by Anne Ursu
“You know,” he said, exhaling, “you could have been a lot more helpful.”
“Hmm?”
“With the Flame. I mean, you gave us these barmy dreams and sent us a map with no names. You could have been more helpful. Like sent us a letter with instructions, maybe?”
She looked at him levelly, her childish manner suddenly dropped. The force of her gaze caused him to take a step back. “No, I couldn’t,” she said simply.
“What are you talking about?”
“I was given a charge,” she said. “The bearer must find the Flame for himself. That is the rule. I helped you as much as I was able.”
Zee could barely restrain himself from rolling his eyes. “Couldn’t you at least have labeled the map?”
“Labeled?” she said, as if Zee were the greatest idiot in all of human history. “Who needs a label for Delphi? It’s the most sacred place on Earth!”
Zee really, really hated the gods. “I still say you should have done more.”
“Well”—she gazed at him haughtily—“you’re here, aren’t you?”
Zee had nothing to say to that. The elevator pinged and stopped, and the girl sucked in breath and began to bounce on the balls of her feet, looking suddenly very much a little girl again. Again his heart began to speed and a wave of dizziness passed over him.
The door opened slowly, and Zee and the girl were standing in front of what looked like a great castle hall cut out of dark crystal. The room went on and on as far as he could see, with vast tapestries lining the walls and a long crystal table that was taller than Zee, with what seemed like a hundred intricately engraved giant-size armchairs pulled up to it.
It was made of the same material as the lobby, but, where that was pristine and shining, this whole room was covered in a thick layer of dust, casting a gray tinge over everything. Zee looked at the girl in surprise—it did not seem Olympus should have a housekeeping problem.
“This used to be a banquet hall,” she said in a low voice, “but they haven’t used it in about a thousand years. Come on.”
She burst out into the room, and immediately Zee’s head began to clear. Still, he could feel the energy crackling off of her, and he was loath to get too close.
She darted ahead and Zee followed slowly, eyes darting this way and that. Walking next to this high table with chairs meant for people three times his size, he felt like a midget man, and it wasn’t helping his confidence. The tapestries along the wall seemed to shimmer as he passed, and he looked at one only to see that the gods and beasts embroidered on it were all looking at him.
“Yeesh,” he said.
“Come on, slowpoke!” the girl said again.
Zee felt a flash of irritation so strong he knew it didn’t come from him. The girl was radiating so much energy now that the room was thick with it. As she motioned to him, bouncing up and down rapidly, he could see her form flicker and then solidify again, as if she was having trouble holding it. The lighter was growing hotter still, and Zee wondered if it was literally going to burn a hole in his pocket.
On and on they walked; there seemed to be no end to the hall, and the girl’s agitation was getting more and more tinged with trepidation. Zee could not see why, but he did not like it one bit. It didn’t help that he was beginning to feel like he might burst apart as well.
“Where is this thing?” he called, his jaw clenching.
“Just a little farther,” she said.
The smoky blackness of the glass rolled and roiled, interrupted only by flashes of electricity. Another low rumble reverberated through the walls.
Where was Charlotte? Was she off leading meetings for the Bovine Liberation Front? Wasn’t she trying to find him? He needed her here, now—he needed to regain control of this situation, he was not going to be someone’s puppet. He’d had enough experience with that, thank you very much, and if Charlotte were here she would tell the girl off and—
Well, she wasn’t here.
“STOP!” he yelled. “Just STOP.”
“What?” She turned, eyes blazing. Zee felt a surge of heat rise up inside of him.
“I’m not going any farther,” he said. “I want to know what’s going on.”
She let out a snort of exasperation. “What’s going on,” she said slowly, as if he were very stupid, “is you have the Flame of Prometheus in your pocket. I have picked you, above all mortals, to be the one who finds it and uses it to give humanity knowledge of the gods again.”
“Why?”
She looked at him like he was an idiot. “Then Zeus would have to deal with humans again, wouldn’t he? He thought he was being so clever. We’ll see how he likes it when people start asking for things again, and when everyone sees that one of his stupid plans failed.”
Zee noticed she said Zeus not the gods.
“Why?”
“Because he would hate it! Poseidon would hate it, Hades would hate it! They would all hate it! When people pray to you, you can’t just ignore it. They’d have to pay attention, and they’d hate it. It would serve them right for playing with people’s lives!”
“So…,” he said carefully, “this is just revenge?”
“It’s justice!” She blinked rapidly. “Isn’t that what you want? Poseidon tried to kill your cousin. Philonecron tried to take over the Underworld and throw all the Dead into Tartarus, and all anyone cares about is punishing you for interfering.”
Zee frowned. “And what has Zeus done to you?”
The girl flushed. “That’s not important. What is important is that Prometheus gave me the task of finding a mortal worthy of bearing the Flame, and after waiting for millennia for the right person, I chose you. Now, shall we?”
She pointed ahead of her, and Zee saw a dusty fireplace set into the wall. The wall was covered in engravings, and he could tell without too much examination that they told the story of Prometheus. The fireplace was covered by a thin, intricately woven grate made out of something that looked like spun silver.
