Curse of the Sphinx (16 page)

HOPE SET HER
bag on the table and grabbed an apple. A light rap at the door brought a smile of expectation.

“Grab your homework. Let’s go.” Athan said.

“Where are we going?” she asked from the kitchen, as she grabbed her backpack. They’d talked about getting together to study, but never agreed on a place.

“My aunt wants to meet you, so I thought we’d have dinner with her. I hope you don’t mind skipping your run?”

She thought of the strange meeting at the grocery store weeks ago and shook her head.

“No, you don’t mind, or no you don’t want to go?”

The latter
. But of course she didn’t say that. “I don’t mind skipping the run.”

“Good.” He grabbed her bag and slung it over his shoulder. “She’s great, but a bit odd,” Athan said. They wound through the quiet town toward the highway. “If she starts singing, or talking in rhyme, it’s okay to ignore her.”

“Does she do that a lot?”

He shrugged. “Sometimes. She’s also likes to talk about the future.”

“Can she tell the future?”

“Sorry, what?” He turned but never met her eyes.

“I asked if she can see the future.”

He snorted. “You don’t believe that, do you?”

She shrugged. Maybe.

They pulled into the driveway of the old bed and breakfast, and Athan faced her. “I know she’s a little . . . odd, but she’s always been there for me. I told her about you, and she wanted to meet you.”

Hope nodded. “Then let’s go see your aunt.”

White azaleas and pink rhododendrons lined the walkway, complementing fresh coat of paint.

“Been doing a bit of work?”

“My aunt thinks it helps keep me from being idle.” Athan laughed. “‘A teenager shouldn’t have too much free time or he’ll find trouble.’” He wagged his finger at her.

Just before opening the door, he gave her hand a squeeze.

“Aunt Myrine?” Athan called out as soon as they crossed the threshold.

The inside of the house was a mess. Boxes lined the entryway, halls, and other rooms, making the house feel like a maze. As they walked down the hall, Native American masks, statues of Greek gods, and stacks of books drew Hope’s attention.

A door opened, and Myrine stepped out of a darkened room. Tinted goggles covered half her face, and her white hair escaped the confines of the bun at the top of her head.

When she removed her goggles, Hope’s gaze was drawn to her unlined face. If her hair had been any color besides white, she could easily have been in her twenties. Her pale blue eyes glanced at Athan and then converged on Hope. The look was piercing.

“Athan” she addressed him, but kept her focus on Hope, “you’ve brought me a riddle.” She extended her hand and added in a singsong voice, “A riddle, a joke, lots of fun to poke, poke, poke.”

Hope cringed, but took the woman’s hand. It was dry and cool.

“Cats, and bats, and lots of boys,” Mrs. Stephens chanted.

“Excuse me?” Hope stuttered.

Athan put his hand at the small of her back. He muttered something unintelligible under his breath, then cleared his throat. “Aunt Myrine, what are you talking about? This is Hope, the girl I was telling you about.”

The two exchanged a look, and Myrine nodded. “Oh, yes. Yes, yes, yes. Here for dinner. Hello, my dear. Manners, manners, manners. I’m Myrine, but of course you know that. And you are Hope. But of course you know that, too.” She turned and addressed him, “Locks of gold, and eyes that glitter, touched by gods . . . I can see why you are intrigued.”

Hope said nothing, and Myrine prattled on.

“Come for dinner; come to eat. What a treat . . .” Her eyes squinted and she nodded. “Yes, yes. Athan, go start the grill.” She waved at him in dismissal. “Hope, my dear, help me in the kitchen?” Myrine bounced down the hallway, rhymes dribbling from her lips. “Greens are good, bread and butter, need some meat, yes, beef is better.”

“Are you freaking out?” Athan asked.

“She’s . . . odd.” She
was
freaking out, but clearly it meant something to Athan for her to be here. And the weird verses seemed harmless. “I think I’ll be fine.”

As she walked down the hall, she looked into the open doorways. Artifacts littered the house: a golden pomegranate, a wooden birdcage carved with doves and roses, a small harp . . . an anvil and tongs?

When Hope stepped into an immaculate, completely updated kitchen, she stood momentarily blinded by the incongruence.

“Thou art the great cat.” Myrine nodded at her. “Avenger to the gods . . .”

