The Immortal Fire

by Anne Ursu

  You see, Philonecron had a plan—not just a plan, but a vision. A vision and a can-do spirit. This is why the Universe was rightfully his. It was all there, in front of him. He was standing on the cusp of eternity—he could look over the edge and see his wildest dreams, there for the taking if only he would jump.

  So what was wrong? Why was he just lying there, staring at the darkness above?

  It is a terrible truth that sometimes in our moments of greatest triumph we are plagued by self-doubt. This is the consequence of the sort of cruelty that he had suffered in the hands of the midget Medusa who had been put on Earth solely to torment him. It was not enough that she had thwarted his Underworld plans, caused him to lose his legs, poisoned his precious Zero against him, plunged him into the sea, gotten him swallowed by a Ketos with major halitosis issues—no, by constantly thwarting him in all his endeavors, she had taken away the most precious thing of all, his sense of self-worth.

  It is all right, he told himself, staring up at the black sky. This was the way of things. He was a hero, this was a hero’s journey, an epic for the ages—the saga of a humble demon’s long journey from Underworld garbage collector to Supreme Lord of All Creation. He never wanted an enemy—he was peace loving, not prone to conflict—but every hero had a nemesis, one as terrible as he was great. It was only literary. It was the conquest of the Universe, after all. One did expect it to be literary.

  Was she still out there, lurking in her vile little lair, clad in an item from her relentless series of discount casual wear, plotting her next move in her eternal quest to ruin his life? What if—it was absurd, but bear with him—what if at his moment of triumph, when Zeus was on his knees quavering in front of the trident, weeping and pleading, what if the little mortal monster appeared—because that was what she did, she appeared—and ruined everything? What if, just as he was about to get what he most wanted, she came, grabbed his beautiful dream with her sticky little hands, and stomped on it with her squeaky rubber soles?

  He had thought Poseidon would have killed her—in some showy and very painful way—but he realized it made no sense. It defied reason that the Blunder God, who was by no means an evil genius, could accomplish something Philonecron could not.

  Yes, the more he thought about it, the more he realized that the adolescent she-beast must have survived, somehow, and was still out there, plotting his defeat. Would she succeed?

  He could find her, hunt her down, tear her apart piece by piece, but what if she defeated him again? His destiny lay before him, but he could not see it.

  But he knew someone who could. This was an epic quest. He must begin it properly.

  It had been months since he had been banished from the Underworld, and Philonecron found he still had not gotten used to the Upperworld and all its barbaric brightness. He felt so unmoored wandering around with the great maw of the Upperworld sky gaping above him. As he made his way up Mount Parnassus, he was tempted to take the trident and sink the whole place underneath the surface of the Earth—but he was trying to remain discreet, and that, someone might notice.

  And then, of course, there were the people. In the Underworld, mortals were a smoky nuisance, nothing more. But here they walked around like they owned the place. The Upperworld had become some kind of free-range refuge for barbarians and troglodytes. And Zeus ignored them, just sat back and let it all crumble around him. He cared nothing for the world and all its potential. Not like Philonecron. That was the thing about Philonecron—he cared.

  As Philonecron walked along toward his destination, surrounded by a teeming mass of humans stuffed in their pleated shorts and T-shirts, it was all he could do to keep from turning them all to dust. They should at least sense something as they passed—some sense of peril, of power, of panache—but no, they just trampled around the most powerful place in all the mortal realm with their cameras and their sweat stains as if it was nothing more than a (perish the thought) shopping mall.

  And there she was, the Oracle, sitting next to a stone bowl, twirling her long black hair in her hands. As he stepped up to the Temple, her head turned toward him, and she let out a long-suffering sigh.

  “I suppose you’re not here for the scenery,” she said.

  Philonecron eyed her. He had never consulted the Oracle before—it seemed rather immodest to travel all the way to Delphi just to hear that he was destined for greatness. She did not look as though she held the secrets of the gods in her hands. There was something very self-conscious about her luxurious hair and red lips and white dress that perfectly flattered her figure, and Philonecron could not help but wonder if she might be a little vain.

  “Hardly,” he sneered.

  She exhaled again and shifted languidly on her perch. “Name?”

  “Shouldn’t you know that?”

  She rolled her eyes and repeated, “Name?”

  “Philonecron,” he said, eyebrows raised.

  The Oracle’s eyes widened, and a mocking smile broke out on her face. “The Philonecron?” She gasped dramatically. “Careful, there are mortals about! They’re after you! Run!” She threw her head back and cackled.

  Philonecron’s jaw twitched, and his hand quivered on the trident underneath his cape. “Adorable,” he said. “Now, Oracle, shall we get on with it?”

  “Okay, okay,” said the Oracle, wiping a tear from her eye. “Sorry, sorry. So, what would you like to know?”

  Philonecron straightened, and his red eyes looked carefully around. “You are sworn to secrecy, Oracle?”

  “Yes, yes, I am bound to silence. Oracle-client privilege. Now…”

  He leaned in toward her and whispered, “I am on a quest to overthrow Zeus. Will I succeed?”

