Goddess in Time (5 page)

I'm lucky. If this thing had shattered into a million pieces, there's no way I get out of here without being detected.

“Nice move,” I mutter to myself.

Jumping back to my feet, I dust off my bruised ego and then reach for the vase. As I lift it off the invisible cushion, something rattles around in the base.

I grin.

I turn the vase upside down and almost laugh when a shiny golden egg rolls out onto the invisible cushion. I set the vase back on its perch, careful to make sure it's facing the same way—the gods are notoriously anal about their objects—and then snatch the egg off the air.

It's a little tarnished after a decade in a vase, but it's still a pretty thing.

The egg goes a little blurry and, as I squint to clear the vision, I realize it's not the egg. It's my eyes. A renegade sheen of tears is blurring my sight.

No way. Shoving the unwelcome emotion aside, I jam the egg into my pocket and take a deep breath. Just like the egg, Griffin and I used to be shiny. We used to have all the promise of a bright future, but the gods took that away from us.

I refuse to let things stay as they are. All the egg needs is a little polish. All Griffin and I need is to undo that moment in the past. And I'm going to make that happen for both of us.

Hurrying down the hall, I find myself on autopilot to Zeus's chamber. Three right turns and one to the left. Last door at the end.

I break into a jog—come on, like I'm gonna sprint? I
still
hate running—and quietly push open the door without stopping to think. But as I slip inside, I know I should have held back a little on the impulse.

There, twenty feet across the room, bent over a huge stack of scrolls on his massive marble desk, is Zeus. My great-grandfather.

My heart feels like it wants to pound right out of my rib cage, up my throat, out my mouth, and onto the marble floor at my feet. I can't breathe. For at least thirty seconds, I stand there utterly still, my pulse throbbing in my ears, and not even daring to take a breath.

Part of it is the fear of getting caught, sure. I mean, here I am in the office of the king of the gods and he is
sitting right there
! Getting caught could mean more than a simple banishment. Troy would have to search the four corners of the earth to find all the pieces.

But the other part—probably the bigger part at this point—is seeing my great-grandfather. I haven't seen or heard from him since the day we were sent from Olympus. It was like he disowned me when they banished us.

That hurt. It took me a long time to come to grips with that.

Even if your great-grandpa is an Olympic god with hundreds, if not thousands, of grandchildren—don't even get me started on the great-grandchildren—you still want him to bounce you on his knee. You still want him to teach you how to climb a tree or to help you do your homework.

The official punishment, being banned from Olympus, having my parents banished and Griffin's smoted, was bad enough. But the emotional punishment was almost worst. The little girl inside me wants to run across the room, climb onto his lap, and have him hug me and tell me everything will be okay.

Ha,
as if that would ever happen. The little girl would be forcibly removed from the palace and probably chained to a rock or sentenced to a stretch in the hottest, driest desert they could find.

Movement behind the desk catches my eye.

A flutter of wings. The golden eagle sits on a golden perch—shocking—right behind Zeus's shoulder. The bird preens a bit, rubbing a wing over its beak. When it straightens upright, I swear it looks right at me.

From the seemingly vast space across the room, I hold my breath, waiting for the eagle to squawk and draw my great-grandfather's attention to the intruder standing frozen in the doorway. Just my luck, too, being caught by something as stupid as a bird.

But the squawk never comes. Zeus stays bent over the papers on his desk, scribbling on some, sliding
them into piles, and shuffling them around. I can hear the scratch of his quill on parchment, scrape, scrape, scraping like the sound of steel dragging on concrete.

I rack my brain for an excuse, a reason to be where I am—where I most definitely shouldn't be. I'm on a quest? I'm lost? I'm looking for the bathroom?

None of them even sound good in my mind, which means they'll sound worse if I speak them out loud.

I have to get out of here. I should slip back out the way I came in and get the heck off Mount Olympus. I know that means I won't get the feather—at least, not today. It also means I won't get caught, and I can't exactly complete the quest and go back in time if I'm chained up in the dungeons of Mount Olympus. Besides, those dungeons smell
awful.