She was done being nice. Hope glared at her hostess. “What are you saying?”

“It’s on the royal tombs in Thebes.” Myrine shook her head. “You . . . you have told him nothing.”

Hope’s jaw dropped. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“As you wish, as we be.” Myrine smoothed her hair back, then went to the sink. “Do be a dear and help me with the broccoli, Hope.” She set a paring knife and cutting board next to a produce bag on the counter. “I’ll get the corn ready.”

“Are you a witch?”

“A seer, a sage, a sibyl, a witch—call me what you want, take your pick.”

Was that a yes?

“You have many roads before you, kitten. Choose wisely where you step, for that is where you will walk.” Myrine closed her eyes. “Here kitty, kitty, kitty.”

“Stop!” Hope clenched her fists. “Just stop.” Her heart hammered. “Why are you saying all that? What do you want?”

The clanking outside ceased, and as the door slid opened, Myrine shifted, singing about being close to where the watermelon grew.

“How’s it going in here?” Athan looked from her to Myrine.

Hope tried to smile, but the movement was forced, almost painful.

“Myrine?”

The older woman said nothing, and he turned to Hope.

“Are you okay?”

She shook her head. There weren’t words for exactly how
not
okay she was.

“Do you want to go?” His fingers brushed her chin, and she looked up at him.

“If you play with a cat, you must not mind its scratch, Athan.” Myrine’s voice was sharp.

“Good gods!” He turned on his aunt. “Is this what you’ve been saying? You promised!”

Myrine’s head bowed. “Cats, and bats, and lots of boys.”

Athan grabbed Hope’s hand, practically dragging her as he strode from the room.

In the doorway, Myrine’s face was cast in shadow, but her head was downcast, her shoulders slumped. She waved weakly. An apology or merely a farewell?

The drive home was silent.

“I asked her if she was a witch,” she confessed as they pulled up to her house.

Athan sighed. “She was in one of her moods. I should have checked in with her before I took you over. It’s my bad, Hope.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

“She thinks she’s an oracle. She has visions, hears voices . . . She thinks she’s called of the gods and that she can see the future. But really, she’s insane. When she’s on her medication she’s docile. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not mad.”

“But it scared you.”

She wore her emotions like a coat, all on the outside. “Yes. But—”

“No. I don’t want you defending her, or apologizing.” He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry I let that happen to you.”

But if Myrine was crazy, how did she know what she knew?

“SO, ARE YOU
coming tonight or not? It’s a three-day weekend . . .” Haley tapped her pen against the lockers. “You only came that one time, and I promise—”

Hope shook her head.

“You didn’t even hear what I was going to promise.” Haley pouted.

“It doesn’t matter.” She grabbed her math book and slammed the door.

“Of course it does. Athan will be there.” Haley waggled her brows. “You don’t want him to get distracted by some other chica.”

Hope snorted. Since the disastrous dinner at his aunt’s house last night, she’d been avoiding him. “Athan can get together with whoever he wants. It’s not like—”

Haley cleared her throat, and her eyes told Hope
someone
was behind her.

“Really, Hope?” Athan stepped around. “I thought you said you wouldn’t break my heart.”

The blush went from the tips of her toes to the roots of her hair. “We’re just friends,” she muttered.

“Yeah, but there’s friends, and then there’s
friends
.” Haley pursed her lips and made kissing sounds.

“Shut up.” Hope pushed Haley with a laugh. “You’re acting like you’re Eros-touched.”

Haley rolled her eyes. “If the god of love had shot me, I promise I wouldn’t be making kissing sounds at you. I would be getting all hot and sweaty with . . . uh, never mind.” She grimaced. “Think about coming tonight, ’cause you should.” She turned and started running down the hall. “I’ll call you!”

Hope shook her head.

“You’re not coming to the river?” He leaned against the wall blocking her path.

“Not you, too.” Hope stepped around, going through the door just as the bell rang.

THE PEACE OF
solitude was balm to her harried week. Hope responded to Athan’s and Haley’s texts with a definitive no. There was no way she was going to the river tonight. She just needed a break.

But as exhaustion faded, worry wormed its way in.

If only Priska had said where she was going . . . Maybe they could find her. Mr. Davenport had sent her a text Monday, telling her the same thing ‘stay put, no news.’ Was there anything Hope
could
do?