  The Oracle rolled her eyes. “Oh, boy. One of those.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Demon, do you think you are the first to ask me that question? Try to be original, please.”

  “Answer me.”

  “How could it be you? You are Poseidon’s heir. There is a way to these things. Don’t you know anything?”

  His red eyes hardened. “Listen to me, Oracle,” he murmured. “It would be wise not to cross me.”

  “Why? Will you sic some mortal whelps on me? HA!”

  “No.” Philonecron took a great step back and raised the trident at her.

  She froze and stared at the object. “That does not belong to you, demon,” she whispered, not taking her eyes off the trident.

  “Oh, but it does now,” he said. “So, about my question? Who overthrows Zeus?”

  “I see. If you want to be that way—”

  “I assure you,” he purred, “I do.”

  The Oracle closed her eyes for a desperate moment, and then shook her head. “I am sorry, I cannot see it. The name of Zeus’s usurper has been hidden from Immortals.” She looked up at him, a flash of panic in her eyes. “I have never been able to see it.”

  “That’s…unfortunate,” Philonecron said, leveling the trident at her. Within a matter of moments, an enormous, festering pimple appeared right in the center of her forehead. The Oracle shrieked, hands flying to her face.

  Philonecron kept the trident on her. “Would you like another?” he asked silkily.

  The Oracle peeked out from behind her hands and stared at her reflection in the bowl, then shrieked again. “No! Wait!” she said. “Wait. I can help you.” She held her hand up toward him. “It is all darkness. But this I can see: Listen to me, demon.” She leaned in, looking deadly serious. “Your enemy is your friend.”

  Philonecron inhaled sharply. “My enemy!” She could not mean—

  “Your enemy,” the Oracle said. She waved her hand over the stone bowl, and suddenly the image of the vilest creature in the entire Universe appeared. She was alive. Philonecron shrieked and blasted the bowl with the trident.

  “Hey!” said the Oracle, dusting herself off. “I need that.”

  “I will destroy her,” he breathed. “I will—”

  The Oracle hel
d up her hand. “I would not, if I were you. You need her alive.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Alive? Why?”

  “Your enemy is your friend,” she repeated. “Your mortals are at a crossroads. If, and only if, they are taken to the descendants of the traitorous Titan within the current moon, they will lead you to your answers.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Breaking and Entering The Charlotte Mielswetski Way

  Zee and Charlotte huddled in the stairwell at the other end of the hallway, waiting for Mr. Metos to leave his office. The bell rang, signifying the end of lunch, and still the office door remained closed. And so they waited, and waited, and waited some more. Eventually Charlotte had to sit in a corner, as her body could no longer support itself.

  “You all right?” Zee asked, peeking around the corner at the hallway.

  “Fantastic,” Charlotte muttered. “Doesn’t he ever have to go to the bathroom?”

  “Maybe that’s the big secret of the Prometheans,” Zee whispered back. Then suddenly he hissed, “Char!” and motioned her back, then slipped into the stairwell. Charlotte could hear footsteps moving away from them down the hallway.

  The cousins were as still as could be until the footsteps disappeared. Then Charlotte peeked around the corner. The coast was clear.

  Charlotte peeked out of the stairwell. “One of us should stand watch,” she said. “In case he comes back.”

  “Char,” said Zee, looking suddenly uncomfortable, “I’m honestly not sure I can fit through the window.”

  “Zee, are you calling me short?” she asked in mock outrage. It was rare that there was a physical feat Charlotte could do that Zee couldn’t, considering he was the best soccer player in the galaxy. But he might be right. “Okay. I’ll go.”

  “Be careful,” he said. “I’ll be right outside the door.”

  It took Charlotte some time to drag her sorry body up a flight of stairs and out the back door, then around the back of the school, which was, to her relief, deep in shadows. She crept next to the bushes, peeking into the window wells trying to find the right one, hoping desperately that no one happened to be looking out their windows right now. Because there was nothing suspicious about this.

  And then she found the right one, climbed carefully down a rusting ladder into the window well, and tugged open the window.

  Here was where the plan fell apart a bit. Charlotte sat in the window well, eyeing the drop to the floor below. Normally it would be no trouble for her, but normally she wasn’t walking around like she’d been squashed by a steamroller.

  “Zee, you couldn’t have left a chair under the window?” she grumbled to herself.

  She could do this. If people were huddled in basement shelters from murderous winds, if they fled from towering waves, Charlotte Mielswetzski could jump.

  And so she did.

  And it hurt.

  A lot.

  Tears sprang to her eyes, and she clenched her teeth and groaned. Then she gathered herself and hobbled over to the office door, pressed her ear against it, and tapped on it softly.

  “I’m here,” Zee whispered from the other side of the door. “No sign of him. Hurry!”

  Okay, then. She surveyed the office. She didn’t know what she was expecting to find, exactly. But anything would be more information than they had.

  She peeked into one of the boxes stacked in the corner and was greeted with an overwhelming smell of must. That seemed promising. She reached in and picked up a glossy, new-looking hardcover book and found to her surprise that it was nothing more than a grammar textbook.

  “Boring,” she murmured, absentmindedly opening the cover.

