Goddess in Time (14 page)

“We did not allow it,” the middle-aged one says.

The young one shakes her head.

“Why not?” I demand, feeling tears well in my eyes. “Why would you let me come back and not change anything?”

What was the point? Everything I’ve done, every risk I’ve taken . . . and it all came down to the Fates—my mothers—saying no.

This is the gods’ surprise twist at its finest. No less unfair than the original decree that set me on this path in the first place. No less cruel.

“To allow a mortal to change the course of time,” the middle-aged one—the reasonable one—explains, “would put all of time at risk.”

“Bad things,” the young one says, nodding vigorously. “Very bad things.”

The old one mutters something about “impetuous” and “youth”—honestly, who wouldn’t be young compared to her?

All of the time and energy and emotion I’ve put into the quest over the last few days just drains out of me, washing away like chalk art in a rainstorm. My entire body sags and I feel . . . defeated. This really is the end.

For ten years, I’ve been consumed by guilt. I’ve lived with it every minute of every day, dreamed of it every night. I thought that finally, after all this time, it would be over. I thought I would finally be absolved.

“Please,” I whisper, sinking to my knees on the floor. I look up at the three women, who are watching me, unseeing, with varying degrees of pity and confusion in their expressions. “If you care for me at all—if you feel bad about anything that’s happened—then please . . .
make this right.”

The old one snorts.

The young one scowls and tilts her head.

The middle-aged one is still. Unblinking as she holds up the eye to study me. I focus on her. I stare right back, trying to convey every last ounce of my anguish through whatever means possible.

When I see a glint of moisture beneath her empty eye sockets, I feel the first spark of hope rekindle.

I don’t move, don’t breathe, don’t anything as she turns to the old one and says something in an ancient Greek dialect I can’t understand.

Their conversation is hushed and vehement. From the body language, I can tell the middle-aged one has made a suggestion, the old one disagrees, and the young one . . . well, I’m not sure she understands what’s going on any more than I do.

Finally, when I am about to pass out from holding my breath, they turn back to me. The middle-aged one steps closer and holds the eye toward me.

“We have come up with an acceptable alternative,” she says.

I don’t ask,
Acceptable to who?

“We will agree to change the course of your parents’ . . .” She shifts uncomfortably. “Of your
adopted
parents’ lives, on one condition.”

“Yes,” I blurt. “Okay.”

“You have not heard the condition,” the old one snaps.

“It doesn’t matter,” I reply. “I’ll do anything.”

“But still, you must consider,” the middle-aged one says. “The condition is this: you must accept the gift of your heritage.”

“A gift?” I echo.

Like a present. That sounds like a good thing, not like something I have to weigh and consider before I decide.

Of course, this is the world of Greek mythology. Nothing is ever that straightforward. This must be the crowning surprise twist, the grand finale.

I ask, “What kind of gift?”

“An ability,” the middle-aged one replies.

“Precognition,”
the old one grumbles.

My silence must betray my confusion, because the young one explains, “You’ll see the future.”

“Second sight,” the middle-aged one adds.

I jerk back, leaning back into my heels. Now, that I did not expect.

Maybe I should have. After what happened in Poseidon’s throne room and at the entrance to the Hall of Springtime, maybe I should have guessed this was coming.

The ability to see the future is not unheard of in the world of gods and myths, but the people who get the gift . . . well, let’s just say they don’t always wind up with happy endings. Cassandra went insane because no one believed her prophecies. Tiresias was blind and spent seven years as a woman. Manto was taken captive as a prize of war.

So, yeah, not great things.

But the idea that by this one simple—fine,
not
simple, but easy—action, I can make everything right with my parents? Where do I sign up?

“Yes,” I say again, this time with full knowledge of what I’m accepting. “I’ll do it. I’ll accept the gift.”

The middle-aged one extends her hand. I reach up and take it, and when I do I feel flash of light in my mind. It’s like a thousand thoughts explode into my brain at once.

I close my eyes to shut out as much sensation as possible.