Zee’s heart flipped. He stared at the fireplace, and at the girl, who was practically vibrating with excitement. Then suddenly she shook her head and whispered, “I can’t do this.”
In an instant the girl was gone, replaced by a goddess in a simple hooded cloak, with thick curly hair of the darkest of blacks, olive skin, and deep green eyes. It was as if the whole room took a breath—but Zee’s breath stopped. He had never seen anyone so beautiful. And he did not know why, but he suddenly felt an intense, unyielding sadness.
“Persephone?” he whispered.
She did not speak, merely gazed at him, and he believed he would do anything she wanted.
He had not seen her in the Underworld—it did not seem she was around Hades very much, and he could not blame her. She was magnetic—the whole solar system should be orbiting around her—and Hades was a black hole, pathetic, nothing. He could not imagine her life, wandering around in that horrible, lifeless place.
He gave the Flame to an ally, the French book had said, one who had cause for anger at Zeus. Well, Persephone had that, all right. It was Zeus who gave Hades permission to kidnap her, Zeus who came up with the compromise that stuck her in the Underworld six months of the year.
And then something occurred to Zee, and he gasped.
“It was you. You knew what was happening in the Underworld. You sent Charlotte the dream of the Footmen last fall. And me the dream of Charlotte in trouble on the sea.”
She nodded.
“But,” he said, “I don’t understand. Why did you warn me about the sea? Why didn’t you warn Charlotte?”
“Then she would not have gone,” she said simply.
Zee was missing something. “Well…right. Wasn’t that the point of warning me?”
“The point of warning you was that you would follow and understand Poseidon’s nature and be motivated to act. I did not know of Philonecron’s plans to kidnap you, but it still worked.”
“It still worked? It still worked?” Zee c
ould not believe what he was hearing. “She could have died! Poseidon could have killed her!”
She nodded. “True. But he didn’t.”
Zee could only shake his head in shock and disgust.
“Mortals die. You are specks in the spectrum of time. It is the way of things.”
“Not to us!”
“This is far more important than the span of one mortal girl’s life. I needed to see if you were truly worthy of the Flame,” she said matter-of-factly. “And I needed you to be motivated.”
He took a step backward in horror. “You’re just like the rest of them!”
Narrowing her eyes, she spat, “Take that back.” Zee felt her anger like a punch.
“No. You’re playing games with people’s lives for your own end! You just want revenge on Zeus for sending you to the Underworld!”
“Yes. And?”
“And…?”
She glared at him and whispered, “If you knew what I’d done for you.”
He stopped. “For me? What have you done for me?”
But he never heard the answer. A loud rumbling interrupted them, not thunder this time, but something else, something approaching….
Persephone hissed, “There’s no time! Come on! Use the Flame.”
“No.” It took all his will to say it.
“What?”
“No!” he exclaimed. “I’m not going to!” It was not right. It was not their quest, they were being used, that was all. And for what? Revenge.
It wasn’t rumbling, it was footsteps pounding, and whatever belonged to those footsteps was almost there.
“Foolish mortal!” she spat. Her head whipped in the direction of the noise, and real fear passed through her eyes. Zee’s stomach turned. “They can’t see me here,” she breathed. “If they knew, they would lock me up. The Dead need me. I’m sorry.”
And with that she was gone, and all Zee saw was a small green and black bird disappear up the hearth.
He looked around wildly for something to hide behind, but it was too late. The wall next to him burst open, and a white bull the size of a truck charged through. He saw Zee, snorted, and slammed into him. Zee fell backward into the hearth, into darkness, and began to fall.
CHAPTER 28
Zeus on High
CHARLOTTE WAS HUDDLED IN A SMALL STAIRWELL LIT by a flickering fluorescent light. It looked like the fire exit staircase of a 1964-era office building, one that no one had used in a decade. It was small—human-size, in fact, and quiet except for the eerie buzzing of the dim light. It gave the impression of a set for a horror movie, in which one of the young heroines bravely fights off her attackers and then makes her way to the exit stairs, bleeding and bruised, where she has one moment of respite before the villains burst through and stab her.
In other words, Charlotte was not feeling very comfortable.
She was soaked, shivering, covered in blood-tinged rain. Her face burned in a pain so intense she started to see black. She felt ill, clammy and shaky, and her stomach shifted violently. She blinked furiously against the tears in her eyes, because she imagined it would not be fun if those tears crossed the gash in her face.
She clutched her fists to her face and let out a gargled scream that echoed up and down the stairwell. A flash of anger and hatred seared through her, almost as intense as the pain. She was so sick of getting attacked, scarred, bruised, beaten. She’d just started to feel better, and now this happened. She was in eighth grade, she was supposed to be complaining about math and worrying about her balance beam routine, not fleeing from giant god-sent eagles with extra bonus poison juice in their claws.
“Will the mortal who freed the sacrificial cows please report to floor thirty? Will the mortal who freed the sacrificial cows please report to floor thirty?”
Her stomach turned again, and suddenly its meager contents were on the stairs next to her. Charlotte hated throwing up. In seventh grade she lost her lunch suddenly right in the middle of the Hartnett hallway, and Chris Shapiro called her “Miels-puke-ski” for a month.
