Cursed by the Gods (The Sphinx Book 1)

by Raye Wagner

  She narrowed her gaze. “It’s Athan, right?”

  Still smiling, he nodded.

  He must think he was reeling her in. Her gaze hardened. “Listen, I don’t think you’ll have any problem finding a tutor, but I don’t think we’d get along.”

  It was like pulling magnets apart, but she turned back to her homework. Even so, the tension made it impossible to focus, the letters and numbers swimming all over the paper as she waited.

  There was no immediate response, but he didn’t go away either. After what seemed like an eternity, she glanced up.

  He laughed softly. “I think I understand what you’re saying.”

  Moments later, she heard him in the back of the room, relating the story, greatly exaggerated to his own disparagement. She didn’t trust herself to turn around.

  As soon as the bell rang, she bolted.

  She was halfway down the hall when she heard someone call her name. Reflexively, she stopped and looked back. Athan walked toward her, his gaze trained on her.

  This was not happening. She turned away repeating her mantra to herself. Invisible. Isolation. Safety.

  Safety.

  That was all that mattered. How attractive the new boy was irrelevant. Hope needed to stay safe.

  “Hope.” He caught up with her. With his long stride, he easily kept her pace. “Hey, I wanted to apologize about earlier.”

  She stopped walking and regarded him. Why was he being so persistent? Couldn’t he take a hint?

  “I didn’t mean to offend you.” He rushed through his words, making his lilting accent more pronounced. “I was just hoping—”

  “Look”—she held her hand out to stop him—“I’m not trying to be rude, but could you just leave me alone?” Her face pinched, a furrow lining her forehead. He couldn’t know how hard it was to be lonely. But it didn’t matter. Just like every other person at school, he was a threat to her safety. She needed him to leave her alone.

  He took a step back but said nothing.

  “I’m not sure what you’ve heard,” she continued, “so let me help you out. I’m not interested.” Her emotions ballooned as she spoke. “I’m not looking for friends. I don’t want a boyfriend. I don’t tutor. I don’t need to be tutored.” She wanted to hit him, and she stuffed down the flare of anger. “Leave me alone. Got it?”

  His eyebrows drew together in a scowl, but then, almost imperceptibly fast, he quickly rearranged his features into something more amiable.

  “Ouai. You’re very . . . direct. I’m sorry to have bothered you.” With that, he walked back to a group of boys.

  She stood and watched. She saw him shrug when Lee asked what happened. With a shake of her head, she went to collect her homework. If Athan left her alone, it would be fine.

  Over the weeks, Hope had made one exception to her rule of isolation. She rationalized that it was a casual acquaintance that would never lead to anything. She was just one of many that shopped at the Red Apple, a nobody that wouldn’t be remembered. So when she was feeling out of sorts, she would stop by the Red Apple. If Mr. Stanley just happened to be there, they would share a riddle. Somehow, it made her feel a little less alone.

  So it was no surprise that as she drove down Roosevelt, her car, almost on its own, pulled into the parking lot of the grocery store. She went to the back and saw the butcher helping a young mother at the counter. He winked when he saw Hope, and she tried to return the sentiment, but it was halfhearted, at best. While she waited, she leaned against the meat case and tried to clear her head. But the interaction with Athan gnawed at her. She was grateful when Mr. Stanley’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

  “Have you found a good riddle for me?” His deep voice was warm and friendly.

  “Actually, Mr. Stanley, I was hoping that you would have one.” The furrow that remained on her brow spoke of her troubled spirits.

  As if he could sense her mood, he nodded, and his features pinched in concentration.

  “In a marble hall as white as milk, lined with skin as soft as silk, within a fountain crystal clear, a golden apple doth appear. No doors there are to this stronghold, yet thieves break in to steal its gold.” Mr. Stanley finished the riddle and regarded her expectantly.

  Most of his riddles were food related, usually livestock. She leaned back against the display case and thought of a farm.

  Mr. Stanley said nothing as he went back to cleaning up the scale and counter.

