Goddess in Time (15 page)

But as soon as I’m in that place, Troy will be the first to know.

“I’m fine,” I say, finally answering his question. “Really.”

For the first time in more than ten years, I finally feel like everything is going to be okay again.

The edges of my lemon-sourball double scoop haven’t even started to melt when the bell above the door to the ice-cream parlor jingles. I don’t look up until the dark figure bypasses the ice-cream counter and heads for our booth in the back.

“Great,” I mutter.

Stella flashes the visitor a sunny grin. “Hi, Daddy.”

Phoebe looks from me to her stepfather and back to me. Clearly she thinks I’m in trouble.

Not possible. Headmaster Petrolas can’t possibly know—

“May I see you alone for a moment, Miss Matios,” he says, pretty much ignoring everyone else at the table. He flashes me a pearly-toothed grin as he adds, “Now.”

I am not fooled by the friendly facade.

“Don’t eat this,” I instruct Troy as I hand him my ice-cream cone and slide out of the booth.

Troy looks like I handed him a live grenade. Right, I forgot his taste buds are still cursed. Guess I don’t have to worry about him consuming my celebratory treat.

I feel all five sets of eyes from my table watch as I follow Headmaster Petrolas out the front door. As the door shuts behind me, I brace myself for the lecture.

“I believe it is time you returned the book,” he says without preamble.

“The what?” I ask, half-shocked and half feigning ignorance.

To be accurate, he only said
book
—singular—so I don’t technically know which one he might be talking about. But I have a feeling he’d be way more furious than he seems if he was talking about the first one.

“The book from the secret archives,” he explains, looking just as neutral as he had when he walked up to the booth.
“The Art and Science of Chronoportation.”

I can’t have heard him right. He can’t know I took the book—
that
book—and still be asking me in such a . . . polite way.

“I’m sorry, I don’t—”

“Your parents will be arriving tomorrow afternoon for a long-overdue visit,” he says.

“I . . . they . . .” It’s a struggle to form words into sentences at this point. “You know?”

He doesn’t respond, just cocks his head slightly to the left.

He knows.

I narrow my eyes at him. “You’ve known all along.”

He shrugs and brushes a piece of dust off his jacket sleeve. “Of course.”

Of course.

“Then why didn’t you stop me?” Or help me.

“Just because I am a . . .” He frowns, like he’s trying to concentrate. “How did you put it after the incident with the baby oil in the boys’ bathroom? A ‘tool of the gods’?”

I feel my cheeks burn. For the love of Zeus, this guy really does hear, see, and
know
everything.

“Does not mean that I blindly support their judgment,” he finishes. “I believe you deserved the chance to set things right.”

I am stunned—utterly and completely and totally shocked. Did Headmaster Petrolas—the bane of my rebellious existence
at this school—really
want
me to travel back in time? To break one of the unbreakable rules and cheat fate?

“I am pleased that you have succeeded,” he says when I still can’t form words.

“I—you—” My mouth drops open as the pieces fall into place. “You made the book glow! You wanted me to find it. You set this whole thing up!”

His shrug is all the answer I need.

“Oh my gods, I can’t believe it.” I shake my head. “I should have known.”

His expression turns serious. “That is the other thing I wished to speak with you about,” he says. “Your new gift.”

“My new . . . oh. Yeah, that.”

“Yes, that.” His voice drops to a low whisper that only I can hear. “Knowledge of the future is a rare gift, Miss Matios. It will take time to refine the power.”

“So my mothers told me.”

“If you find yourself needing . . .” He hesitates, like he’s trying to pick out the perfect word. “Relief,” he finally says, “do not hesitate to ask.”

He’s so intense that it actually makes me nervous. The situation between the headmaster and me has always been just short of serious. Even when I was in big trouble for some stunt or another, I could always sense his almost-laughter right beneath the surface.

Which is why his foreboding warning is so disconcerting.

“Right,” I say, trying to diffuse the tension. “You know, I already saw my future.”

“Oh yes?” he asks, cocking one brow up.

“Yeah.” I flash him a sly smile. “I saw a future where I don’t get in trouble for my actions anymore.”

He laughs, and that makes me feel so much better. Even after so many things have changed in such a short period of time, our little cat-and-mouse game is still intact.

“The yacht will bring your parents from Serifos at two o’clock,” he says, completely changing the subject. “When we meet at the dock to greet them . . .”

He doesn’t have to complete the sentence.

“I’ll bring the book,” I reply with a smile.

He nods, as if pleased that his nonverbal communication skills are still in working order. “And bring the second volume as well,” he says. “The one Miss Spencer secured for you from the archives.”

I don’t even bother being shocked at how he knew that Adara got me the book on the offerings for the gods. He just knows.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” I say, then start back for the door.

“And Miss Matios,” he calls out before I can grab the handle.

“Yes?” I ask, wait for another shoe—knowing Petrolas, probably an expensive Italian loafer—to drop.

“Please tell Mr. Blake that the gods are likely inclined to grant a special favor,” he says, “to the last descendant of Zeus’s favorite son.”

Hercules has always been Zeus’s favorite, and Griffin is the last in the Herculean line. If Petrolas thinks that fact will get Griffin special treatment, that bodes well for his quest to get his parents back.

When I turn back around to ask him to explain, he’s already gone. That man is quick and quiet as a ninja when he wants to be. Someday I’ll get the jump on him.

As I yank open the door and return to my friends, my steps are lighter knowing that hope for Griffin is even closer than we thought.

W
hen I get back to the booth, Stella is making googly eyes at Xander—and he’s making them right back at her—in one corner. Phoebe and Griffin are snuggling together in the other corner. I take my seat across from Troy and grab my ice cream back.

“Hey, you ate some,” I accuse, inspecting the decidedly smaller scoop on top.