I'm about to reach behind me to grab the door, my escape plan in effect, when the sound of snapping fingers stops me.

I look up, expecting to see Zeus glaring at me, waiting for his guards to show up to haul me away. But my great-grandfather hasn't looked up from his papers. He snaps his fingers again and points at the golden chalice sitting at the corner of his desk.

Then he returns his focus to his papers and I stand there staring. And blinking.

Is he serious? He wants me to fill his chalice?

My mind snaps the pieces into place. He must think I'm a serving girl, come to attend his every need. I couldn't do it, could I?

I scan the room and spot the large pitcher on a side table. That would mean crossing to the side table, leaving myself vulnerable in the middle of the room, and then walking up next to him at his desk.
Next to him.
It's a stupid idea. It's a risky, ridiculous, moronic idea.

I'm heading for the pitcher before I can talk myself out of it.

As I wrap my hand around the handle I am overcome by the sweet scent of ambrosia. I haven't smelled the stuff in years—not since the incident, when ambrosia sealed my parents' fate—but the sense memory is overwhelming. There is a reason the gods love this stuff.

Taking a quick breath, I lift the pitcher and carry it over to the desk. My legs are shaking. So are my hands. My everything is shaking as I walk up next to my great-grandfather.

This is bad. So very bad.

I know this, but at the same time the adrenaline is rushing my bloodstream, filling me with the thrill of danger. I've never been much of an adrenaline junkie—I prefer nonterrifying rebellion—but I have to admit, I'm almost as excited as I am scared.

Holding the pitcher out over the desk, over the chalice, I hope Zeus doesn't notice the hands of his serving girl are shaking like a kid with monsters under the bed.

As the amber liquid pours from the heavy pitcher into the empty golden chalice, I try to stay back, out of Zeus's peripheral vision. The last thing I need is him noticing anything about me—although you would think his serving girls don't usually wear studded bracelets and combat boots. But I guess he's absorbed in his work, because he ignores me.

The eagle is on his other side.

I lean back around the chair, trying to reach the long tail feathers without spilling ambrosia all over the very important paperwork. That would definitely get great-grandpa's attention.

I can't quite reach, so I wait until the chalice is full before stepping back and making the grab.

Right before I can pluck a single feather from the eagle's tail, Zeus clears his throat.

“Thank you.”

I jerk back. The king of the gods deigning to thank a lowly serving girl? That must be a first. Hopefully he's not feeling magnanimous enough to make eye contact. I need to stop wasting time and get the Hades out of here.

Without another pause, I clamp my fingers over a feather and yank. The eagle squawks so loud I think it damaged my eardrum. Clutching the feather to my chest, I shrink back, waiting for Zeus to turn around and discover why exactly his bird is freaking out.

But the god king barely notices.

“Feed the creature,” he says absently.

He pulls open a drawer, reaches inside, and then holds up his hand. There, held loose in his grip, is what looks like a dog treat.

I glance nervously at the eagle, who is still scowling at me.

This can't be happening. It's not like I have another choice. If I don't feed the stupid thing, Zeus is going to wonder why his serving girl is disobeying him. Which means he's going to look up and realize that I'm not his serving girl, and next thing you know it's a one-way ticket to the dungeons of Olympus.

So, as much as I want to do nothing more than run as fast as I can, I reach out and take the treat.

As I do, my fingertips brush against his hand. My heart thumps in my chest as I realize this is the first time I have touched my great-grandfather since the Incident.

Clearly he doesn't feel equally affected, because he just drops his hand and goes back to work. Typical.

I hurry around him, shove the treat in the eagle's beak, and head back toward the door. My spine is stiff and my boot steps soft as I try not to draw any extra attention to my retreat.

I swear, every last god on the mountain must be able to hear my heartbeat.

By some miracle of luck—something I don't usually have in great supply—I make it out of the office without notice. The moment I step foot in the hall I'm ready to break into a sprint—yes, an actual sprint. But before I can take a single step I collide into another person.

“I'm so sorry,” a girl's voice says. “I did not watch where I was going well enough.”