  “It’s an egg, isn’t it?” she asked.

  Mr. Stanley chuckled and nodded.

  “You really should branch out, Mr. Stanley.” She smiled, her spirits lifted enough that she would make it through another day. An old riddle she memorized years ago came back just then. “I do have one for you . . . nonfood.”

  “All right.” He stopped cleaning and stood waiting, rag in hand.

  “I can be cracked; I can be made. I can be told; I can be played. What am I?” Her breath came out in a brief laugh. The first in several days. “Remember, it’s not food. Speaking of which, can I get something good?”

  She waited while Mr. Stanley wrapped a flank steak for her.

  “Cats and bats, and lots of boys.” A singsong chant from an older woman interrupted the momentary silence.

  Hope turned and took a step back.

  The incongruous form of Mrs. Stephens approached. Her white hair was pulled up into a high bun, little wisps framing her unlined face. Her small body was lithe and graceful, and she moved with the energy of youth. She stepped into Hope’s personal space and narrowed her eyes.

  “Pussycat, pussycat, where have you been?” Her gaze shifted but never left Hope’s.

  Hope was speechless.

  “Did you hear me, little one?”

  Hope could only nod. What could you say to complete nonsense?

  “Here you are, Hope.” Mr. Stanley held out the white package. “Enjoy your dinner.”

  With relief, she turned her attention. “Thank you.”

  She took the small package from him and forced herself to walk away.

  As she maneuvered past carts and produce, she could hear Mr. Stanley chatting with the batty old lady. “Mrs. Stephens. Always a pleasure to see you out and about. What can I get for you today?”

  How could he talk to her like she was normal? Something about the older woman gave Hope the shudders. She tried to dismiss the odd encounter, but a shiver ran down her spine as she climbed into her car.

  She bounded up the steps to her house, taking two at a time, and noticed a piece of paper tucked into the door. She pulled the scrap from the jamb and read the scrawl: A joke. Mr. Stanley must have stopped by on his way into work and left her the answer to her riddle. She wondered if he’d figured it out or if he’d caved and looked it up online.

  After unlocking the door, she walked into her small home, reveling in its coziness. Her living area was open—the kitchen, dining area, and living room all connected. A matching couch and loveseat filled the living room, and a TV hung from the opposite wall above the mantle where the statue of Hecate sat. Down a short hall were two bedrooms, and a cramped bathroom squeezed between them. A study sat off the living room. It was everything she needed, and therefore perfect.

  Her smile didn’t last. After her shower and breakfast, Hope noticed a flashing light on her phone indicating a message. Anxiety gripped her, and she hoped her aunt would have answers.

  I’m in. Text only from now on. Wish me luck.

  Not answers, but almost as good. Hope’s heart pounded, and she tapped out her perfunctory response to Priska.

  Good Luck!

  Hope took a deep breath in an attempt to release her anxiety. After all, this was what they wanted. With any luck, Priska would find answers soon, and she’d come home.

  “Who can tell me about Skia?” Ms. Biggers smiled at the class as if she were discussing divine ambrosia.

  Hope had heard of teachers being passionate about their subjects, but this one took it to a whole new level. That b
eing said, Ms. Biggers did seem exceptionally knowledgeable. Hope sat up and flipped her notebook to a clean page.

  “Uh, they’re mythical,” Tristan muttered under his breath.

  Ms. Biggers sighed and rolled her eyes. “Anyone else?”

  A cute girl with auburn hair raised her hand. Was her name Richelle or Michelle?

  “Chelli?”

  “They’re from the Underworld. Hades created them.”

  “Very good. Hades, god of the Underworld, created Skia in response to the gods’ bastard children. It was a move for balance, a way to keep the demigod population in check.”

  Balance?

  Ms. Biggers continued her lecture. “Just as death is an inevitable part of life for humans, Skia ensure that death will be a part of the demigods’ lives. Death isn’t evil. It just is.”

  Hope’s hand went up.

  “Yes.” There was a pause, and then Ms. Biggers waved in Hope’s direction. “You have a question?”