She gargled another scream, trying to will herself to overcome the pain in her face. She had no choice; she’d already bled and vomited on this gross staircase, she was not going to die here. She clenched her jaw, wiped her face (a little too hard), and hoisted herself up.
Her legs were shaking underneath her, and she felt gray-green all over. Plus she smelled like vomit, which didn’t help matters.
“Will the mortal who freed the sacrificial cows please report to floor thirty? Mortal to floor thirty, please.”
“Um, no,” Charlotte muttered. Her path was clear—she needed to go up to the room with the hearth, where Zee, she hoped, would be waiting for her. (Because it was always that easy.) And that was floor forty-five…and she was on the tenth floor.
She swore and began trudging up the stairs.
She kept hearing the oddest noises. More thunder and lightning crashes, and then something that sounded like an earthquake going through the whole building. She was sure that something was going to burst through the walls and come toward her, but whatever it was seemed to pass by, apparently heading for someone even more unlucky than she.
Up she climbed, into the sickly fluorescent glow, while the pain in her face subsided from excruciating to burning. Her head still buzzed, her stomach still swam, her legs still wobbled, and she focused all her concentration on putting one foot in front of the other, because that is how gods are best fought.
She counted each stair as she went, thirteen per flight, up and up. Thirty-nine, fifty-two, seventy-five. Her chest heaved and her legs began to burn as well as wobble. She’d been exhausted going to the Underworld, but at least that was going down. Eighty-eight, a hundred and two, a hundred and—
From somewhere down below she could hear a door opening, then the sound of heavy, plodding footsteps echoing through the stairwell, moving upward. Her heart stopped. Then, from above, another door opening, and another set of footsteps, now coming downward.
This was probably not a coincidence.
Charlotte froze and looked around, deciding at once that she was very sick of exit stairwells. She’d find another way to forty-five. Suddenly getting a second wind, she ran up steps one hundred thirteen, fourteen, and fifteen, pulled open the door, and ducked out.
Charlotte had stepped outside again, into some kind of lavish terrace framed by the same large columns that decorated the lobby. Inside the columns thunderclouds roiled, but the sky around the terrace was clear and blue, with white cotton-ball clouds that looked like they came from the set of Charlotte’s elementary school production of Peter Pan. Scattered around were fruited trees and lush green potted plants with beach-ball-size flowers of hues so intense she could barely look at them.
She had emerged from a small door in one of the columns that disappeared as soon as she passed through it. Right in front of the column was a couch-size planter that masked Charlotte’s entrance.
Which turned out to be rather fortunate, as lounging on the terrace were five Olympian gods.
Zee was sprawled on a cool, smooth floor. He gasped and pushed himself up. He found he was still holding the Flame in his hand—its warmth seemed to give him strength, and he clutched his hand around it.
He could not see. The room was pulsating with the full spectrum of light, as if sunbeams were being refracted through giant crystals. He squinted his eyes, trying to see through the assaulting brightness.
He was alone. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he could tell that. He was in a great pillar-lined room with twelve semitranslucent stormy crystal chairs. There was no other decoration or ornament, but it was still the most beautiful room Zee had ever seen. The light was everywhere, pouring out of the crystal, covering the room in diffuse rainbows. Zee felt as if he had fallen into a diamond.
He could see no door, no means of exit. Just endless crystal walls. He had no idea how he’d gotten there, but he was pretty sure it would be a good idea to get out as soon as pos
sible. He moved to get up; he didn’t want to wait around for—
“Zachary John Miller.”
The voice was all around the room, vibrating in the floor, the walls, coming from every direction—so strong and resonant that something inside Zee began to hum.
He felt, suddenly, the impossibility of breath. His lungs would not work, might never work again. He could see no one, just the prisms around him, and as dazed as he was he began to see the shoots of light as weeds or vines wrapped around him, threatening to strangle him.
He was not supposed to be there. It was wrong, all wrong—he was wrong. The world was not made for him, with a heart that needed to beat and lungs that needed to breathe—he was too fragile, too fleeting. He was not supposed to be there.
“Get up,” said the voice. He obeyed; he had no choice but to obey. Something inside urged him to revolt, but once again, Zee was not his own master.
“Who are you?” he breathed. But he knew the answer. It had come to this, at last.
Zee could feel himself shaking, so hard that he thought he might just come apart, little bits of Zee flying everywhere, and all that would be left would be a pile of bones.
“What are you doing here, mortal? Did you come to apologize for your hubris?”
Zee could not speak. Did Zeus really not know why he was here? That was probably a good thing. He had to come up with an answer, something extra convincing, something that would make Zeus apologize for capturing him, plus the whole bull-thing, and come to see the error in his ways, and agree (cheerfully) to wave his thunderbolts and solve all the world’s problems, and give Zee a biscuit.
“What is that in your hand, mortal?”
Zee’s eyes fell on his clutched fist, where he was holding on to the Flame like his last breath.
He closed his eyes. “It’s just a lighter,” he whispered.
“A lighter? Why do you bear it like gold? Let me see.”