Finding myself face-to-face with the serving girl I had just been impersonating is a little bit of a surreal moment. Of course, face-to-face doesn't quite apply because she doesn't lift her eyes to look at me.

“No worries,” I insist.

I step aside so she can continue on her path. The moment the tail of her flowy white robe disappears through the door, I'm in a full-out race for the front door.

My luck holds, and I make it back through the back chambers, to the entrance hall, and out the front gates without being seen. The moment I'm clear of the protection, I
autoport
myself the heck out of there.

Step one: success!

“I got it,” I shout the moment I reappear in my room. “Troy, I—”

“Got what?” Phoebe asks.

Mother of Zeus. I knew I hadn't sold the nothing-is-going-on act in the library. She knows me too well. And she knows Troy is a pushover.

I scowl at Troy, who shrugs and gives me an I-couldn't-stop-her look, and then turn to face Phoebe. She isn't cowed by my scowl.

“Want to tell me what's going on?” she asks.

“Not really,” I say.

“Too bad.” She crosses to my desk, pulls out the chair, and drops into the seat. “Tell me anyway.”

“N
othing's going on,” I insist.

“Right,” Phoebe says with a laugh. “You're always hanging out in the library and
autoporting
into your room like the hounds of Hades are at your heels.”

Crap.

She doesn't miss anything.

The only way to get out of this is to dig in deeper on the library cover story.

I flick a warning glance at Troy. Even he can't miss the subtle go-along-with-this-or-suffer-dire-consequences look. He shrugs and backs up a step. Smart boy.

Taking a deep breath, I walk up to him, reach down, and take his hand.

“We've been trying to keep it a secret,” I explain.

I look up at Troy, trying to bat my lashes like a lovesick schoolgirl. His face turns bright red and his eyes grow so wide I can see white all the way around. Way to sell it.

If he throws up on me a cursed tongue will be the least of his worries.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity—at least when you're trying to fake romance with your best friend so your other best friend doesn't find out about the golden feather stuffed down your pants—Troy clears his throat and manages the sickliest-looking smile I've ever seen.

“No point in hiding it.” He swallows so hard I can hear the gulp. “Sweetie.”

“Ha-ha ha-ha!”

Phoebe doubles over with laughter, clutching her stomach like it hurts. I'm pretty sure her eyes are watering.

“Omigods, you guys,” she gasps, “that's the funniest thing I've heard all year.”

While she gets lost in her hilarity, I yank my hand out of Troy's. Good thing he doesn't want to be an actor. I scowl at him—even though this might not be entirely his fault—and shove him back a step.

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

I shake my head. Whatever. It was a dumb idea in the first place, but it was the only thing I could think of to keep her from digging her way to the truth. I should have known Phoebe would see right through it.

“Okay, guys,” she says, finally recovering enough to talk. “Now tell me what's
really
going on.”

“Nothing,” Troy and I say at the same time.

Great, that doesn't make us seem suspicious at all. I glare at him until he bites his lips.

“Nothing's going on, Phoebes,” I insist.

If I repeat it enough, eventually she'll have to believe me. Right?

“Seriously, Nicole, I know you're up to something,” she replies, all signs of humor vanishing. “So does Damian.”

The hair on the back of my neck tingles. “Headmaster Petrolas?”

Troy makes a choking sound.

Great. Of course Phoebe's stepdad—aka the esteemed leader of our illustrious secret school—knows what's going on. He's weirdly intuitive like that. I swear the man has better intelligence skills than the CIA, MI6, and Mossad combined.

“What does he know?” I demand.

“That you stole a book,” she replies. “From the secret archives.”

“He's going to kill us,” Troy croaks.

I cut him a sharp look. “He's not going to do anything to you. You didn't take the book.”

Me, on the other hand, he's going to assign to detention for the rest of my life. I'm not the worst-behaved student in school history—I've never set anything on fire or encased a teacher in a block of ice or turned the cafeteria into a nightclub—okay, wait, I did do that last one. But just for one lunch period.