  But the pages before her eyes looked like no grammar textbook Charlotte had ever seen. They were old, so old it seemed they might crumble if you examined them too closely. And the contents were most definitely not grammar, at least not English grammar. On one page was solid text, all in Greek, and on the other was a large engraved illustration of some kind of very unpleasant monster. It had great dragon wings, a massive dragon tail, and the head of a very mean-looking lion. It looked at first as if there was a ram-like creature standing behind it, but upon closer inspection Charlotte realized that the ram head was simply coming out of the monster’s torso. It didn’t look particularly nice either. From somewhere in the back of Charlotte’s memory emerged the monster’s name—Chimera.

  “Boy, I sure don’t want to meet one of those,” Charlotte muttered to herself.

  Something about the book made her want to spend the rest of the day paging through it, but of course there wasn’t time for that, and she really didn’t want it to disintegrate in her hands. She carefully placed the book back in its box, then scurried behind the desk to look at the papers scattered on top.

  Mr. Metos’s computer sat on the desk, its screen dark. Charlotte wondered idly if he even knew how to turn it on. She ruffled through the piles of papers, but they all seemed to be school correspondence. The first and second of the desk drawers revealed nothing but office supplies. The third, though, was locked. Charlotte tugged on it a couple of times, to no avail.

  Grumbling to herself, she reached around to turn on the computer, not expecting much. Her elbow knocked the mouse to the side, and to her surprise, the computer sprang to life.

  “Huh,” Charlotte said. Apparently Mr. Metos used it after all.

  She expected to have to enter a password, but the desktop appeared in front of her immediately. Chewing on her lip, she clicked on the e-mail program and surveyed his in-box.

  More school stuff—some of which looked like it might be pretty juicy, but Charlotte didn’t have time for that—and one e-mail from a foreign-sounding name that Charlotte did not recognize.

  Heart skipping a beat, she clicked on the name. An e-mail popped up, and Charlotte let out a small groan. The good news was it was clearly related to the Prometheans. The bad news was it was in Greek.

  Now she knew why he didn’t bother to have a password.

  With a nervous glance toward the door, Charlotte opened up the web browser and did a search for a Greek-English translation site. The one that popped up had space for only a sentence or two at a time, so she selected a random chunk from the middle and inserted it into the translator.

  She was not, in truth, expecting much. She’d tried a number of times to do her Spanish homework this way, and the translations always ended up sounding like a poetry slam on crazy-person day.

  This was no exception:

  We can select him above tomorrow.

  We have prepared a place in order to

  we keep also him it is sure. Under the

  circumstances, appears the alone way.

  Grumbling, she selected another chunk of text and put it into the site. It made equal sense.

  We will keep the hidden safe of all.

  But the next line seemed clear enough:

  The son stays secret.

  “Huh,” said Charlotte, quickly highlighting another bit of text and inserting it. Just then she heard Zee’s voice say, in a manner that could best be described as bellowing, “Mr. Metos!”

  Charlotte swore to herself. Where was he? If he was just coming down the stairs, she still had a chance to get out without him noticing, but—

  “Zachary, what are you doing here?” Mr. Metos’s voice rang down the hallway. He was definitely on their floor, and coming closer.

  “Oh, I just wanted to talk to you for a bit,” Zee hollered down the hallway. He sounded like he was hailing a cab from a block away.

  Nothing suspicious about that, Charlotte thought.

  She looked around the office. She could hide under the desk all day until Mr. Metos left. That always worked in the movies. Or—she could go out the way she came.

  This was not the movies. Charlotte closed all the programs on the computer and put it to sleep, then hurried back over to the window.

  Outside, Zee was parrying the best he could. When Charlotte first met him, he never would have been
able to do this—talk himself out of a bad situation. He would get all flustered whenever anyone required him to speak at all. Now, though, he was dissembling like a pro. Charlotte liked to think that spending time with her had been edifying, but she also knew that saving the world will do wonders for your self-esteem.

  She pulled a chair over to the window and slowly, painfully hauled her body up, wincing at the pressure on her splinted hand. When she got up, she gave the chair a kick and it wheeled somewhere deskward. It would have to do.

  “Why don’t you step into my office, Zachary?” Mr. Metos was saying.

  “Just a second,” Zee said. “Let me check something.”

  Charlotte scampered out onto the window well and yanked the window shut, casting a glance at the office door behind her. It was opening. Just as the forms of Mr. Metos and a very nervous-looking Zee appeared in the doorway, she threw herself toward the fire escape ladder and crawled up.

  That also hurt.

  When Charlotte escaped the well, she collapsed against a first-floor window, her heart pounding with residual fear. Her wrist was still throbbing, and her ribs and back loudly protested the entire ordeal. Somewhere below, Zee was talking to Mr. Metos and wondering what in Hades had happened to his cousin.

  “That,” she whispered to herself, “was close.”

  “Charlotte?”

  She whipped her head around. Mr. Crapf was staring out the window at her. She had somehow managed to land herself right outside of his classroom. She scooted away from the window, and the math teacher raised the window and poked his head out.