Useless . . . She was completely useless.

She blew out a breath and looked around her living room. The boxes from last week still sat stacked against the wall by the door.

It was dark out, but purpose burned through her. A few taps on her phone showed there was a Salvation Army in the Dalles. It was late, but not that late.

Hefting the first box, she fumbled at the front door and again as she pushed the button to release the trunk. The cool air tickled her skin, bringing goose bumps to her warm arms, but by the time the car was full, sweat ran from her hairline and soaked into her T-shirt. There were still four boxes inside, but nothing more would fit into her compact car. She’d just have to make a second trip later.

As she sang along to the radio, the thirty-mile drive went quickly. Once off the freeway, she followed the directions to the alley behind the Salvation Army. It wasn’t until she sat the third box down that she actually assessed her surroundings. She crashed from the high of her impulsiveness, suddenly tempered by the risk of being alone in an alley at night. Stupid, stupid, stupid. While the Dalles wasn’t a big city, it was certainly larger than Goldendale.

With the car off, she could hear music and loud, raucous clamor. At this time of night, and that kind of noise . . . There must be a bar nearby. Her heart beat a rhythm of anxiety, and she sped up to finish her task.

The largest box of clothing was wedged into the back seat. Hope pushed it to one side of the car and went around to pull it out. As unease raced through her veins, her palms became clammy. The large box was awkward, obstructing her view, and she stumbled over the uneven ground. As she bent to set it down, inebriated chortling skipped down the alleyway.

The box slipped from her hands, the contents spilling on the asphalt. The sleeve of her mom’s sweater landed in the gutter, the splash of red contrasting with the darkness around her.

Even before she turned to the car, the fermented stink of alcohol wafted on the breeze. Two men, just more than shadows, came from the left, their drunken gait slow as they ambled toward her car. Even if she ran, she couldn’t get in the car before they reached her. She sucked in a deep breath.

Adrenaline washed through her body, and her muscles tensed. The sound of her heartbeat pounded in her ears, pages of a book rustled in the wind, and then the sharp intake of breath from a man.

The shorter man leered, and his brown eyes bespoke his mortality, and his smirk promised pain. His fist clenched the handle of something. A hammer? No, a wrench.

The taller man’s gait was steady, and something about his features was . . . off. Wrong. Washed out. And . . . his eyes! Two solid orbs of pitch.

Skia.

She swallowed back fear as it clawed up her throat. Hope grabbed for the golden dagger in her back pocket but came up empty. In another second, they would be in striking distance.

The human raised his arm, and instinctively, she moved. Stepping to the left, she hooked his wrist as he moved to strike, rotated her grip, and lunged behind him. She brought his arm with her, applying torque until she heard the snap. Before he had time to register the pain, she kicked his knees with the heel of her foot, buckling him to the ground. Not even a second later, he screamed. He dropped the wrench and clutched his shoulder.

She spun to face the other attacker and dropped back into a defensive stance, her arms up in a guard position. The Skia chuckled, a ghostly wheezing sound. They circled each other twice, and Hope struck. She jabbed twice, measuring his ability. Fast and hard. He knew how to fight.

“You are not as you seem,” he rasped.

He reached as if to grab her, and she swung her left leg up in a crescent kick, clearing his arms. Before she brought the leg completely down, she shifted her stance and kicked him in the ribs. Sliding close, she delivered a hook punch where his liver would be, as if the dead still had their organs.

He bent over, exposing his left side, and she slammed her elbow into his jaw. The Skia crumpled to the ground.

Her legs trembled, and it felt like she was running through water, her movements lethargic and contorted. The warm hand of the man wrapped around her forearm, and she stumbled.

Panicked, she lashed out with the heel of her hand, bringing her right hand back at the same time as she struck with her left. Over and over and over again. Using every ounce of force, she struck. Bones crunched and warm wetness covered her hands. Only when the man released her arm did she stop.

Hope looked around for the Skia.

The tall figure leaned against the wall of the alley, the shadows lapping at his feet, the weight of his gaze fixed on her.

She shifted back into a defensive stance, waiting for him to attack.

“Interesting.” He tipped his head. “Little monster . . .” He stepped into the shadow and disappeared.

Hope gasped. Just like the other Skia, he was gone. Staring at the shadow, she inched forward.