“You will learn to filter them,” the middle-aged one promises.

“Calm your mind,” the young one says.

“Focus on a single point,” the old one advises. “Focus on your parents.”

The moment she mentions my parents, all the random thoughts clear away and I can see my mom and dad. My
real
mom and dad—not the three women who . . .
made
me.

I open my eyes.

“They’re back,” I say, my voice a rough whisper. “My parents are back on Serfopoula. Back in the
hematheos
world.”

I don’t know how I know that, but I feel it all the way into the core of my soul. Whatever the Fates did worked. My parents are coming home.

A bubble of joy—true, honest to goodness
joy
—fills my chest. I can’t even begin to describe the sense of relief.

My smile fades when the old one says, “No, not yet.”

“But they soon will be,” the middle-aged one says.

“That certainty you felt,” the young one explains, “was your guide to the future. You saw what
will
be true.”

That blows my mind more than a little. I shake my head, trying to wrap my brain around the idea—the reality—that I can now sense the future. And the fact that I’ve succeeded. I’ve completed my quest. I went back in time and, with a little extra help, changed the past.

“Until you learn to manage your new power,” the old one says, “we will limit the flow of knowledge.”

“Wouldn’t want to overload your brain,” the young one says.

The old one elbows her in the ribs.

“You should know,” the middle-aged one says, in a voice that sets me immediately on alert, “that only
your
family thread has changed.”

“Only my—?” The meaning of her words becomes clear before I can ask what she means. “Griffin.”

She nods.

The old one says, “We cannot change his fate.”

“You
cannot change his fate,” the young one adds.

“
I
can’t,” I echo.

I close my eyes as the middle-aged one nods. When I do, I see Griffin standing on the Academy yacht, setting a bulky backpack down on the deck as he waves good-bye to the handful of us gathered on the dock to watch him depart.

As the yacht sails away, I know—in that unknowable way—that he’s starting a quest of his own.

“I can’t,” I say, opening my eyes. “But
he
can.”

“His fate,” the old one says, “his parents’ fates, are only his to change.”

“You cannot guide him,” the middle-aged one says.

“But you can encourage him,” the young one cheers. “And boy will he need your encouragement.”

The old one elbows her in the side again.

“Be cautious with your gift,” the middle-aged one says. “The future is a great responsibility.”

Responsibility
is pretty much a four-letter word to me, but I think this is one I can handle. Better me than most of the
theo
brats at the Academy. At least I know the power will be in good hands.

And because a girl doesn’t change all her spots at once, I just might use that power to get the best of Headmaster Petrolas every once in a while.

“We will visit you again in the future,” the old one says.

“You need training,” the young one explains. “So you don’t, you know, go insane.”

“That would be nice,” I say sarcastically.

But when the three women start to fade away, I realize it shouldn’t have been a joke. It really would be nice to learn how to use this power they just gave me. And it really would be nice to see them again. They might not be my parents, but they are my mothers. I want to know them—I want to know more about them.

You shall,
the voice of the middle-aged one says in my mind.

Then they’re gone and I’m left alone in the past.

No point dwelling here.

I reach into my pocket and my fingers have barely closed around the gold coin from Chronos before the room around me melts away and I’m back in the pantheon temple.

I
take a moment to process everything. It’s been an overwhelming few days and the realization that I actually succeeded is . . . I’m just not sure how to believe that. It’s too surreal.

After a few minutes—and a few deep breaths—I head for the temple doors. I can’t stay in here forever. Besides, my best friend is waiting for me.

When I push the big gold doors aside, Troy isn’t the only one waiting for me on the steps. The whole gang is here—Phoebe, Griffin, Stella, and Xander are clustered at the bottom. I stop on the top step, expecting them to pelt me with questions like they did the last two times I came out of the temple. Instead, they’re silent.

“I—”

Where do I begin?

“Did Troy fill you in on what Petrolas told me?”

They all nod. Troy turns red, like I’m going to be mad about that. But I’m too happy right now to be
mad about anything.