His eyes widen. “It was melting.”

“I thought your taste buds were still cursed.”

“They’re . . .” He half smirks even as his cheeks flame bright pink. “Not anymore.”

I scowl, but decide that I’m in too good of a mood to pursue my usual plan of attack.

“So what did Damian want?” Phoebe asks, drawing her gaze away from Griffin.

I tell them what the headmaster said about my parents coming tomorrow and Griffin asking the gods for a favor—and leave out the part about returning the stolen book.

“That’s great,” Phoebe says, and her gaze shifts immediately to Griffin.

He nods several times, like he’s bouncing the idea around in his mind, before saying, “I have to go.”

He looks at Phoebe, like he’s asking her permission.

She swats him on the shoulder. “Yes, go,” she insists. “Right now.”

He gives her the kind of smile that girls—yes, even not-so-girly girls like me—dream of getting. In a flash, Griffin is gone, probably zapping himself to Mount Olympus to make a plea for his case.

“I hope Damian is right,” Phoebe sighs as she leans back against the seat.

“Daddy is always right,” Stella insists. “Especially about these things.”

As Stella starts listing her dad’s qualifications for being right, I lean my elbows on the table and take another swipe at my ice cream. It’s melting fast and I have to lick quickly to stop all the drips.

When I twist around to make sure I caught them all, I see Troy watching me. His eyes are intense and full of something I’ve never seen in them before. Interest.

“What?” I ask, kind of breathless.

He just smiles and shakes his head, but under the table I feel his fingertips tap my knee. Everything goes still around me. Without moving any other part of me, I reach down beneath the Formica surface.

I hesitate a moment—making sure I really want to do this, I really want to cross this line—before reaching forward and slipping my hand into his.

“It’s never been Adara,” he whispers. “Always you.”

As Phoebe and Stella bicker across the table, Xander watches them with undisguised amusement, and Griffin asks the gods to unsmote his parents, Troy and I stare at each other, barely breathing. Then he smiles. And I smile. And everything about both of us relaxes.

I go back to eating my ice cream, happier than I have been since . . . forever.

When Troy squeezes my hand, I squeeze back. Finally, it feels like everything is falling into place exactly how it’s supposed to be.

I’ve been waiting long enough.

Read on for more action-packed adventure where

MYTHOLOGY

meets

MODERN LIFE

H
ydras have a distinctive odor. It’s somewhere between the acid tang of burning hair and a boat full of rotting fish. You can smell them from miles away.

Well, you can’t. But I can.

Some beasties smell mildly unpleasant; others could peel paint. Hydras definitely fall into the latter category.

As I steer my car—Moira, named for the fickle fates as a constant reminder to take charge of mine—into a spot across from a dilapidated seafood shack, the stench is practically overwhelming. Moira’s upholstery is going to stink for a week. I pencil in taking her to the car wash on my mental to-do list, right after replacing my favorite cargo pants, which got shredded in my last fight, but before polishing the bladed weapons in the armory.

I twist the key out of the ignition and do a quick gear check: Kevlar wrist cuffs in place, smoke bombs in left cargo pocket, zip ties in the right, and my handy-dandy, military-grade, metal detector–defying, twin APS daggers snug in their sheaths and hidden inside my steel-toe Doc Martens. Nothing like a well-stocked pair of black cargoes to make me feel girly.

The hydra shouldn’t be much trouble—balancing nine heads on a massive serpent body throws off their center of gravity so they’re not exactly graceful—but it never hurts to be prepared.

Even if I ever get caught off guard, I’ve got a backup monster-fighting kit stowed under Moira’s driver’s seat and another in my backpack.

Though the gear makes things easier, all I really need to take a beastie out is the pair of retracted canines that will fang down at the first sign of trouble. They’re my built-in secret weapon. A defense legacy passed down from my ancient ancestor.

“Seriously,” I mutter as I climb out onto the sidewalk. “Can’t they give it a rest for a while? Maybe take an extended vacation somewhere cold and icy.”

This is the fourth time in the last week that the aroma of dark and nasty has pulled me out for the hunt.

One more visitor from the abyss this week and I’ll leave the gear at home and work out my annoyance with my fists. Hand-to-hand combat won’t send a monster back to its prison-realm home, but it’ll make me feel a hell of a lot better. Who says keeping the human world monster-free can’t be good therapy at the same time?

I palm the remote for Moira’s keyless entry and am about to lock her sleek, black doors when I realize I’ve forgotten one element of my monster-fighting gear that is critical, at least when I’m hunting in human-heavy territory.

“Slick, Gretchen,” I tell myself. “Real slick.”

You’d think after four years—a quarter of my life—this would be second nature.

Moments later, I’m crossing the street, my sporty mirrored sunglasses shielding my eyes. Not from the sun, of course. It’s not like hydras yearn for daylight. No, they’d rather drag me out in the middle of the night, when dives like this are the only thing open.

Darn inconsiderate when school starts tomorrow.

I walk up to the weathered wooden shack, peer through the dirt- and grime-crusted window, and scan the late-night diners. All distinctly human.

If my eyes weren’t practically tearing at the stench, I’d think the hydra wasn’t here.

Then I catch sight of the narrow staircase off to the right of the bar, leading to an upstairs dining room. Well, at least that will make cornering it easier.

As I push open the door, the combination of putrid eau de hydra and decades of fried-fish-filet residue is enough to make me nearly lose my heat-and-eat lasagna all over the sandy floor.

But I don’t have time for nausea. There’s a bloodthirsty monster prowling for a meal, and if I don’t stop it, no one will. I’m the only one who can see it.

“Anyone see a slithering nine-headed serpent pass this way?”

I snicker. I would love to see the reaction if I actually asked the question loud enough for anyone to hear.