  Hope blushed. “Uh, yeah. Do Skia kill other things?”

  There was a giggle from behind her.

  “Other things?” Ms. Biggers frowned. “Like animals or humans? No.”

  “No, I meant, do they kill monsters?”

  Several more chuckles.

  “Ah.” The frown turned into something that communicated pride. “No, class. This is a very good question.”

  The room quieted.

  Hope scooted forward on her seat.

  “Of course, the answer’s hypothetical, as monsters are probably extinct. But theoretically, the answer would be no. Skia hunt demigods, the ones that are left, at least. It is believed, with the disappearance of the gods, that the demigods will disappear one day, too. Then the earth will be inhabited entirely by humans.” Her gaze grew distant.

  “Too bad we can’t get some elves to join us from Middle Earth,” Krista said under her breath with a heavy dose of snark.

  “Or angel-children.” Angela sighed.

  “Ah, Angela. You’re mixing your mythology. Nephilim is the term you’re looking for, and they’re children of gods and humans, a different way of saying demigods.” Ms. Biggers chuckled. “Now, your assignment. Analyze the myths surrounding the death of a demigod. Find one that could be the result of Skia and write a supporting supposition. The point here again is to persuade the reader to your point of view. You can work alone or in pairs. It’s due tomorrow. You have the rest of class to work on it.”

  Could Priska be wrong about Skia? And if it wasn’t Skia that killed Mom . . . Had a demigod found them in Bellevue?

  Guilt sat heavy in Hope’s stomach. If she’d said something to her mom sooner . . . Her own selfishness in wanting to have a normal life had led to this. If they’d only moved . . . they would’ve been safe. Her mom would still be alive.

  A few minutes before nine, Hope finished her paper. She tilted her head side to side, cracking her neck. By the gods, she was tight. Her muscles were stiff from sitting for so long.

  Orpheus was a depressing subject to write about, and while the myth surrounding his journey to and from the Underworld to claim his wife was well known, the story of his death was not.

  It was not unreasonable to believe that Hades would look at Orpheus’s actions as selfish. When Orpheus appeared in the Underworld and begged to take his wife back to the mortal realm, it was because he loved her too much to live without her. But then he refused Hades’s offer to remain in the Underworld with Eurydice which would have kept Orpheus united with his love. Even after the refusal of the offer, Hades still gave Orpheus a chance to get his wife back. But Orpheus was impatient and broke the terms of the contract, thus losing his wife to death. After all this, it was more believable that a “reaper,” or Skia, killed the demigod than a bunch of women tore him limb from limb because he wouldn’t sleep with them. Not if he truly loved his wife.

  She shook her head. A run would help clear the thoughts buzzing inside. She quickly changed and went out into the night.

  The crisp air tickled her bare skin. After the first mile, her mind cleared and she was no longer cold. By the second mile, she was lost in the rhythm of her run. As Hope jogged down Main toward Columbus, she noticed another runner. Someone coming toward her.

  As soon as she recognized him, she debated turning around. But the idea of Athan being behind her was even less appealing. Stuffing down her apprehension, she fixed a smile in preparation to acknowledge him.

  She could tell the second he recognized her. His pace slowed, and his face, previously set in the concentration of running, shifted.

  “Hey.” She tipped her head toward him.

  He nodded and ran on.

  She could hear the sound of his retreating steps, and then she turned right on Columbus, and all evidence of him disappeared. If she ran into him again, she’d have to find another route.

  As she turned left on Broadway, her thoughts drifted to her assignment and then to the alleged love that drove Orpheus to the Underworld. Love really made people do stupid things. If what happened with her mom and dad was any indication, love was just trouble.

  As her mom told it, Leto had made a mistake. She didn’t tell her husband about the curse until after they were married. It wasn’t just that she turned into a Sphinx at the new moon. No, if she ever had a “complete family,” i.e., a husband and child with anyone other than Apollo or his offspring, she would die. While Leto told Hope over and over that love needed to be built on trust, actions spoke louder than her words. When Leto told Hope’s dad about the curse, he fled.

