Goddess in Time (13 page)

I exchange a look with Stella that she doesn't need
psychospection
to read.

“My dad,” she says and, continuing her streak of being surprisingly willing to help, she adds, “He's working in his office today.”

“Thanks,” I tell her. Then, to everyone, I say, “I need to do this alone.”

I look everyone in the eye, making sure they understand I'm serious. Everyone but Troy nods. He just stares back at me, keeping his reaction hidden.

“Call me if you need anything,” Phoebe says, stepping forward to give me a big hug.

“Thanks,” I say, hugging her back. “But I'm good.”

When everyone else is gone, Troy says, “I'll walk you to the school.”

“Troy, I don't need—”

“I know you don't,” he answers before I can finish. “But you're going to let me anyway. You can't do everything alone, Nicole. You don't have to.”

I never realized he was so stubborn. Must be one of the reasons I like him so much.

We don't say another word—there's no need. He falls in step beside me as we head to the school. And I have to resist the odd impulse to reach out and take his hand.

“Good afternoon, Miss Matios,” Headmaster Petrolas says when I barge into his office. “What can I—”

“Who?” I demand.

To his credit, he doesn't flinch. “I beg your pardon?”

I've been in the headmaster's office enough that the place feels like a second home. The headmaster and I have stared each other down across his wide desk more times than I can count. I know how to read him.

He may act innocent, but his eyes narrow the tiniest bit and he straightens in his chair. He is notorious for knowing things he shouldn't, so I have a feeling he knows exactly what I'm asking. But if he wants to play this game, I'll spell it out.

“I'm adopted,” I say, as if those words haven't turned my world upside down. “Who is my real ancestor god?”

He rests his elbows oh-so-casually on his desk. “How did you come by this information?”

“Is that really the important detail here?” I reply.

He lifts one eyebrow.

Fine.

“I called Persephone to the temple.” I drop into my chair—no, really, I carved my name into one of the legs—as if this whole thing is no big deal. “She told me I wasn't one of hers.”

“And
why
were you calling Persephone?” he asks, like a he's sniffing out the trail to my rule breaking.

He has no idea.

“That's between me and my ancestor god,” I say, playing it cool. “Some things are private between a girl and her goddess.”

He studies me for a long time. If I weren't used to his scrutiny and his uncanny ability to uncover trouble, I might crack. But I've been in this chair too many times. I know how to keep my game face on.

Finally, he sighs and nods.

“We knew this day would come.” He reaches over and opens one of his desk drawers. He hands me a crisp white envelope. “This will explain the situation.”

I look from him to the envelope and back again. When I finally take it, he gives me a look I can't quite interpret. Sympathy? Sadness?

Whatever. I don't want either.

I tear open the envelope and pull out the letter inside.

I slide the first sheet behind the second, and find myself reading what appears to be my birth certificate. All the familiar details remain the same—my birthday, my weight and length at birth, even my name, Nicole Marie. The difference, though, is on the lines where the doctor—clearly a
hematheos
doctor—filled in the names of the parents.

The father line is blank.

The mother line reads one word:
Moirae.

The Fates.

“W
hat did he—” Troy stands as I brush past him. “Nicole?”

My vision narrows to a small, foggy circle. I turn and head down the hall, heading . . . I don't know where. Just out of here. Out of this building, out of this place that turned my world completely on its end.

As if finding out I'm adopted wasn't bad enough.

“Nicole!” Troy shouts, jogging to catch up with me. “Hey.”

He dashes in front of me, spins around, and grabs my upper arms.

Whatever he sees on my face stuns him silent.

“What?” he asks. “What did Headmaster Petrolas tell you?”

I open my mouth, intent on telling him—intent on saying the words—but nothing comes out. My breath is gone; my brain is gone.

Without another word, Troy releases his grip on my arms and surrounds me in a big, tight hug. He pulls me close and I sink into him. I've never needed comfort more.

How do I wrap my mind around this? Daughter of the Fates—literal, direct daughter—what kind of cruel joke is that? Petrolas tried to explain it to me, tried to fill in the blanks left in the vague letter from my parents. Parents who aren't really my parents.

Who are they, then?

He said the Moirae—the Fates—wanted a child of the world, a daughter more human than myth. And so they . . .
created me. I'm a creation.

My breath catches and I make a kind of choking sound. That's when I feel it—the moisture on my cheeks.

“Shhh,” Troy soothes. “It's okay. It'll be okay.”

He has no idea.

I shake my head.

“It won't be.”

I lean back, trying to pull myself out of the hug. Troy won't let me go.

“Nothing will ever be okay again,” I say.

He tilts his head down, bringing his forehead so close to mine I can almost feel it. “Tell me.”

“I'm—”

I close my eyes, not able to say the words while looking in his eyes. I can't stand the thought of seeing his pity or disgust.

It's a struggle to even say the words.

“I am the daughter of . . . the Fates.”

To his credit, he doesn't gasp or choke or any other completely reasonable reaction to that piece of news. I open my eyes and find him looking at me with a mix of awe and confusion.

Not exactly what I expected.

“Did you hear me?” I ask. “I'm the daughter—”

“Of the Fates,” he finishes. “Yeah, I heard. That's . . .”

“Horrible?” I suggest, finally twisting myself out of his hug. “Freaky. Weird. Terrifying.”

“Cool,” he says with a half smile.

I scowl. “It's not cool.”

