Goddess in Time (12 page)

“Yeah, we have an early run,” Phoebe says, wrapping her hand around Griffin's arm.

“I have a reading list a mile long,” Stella says. “Oxford has high expectations for incoming students.”

“So we'll meet back here tomorrow at . . . ?” Phoebe asks. “Two?”

I shake my head. “Quarter 'til. I want to be sure to have enough time.”

Everyone agrees to reassemble tomorrow and then disperses, leaving me and Troy standing on the steps. He moves to face me on the next step down.

He repeats his earlier question. “Are you okay?”

“Stop asking me that,” I answer immediately. “Why wouldn't I be?”

He tilts his head down and looks up at me from under a scowl. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” I say, ignoring his chiding look. “I'm fine.”

He watches me, like he's deciding whether to argue with me or not. In the end, he asks, “Want to grab something to eat? I hear the dining hall has lasagna today.”

But I'm already shaking my head before he finishes. “I have a couple errands to run.”

“I could go with you,” he offers.

“Shouldn't you be hanging out with your girlfriend?” I ask, though even the
thought
of Troy with Adara makes me nauseous.

“For the last time,” he says, practically growling, “I do
not
have a girlfriend. Adara and I are
not
dating. Let it go already.”

“No,” I say. “If you're not dating, then what are you doing? Because it certainly isn't
nothing.”

“You really want to know?” he asks.

I stare him down. “I really want to know.”

His cheeks flame up like he's standing too close to a bonfire.

“I'm helping her,” he says. He ducks his head. “I'm helping the squad.”

“The squad?” I echo. “The
cheerleading
squad?”

He rubs his hands over his short hair. “I'm writing them a song, okay?”

“You're writing a—?” I slap my hand over my mouth to keep from laughing out loud. “Troy Travatas,” I say, struggling to keep a serious look on my face. “Are you writing a
cheer?”

My laughter dies as he looks up at me, those gentle hazel eyes so full of embarrassment. That look cuts right through my humor. I don't want to be responsible for making him feel bad. About anything.

“That's pretty cool.” I soft-punch him in the shoulder. “Your first professional gig.”

He gives me a half smile. “I'm not getting paid or anything.”

“You don't have to wear a uniform, do you?”

“No,” he says with a laugh.

I scan down to his feet. “Too bad. Your legs would look great in one of those pleated skirts.”

He rolls his eyes and shakes his head and I know I have my Troy back.

“Ha-ha,” he says, “very funny. Now if you're done teasing me, we can grab dinner—”

“No,” I say, cutting him off as I force myself to refocus on the quest at hand. “I need some time alone.”

The thing about Adara provided some much-needed comic relief, but the big picture still looms. I have a huge day tomorrow. The stress and pressure are almost overwhelming.

Troy winces just enough to show that I hurt him. I know he's sensitive and I know I'm pushing him away. But I can't feel bad about that right now. There isn't room in my brain.

“I'll see you later,” I say, brushing past him as I walk down the steps.

I don't turn back to see how long he stands there.

As I head away from the temple, I force thoughts of Troy out of my mind. I have enough to think about. I'm about to go back in time to stop my younger self from feeding ambrosia to Hera's baby son. There is a whole world of pressure in that single act.

Just traveling through time is a crazy feat. As far as I know, no one has done it in centuries. Maybe even millennia.

There are reasons time travel is illegal. Altering the course of time is tricky. What if I do it wrong? What if I can't stop myself or I make the situation worse? Having my parents banished and Griffin's smoted was bad enough. What if I screw up and the punishments are worse?

I walk through the village, blindly wandering wherever my feet take me.

The what-ifs racing through my mind are overwhelming. I don't usually waste time thinking about consequences. I'm more of an act-now, worry-about-detention-later girl.

But this? This is too big. Too important.

I'm not sure how long I walk. When I finally find myself standing in front of the boys' dorm, it's pitch dark and I'm shivering in the night air.

I enter the building, climb the stairs, and stop in front of Troy's door.

He opens it before my third knock.

“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.