“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
“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