“I called them,” I say. “I called the Fates. And they came.”

It’s like a floodgate opens. Once I start saying the words, everything comes out. I tell them about screaming at my mothers, about going back and not being able to do anything. About the second meeting with the Fates when they came back in time, too.

I don’t tell them about the new power, though. Those words stay stuck in my mind, still not real enough to say out loud.

Finally, I say, “My parents are unbanished. They’re free. Or at least they soon will be.”

“Omigosh,” Phoebe squeals, wrapping me in a big hug. “That’s amazing! You did it.”

I hug her back, and I wish I could share her unbridled excitement.

Griffin stands off to the side a little while everyone else cheers. I can feel the tension radiating off him from several feet away. He knows me better than most people—better than probably anyone but Troy—and I’m sure he can see that my smile doesn’t quite reach my eyes. I’m sure he noticed that I only said
my
parents, not
our
parents.

I’m excited to share the news with my friends, but it’s a double-edged sword. I get my parents back, but he doesn’t. Not yet.

Troy catches my eye over Phoebe’s shoulder. He lifts his brows in question and I can only shake my head. His head droops and his mouth twists into a sad half smile.

I put my hands on Phoebe’s shoulders and push her back.

“Give me a sec,” I whisper as I walk around her, heading for Griffin.

For several long moments—it feels like forever—we just study each other. I think I’m barely breathing as Griffin’s bright blue eyes burn into me.

I don’t know how to say it, how to tell him that I failed.

In the end, I don’t have to.

“My parents are still smoted,” he says, his voice quiet and low, “aren’t they?”

I nod slowly, as if that will soften the blow of the truth.

His brows pinch together. He doesn’t ask why or how, but I fill in the blanks anyway.

“The Fates,” I explain, “said I couldn’t alter the thread of your parents’ lives.”

His nostrils flare and his hands clench at his sides. I don’t blame him. I’d be pissed, too—I
was
pissed, when I thought I wasn’t going to be able to change anything. But this doesn’t have to be the end of the story.

“They said
I
couldn’t,” I repeat, with special emphasis on the word
I.

The tension in his face relaxes, just a little, and he draws in a sharp breath. “
You
couldn’t,” he says.

I nod.

“But I can?”

I nod again.

“How?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “They didn’t say.”

He looks confused, frustrated, but—and this is the only emotion that matters—hopeful. He has hope. For the first time in a decade, Griffin truly believes that
he
will be able to fix what happened to his parents.

Without waiting for him to respond, I step forward and draw him into a tight hug. I’m not much of a hugger—that’s definitely more Phoebe’s style—but in this moment, with my old best friend and the joy over what I made happen and what I know he is going to make happen, I can’t help myself.

Griffin hugs me back, tighter than I think I’ve ever been hugged. It’s a cross between loss and hope.

As I squeeze harder, Troy moves into my peripheral vision. He reaches up and slips his hand over mine. I turn it so our palms are facing and our fingers can weave together.

Thank you,
I mouth.

He shrugs, like it’s no big deal. It’s a
huge
deal. There’s no way I could have done what I did without him—without all of my friends.

“Come on,” I say, releasing Griffin from my hug but keeping hold of Troy’s hand. “Let’s go celebrate.”

“Where?” Stella asks.

Phoebe suggests, “How about ice cream?”

“I could go for some rocky road,” Xander says.

Stella slips her arm around his and they start walking into the village.

Phoebe gives Griffin a mischievous look before saying, “I’ll race you.”

They’re off before he can even say, “You’re on.”

“Are you okay?” Troy asks as we start after our friends.

“Yeah,” I say. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

He tugs me closer as he gives me an are-you-joking look.

Fine, so I collected offerings from the gods, found out I’m the adopted daughter of the Fates, and went back in time to alter the course of my life. What’s the big deal?

The big deal is . . . I’m the daughter of the Fates and I now have the power of precognition. For some reason, that particular turn of events is too big for me to talk about. I’m not even sure how I feel about that in my own head yet, let alone sharing it with someone else.