  Just like Paul and Sarra.

  That hurt.

  Hope was finishing the loop around Goldendale when she saw Athan again.

  She hadn’t been friendly with him, even bordering on offensive at times, but she did not feel bad about it. It was exactly what was necessary. So, regardless of what his life had been like, regardless of the fact he’d lost his mom, too, she did not feel bad.

  Almost as though she’d called his name aloud, Athan jogged toward her, his green eyes fixed on her.

  “Hey, Hope,” he called as he approached.

  Her stomach did a little flip, but she only slightly slowed her pace. It didn’t matter that he was good looking. He needed to go away. “I’m not finished with my run. Do you mind?”

  To her surprise, he started to jog next to her. “How about if I finish with you?”

  Flustered, she opened her mouth to tell him no, but instead she said, “Okay.”

  Where did that come from? And why did she sound like she was asking a question? She just wouldn’t talk to him, and maybe he’d leave her alone.

  He said nothing, and their steady footfalls pounded a rhythm. Thump-thump, thump-thump.

  The oddest sense of security trickled over her, the sensation faintly familiar and not at all unwelcome. How odd . . .

  “Do you run at night a lot, Hope?”

  The security evaporated, replaced with a desire to shut a door in his face. Sadly, there wasn’t a door anywhere nearby. The sooner she got home the sooner she could get rid of him.

  “Not usually.” She dared a glance from the corner of her eyes. Why was he so good-looking and such an idiot? “Maybe once or twice a week.”

  He stumbled then surprised Hope with his rejoinder. “Do you think that’s safe?”

  There was no sense in telling him what was safe, or not, in her life.

  “Thanks for the concern. I’ll be just fine.” She was relieved to see her house on the left, and she slowed her pace. “Here’s my stop. I hope the rest of your night is”—she really didn’t care how his night was, and she finished lamely—“nice.”

  She was up on the porch, bending down to get her key, when she realized he’d followed her up the steps. He leaned against the door, effectively blocking her. His gaze intensely pinned her in place.

  Uncomfortable with his gaze and his presence, she demanded, “What?”

  “Why don’t you run during daylight hours?”

  She
made no move to unlock the door, he was in the way, but flipped the key over and over in her hands, trying to send the message that she needed him to move. She wanted to yell at him to leave, and yet part of her wondered at his interest. “I usually do. I just needed to clear my head.” She frowned. “I appreciate your concern, but really, we’re in Goldendale. I stay on main streets, I’m a black belt in Tae Kwon Do, and I’m stronger than I appear. I really think my safety shouldn’t keep you up tonight.”

  She waited for him to back off the porch. But he didn’t.

  She huffed, her patience running thin. Why wasn’t he leaving? “If you don’t mind, I really need to get inside and get ready for bed. It’s late. At the risk of sounding parental, you should do the same.”

  He shifted his weight. “Okay. Just, if you want a running partner, you could always give me a call.”

  That’s what this was about? Ugh. Never.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” she bit out with sharp sarcasm.

  The playfulness disappeared. He leaned forward, his gaze steady, intense. “Think about it. I’d like for us to be friends.”

  He bounded down the steps and was halfway up the block before she could process what he’d said.

  Friends?

  Over the next few days, she kept wary watch over the stupid mortal boy. It was exhausting. He interacted with everyone. Everyone got a smile, a joke, a touch, a laugh.

  He obviously wanted to be friends with everyone.

  But there was a practiced intensity that made it feel . . . false.

  Like watching a movie.

  Her worry about being singled out faded then disappeared.

  How are things going? Any news? Hope typed out the text and waited, as she did each night before bed.

  Nothing concrete. More demigods here than expected. Several from Athena, but others, too.

  Who else? What did that mean?

  Him, among others. Not sure that it means anything, except there are more demigods than I thought.

  More demigods? And some from Apollo . . . Should I be worried?

  No. Just be careful.