The Skia stepped back out, a black blade in each hand. “You know not what you’re dealing with, beast.” His hand arced back, and he threw one of the knives.

Hope dropped to the ground, the air above her whistled. As soon as it had passed, she jumped up and ran to the car and fell into her seat. Her hands were slick with blood, and she struggled to get the key in the ignition.

She glanced out the side mirror and saw the Skia standing over the body of the man.

“Come on, come on . . .” she whimpered.

The engine turned over, and she put the car into reverse.

She was almost to the bridge when she realized she was shivering.

She turned the heater on full blast, but her teeth continued to chatter. Too afraid to stop, she drove until she was outside her house.

Safe, safe, safe
, she chanted in her mind. But she did not, could not, get out of the car. She sat debating her fear, trying to talk herself out of her shock. She knew that’s what this was, and it was to be expected, even normal, considering. But it was all useless; she couldn’t move.

Unconscious of time passing, she eventually became aware she wasn’t shivering or cold anymore. She glanced at the dash. It was well past two in the morning.

She should go inside, wash up. The thought of the gore on her hands was motivation enough. She turned the car off, and as she pulled the keys from the ignition, she noticed her golden dagger in the cup holder. Right where she put it when she climbed into the car. She grabbed the blade, opened the door, and stepped out into the chilly night.

I’m home. It’s okay. One foot in front of the other
.

In a sort of shell-shocked trance, she didn’t hear her name being called at first. When she did, she instantly recognized the voice, and she looked around for the source.

Athan crossed her lawn in long strides. “Hope? Are you all right?” His approach slowed as he got closer.

“Sure.” She attempted to mask her weariness. “What are you doing out so late?” She needed to distract him, to steer the conversation away from her. Her eyes darted to his truck parked on the street right next to her house. How could she have missed it?

“I was down at the river, remember? I dropped Tristan off, and I was heading home when I saw your car running with the lights on. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

He was close enough that she could feel the heat rolling off his body. Unconsciously, she rubbed her hands over her chilled arms.

The silence was uncomfortable. Had he asked her something? “What?”

“I said, ‘Are you okay?’”

“Yeah, I’m fine. I dropped some boxes off at . . . at the Salvation Army.” She shuddered and forced herself to continue. “Just doing some house cleaning, trying to make the place looked lived in.”

It seemed like forever ago that he’d been in her house.

She took a deep breath to steady herself and smelled him, the sharpness of his soap, and the campfire that clung to his skin. He was staring at her with wide eyes, his head shaking. He took another step forward and touched her lightly, his fingers brushing her forehead. He withdrew his hand and looked at it.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Hope.” His voice throbbed with anxiety. “Why do you have blood on your face?”

She reflected briefly, but words failed to come, and she stood dumbly looking down. The ground started to shake, and it wasn’t until Athan put his arms around her that she understood. She was trembling.

He pried her keys from her fingers, and led her inside. Turning lights on as he went, he guided her into the study and pushed her into the overstuffed chair.

“Shh, shh. You’re okay. You’re safe. You’re home,” he whispered, the cadence of his voice a soft lull.

Eventually, she stopped shaking. She stuffed the dagger in between the cushions and grabbed the edge of her sleeve to wipe her eyes, but the moisture was sticky. One glance and her stomach rolled. Her sleeves were saturated with blood, and maroon splattered the front of her shirt, too.

She pushed herself up and stumbled past Athan and into the bathroom. She dropped to the floor, and her stomach heaved. She vomited again and again, as tears rolled down her cheeks. She yanked her shirt off. She had to get the blood off.

“Hope?” Athan came through the doorway and knelt next to her.

He handed her a wet washcloth, and when she didn’t take it, he wiped down her face and hands, rinsing the cloth after each pass.

She lay her head down on the floor and started to cry, a soft whimper, pleading for relief from the horror of her memory.

“Shh.” His hand rubbed her back, the contact warm and comforting. “Shh.”

When her tears stopped, he stood up. “I’ll be right back.”

He returned shortly with a clean T-shirt and pajama bottoms. “I’ll wait out here while you get changed.” He closed the door behind him.

She stood, looking down at the gore on her sweats. She peeled them off and threw them into the corner behind the door. She dressed and pulled herself out of the bathroom.