouldn’t, so I have a feeling he knows exactly what I’m asking. But if he wants to play this game, I’ll spell it out.

“I’m adopted,” I say, as if those words haven’t turned my world upside down. “Who is my real ancestor god?”

He rests his elbows oh-so-casually on his desk. “How did you come by this information?”

“Is that really the important detail here?” I reply.

He lifts one eyebrow.

Fine.

“I called Persephone to the temple.” I drop into my chair—no, really, I carved my name into one of the legs—as if this whole thing is no big deal. “She told me I wasn’t one of hers.”

“And
why
were you calling Persephone?” he asks, like a he’s sniffing out the trail to my rule breaking.

He has no idea.

“That’s between me and my ancestor god,” I say, playing it cool. “Some things are private between a girl and her goddess.”

He studies me for a long time. If I weren’t used to his scrutiny and his uncanny ability to uncover trouble, I might crack. But I’ve been in this chair too many times. I know how to keep my game face on.

Finally, he sighs and nods.

“We knew this day would come.” He reaches over and opens one of his desk drawers. He hands me a crisp white envelope. “This will explain the situation.”

I look from him to the envelope and back again. When I finally take it, he gives me a look I can’t quite interpret. Sympathy? Sadness?

Whatever. I don’t want either.

I tear open the envelope and pull out the letter inside.

I slide the first sheet behind the second, and find myself reading what appears to be my birth certificate. All the familiar details remain the same—my birthday, my weight and length at birth, even my name, Nicole Marie. The difference, though, is on the lines where the doctor—clearly a
hematheos
doctor—filled in the names of the parents.

The father line is blank.

The mother line reads one word:
Moirae.

The Fates.

“W
hat did he—” Troy stands as I brush past him. “Nicole?”

My vision narrows to a small, foggy circle. I turn and head down the hall, heading . . . I don’t know where. Just out of here. Out of this building, out of this place that turned my world completely on its end.

As if finding out I’m adopted wasn’t bad enough.

“Nicole!” Troy shouts, jogging to catch up with me. “Hey.”

He dashes in front of me, spins around, and grabs my upper arms.

Whatever he sees on my face stuns him silent.

“What?” he asks. “What did Headmaster Petrolas tell you?”

I open my mouth, intent on telling him—intent on saying the words—but nothing comes out. My breath is gone; my brain is gone.