He shrugs, as if totally confused by my reaction. “It's still new. In time you'll—”

“I'll what?” I snap. “I'll come to love them? To embrace my heritage? To get
I Heart Fate
tattooed across my chest?”

“Well, not quite that.”

“Troy, they
made
me,” I explain. “I'm not a normal girl.”

“I think we've always known that. I love you anyway.” His cheeks flame, and he starts stammering, “I mean
we
love you. Your friends. We all love you, even though you're not normal.”

I punch him in the arm. “I have no father. Just three mothers who are in charge of the birth, life, and death of every person on the planet.”

“You really think that's any weirder than me being the descendant of the god of medicine?” he asks. “Or Phoebe being Nike's great-granddaughter?”

“Of course it is.”

“It's not,” he says with a shrug. “Besides, at least you're not really a descendant of Persephone.”

“No, but I'm—” I stop midsentence as his words sink in. “I'm not, am I?”

I can't help the smile. Or the laugh that follows.

“You're right,” I say between laughs. “I'm not! I'm really not.”

The idiot goddess isn't my ancestor. Anything has to be better than that, right?

We erupt in a fit of laughter for several seconds. I think it's more of a release than actual humor. I've had a lot to process in a short time—I can travel back in time and fix things, I'm adopted, my real parents are the Fates. Is it any wonder my brain needs to take a little vacation for a minute?

But as the laughter dies, my thoughts circle back to the reason I found out the truth, the reason I'm seeking out my ancestor god—gods—in the first place. The humor fades and the anger remains.

“What time is it?” I demand.

Troy checks his watch. “Just after two.”

“I still have time.” I start walking for the front door.

Troy hurries to catch up. “Are you sure? Don't you want to take a day to process or something?”

“I've been waiting ten years,” I say, though the truth is I've apparently been waiting my whole life to meet my real parents; I just didn't know it. “I'm not going to waste another day.”

When I enter the temple this time, I let my anger seep through every pore of my body. I want these witches to know what they're getting into when they show up. I channel the anger—over so many things—as I call for them.

“Moraie!”
I shout at the empty temple. “I call on you, Fates. I demand your appearance!”

I spin in circles waiting for them to pop in, sneaking up on me like Chronos and Persephone did.

“Fates!” I scream at the top of my lungs. “You are my ancestors. You have to come.”

A thought tickles at the back of my mind, like a memory of something I never knew. Something that tells me what I need to say to call them here.

I clench my jaw, snort out a sharp breath, and say, “I call on you . . . Mothers.”

In a flash, three women stand before me. They are varying ages—one is young and beautiful, not more than a few years older than me, another is middle-aged, and the third is so ancient she is gnarled and hunched like a hideous gargoyle. They have no eyes except for the one cupped in the palm of the ancient one.

She holds out her hand, surveying me with the creepy eyeball.

“I want to see,” the young one says, reaching for the eye.

The ancient one holds it out of her reach. “She is pretty,” she says. She holds the eye up near the side of my head. “But her hair is odd.”

I fight the urge to knock her hand away.

“My hair is fine,” I growl.

Short, spiky blond might not have been normal back in the ancient day, but it's acceptable now. Even if it's not, I don't care.

The young one steps closer and grabs the eyeball, studying me just like the old one did.

“Oooh, she has my nose,” the young one says. She lifts her empty hand to her own nose. “At least, I think she does.”

All the while, the middle-aged one stands silent, almost like she's watching me with empty eyes. Her lips spread into a faint smile. She looks the most like a mother, the most like my own mother—or at least the mom I've always believed was my mother.

The middle-aged one doesn't say a word, just stands there smiling, like she's taking it all in.

“I called you for a reason, Mothers,” I say, choking over the last word. “I need to travel back in time.”

“Impossible,” the ancient one says.

The young one quips, “That's illegal.”

Only the middle-aged one asks, “Why?”

I focus on her, since she seems like the reasonable one.

“I think you know why,” I say.

She shakes her head. “You cannot change the past.”

I am so tired of people telling me that. What's the point of
chronoportation
if not to change the past? Illegal or not, it's a power for a reason.

My barely controlled anger explodes. “It isn't fair!” I shout. “What happened to my parents—biological or not, they're the only parents I have ever known—isn't fair. They don't deserve their punishment and neither do Griffin's parents.”

“The judgment of Olympus . . .” the old one begins.

“Is fallible,” I bark. “They make mistakes. And that was a
mistake.”

“There are procedures,” the young one offers. “You can appeal the decision.”

“I have.” I really want to punch something. “They turned me down.”

As if the gods want to admit they made a mistake. As if Hera will let them rescind the order that banished my parents and smoted Griffin's. If the gods are good at anything, they have mad grudge skills. Hera better than most. She'll never let it go.

When the Fates look like they want to keep arguing, I pull out the secret weapon.

“You owe me,” I say, my voice weaker than I would like. “You owe my parents. They have raised me, taken care of me,
loved
me. You abandoned me, and they took me in.”

“We did not—” The youngest starts to say something, but the middle-aged one stops her.

“You are right,” she says. “We owe you a great deal.” To her sisters, she says, “Let us conference.”

I stand there, feeling awkward and scared while they debate my request. Fervent whispers and hushed argument fill the temple. Finally, after what feels like forever, they turn back to face me.

“We are agreed,” the middle-aged one says.

The young one says, “We will give you the coin.”

“You may go back,” the old one says, pulling a piece of gold out of thin air. This one is stamped with the image of Chronos's youthful face. “To see the right of things.”