“What new threat? And why are you talking to me about it?”
“Because you’re the only one who can stop it…if you choose to do so.” Her voice was soft, but her words made a chill slither down my spine.
I frowned. “Why wouldn’t I want to stop some evil threat?”
“Because of what it might cost you in the end, Rory Forseti.” Sigyn stared at me, her eyes like two midnight-black pools in her pale, beautiful face. “What price are you willing to pay to protect the ones you love? That’s the question you have to answer for yourself.”
I frowned again. Gwen had told me that Nike always talked in riddles, but I had never thought Sigyn would too. Then again, what did I know about the goddess and what she wanted with me? So far, she hadn’t told me anything important. Nothing specific about this threat or how I could stop it or why she thought I should be the one to face down this new evil.
“I don’t ask this of you lightly,” Sigyn continued. “It’s your choice, Rory. Everything is always your choice. Remember that. But if you decide to fight, know that I gave you a proper weapon to help you in the days and battles ahead.”
A weapon? What weapon? The answer came to me a moment later. Babs—she had to be talking about Babs.
Something the sword had said popped into my mind. My eyes narrowed. “Wait a second. You were the nice old lady who took Babs out of storage and put her on display in the library?”
Sigyn nodded. “Yes, I did that as Raven.”
“But why? Why would you do that?”
She shrugged. “Because Babs needed a fresh start, and so do you. Besides, with this threat, you’re going to need all the help you can get, and talking swords can be quite useful.” Her mouth curved into a faint grin. “Especially the ones who truly love to talk, like Babs does.”
So Sigyn had given me a sword and was asking me to use it to battle some vague new threat. I had heard of situations like this, where the gods asked something of mortals, but I had always thought they were stories out of myth-history books. Well, except for Gwen, of course. But I had never thought that a goddess would ask me to help her with anything.
I didn’t know whether to be honored or frightened. Not all of those myth-history stories ended well for the mortals. Sometimes death wasn’t the worst thing that happened to those who wanted to be heroes.
But the one thought that kept running through my mind was why me? Out of all the warriors out there, why had Sigyn asked me to help her? What could I do that someone else couldn’t?
I opened my mouth to ask her that question and the dozen others that popped into my mind, including where those creepy chimeras in the library had come from, but Sigyn tilted her head to the side, as though she were listening to something very faint and far away.
“Unfortunately, our time together is at an end,” she murmured. “Fight well, Rory Forseti. More lives depend on it than you know.”
The goddess reached out and touched my hand. Her fingers felt as cold as ice against my skin, making me shiver, and I felt a wave of…something wash over me. I wasn’t quite sure what it was, but it made me feel strong and powerful, like I could keep on fighting, despite all the wounds I’d suffered in the library.
Sigyn smiled at me, dropped her hand from mine, and stepped back. Her elegant gown swirled around her again, like a snowstorm increasing its intensity, and the fabric glowed with such a brilliant silvery light that I had to shut my eyes against it. When I finally opened them again, the light and the goddess were gone.
And so was I.
Chapter Six
My eyes snapped open, and I sat up with a startled gasp.
Instead of being in the courtyard of the Eir Ruins or even back in the library, I found myself lying in a hospital bed. I glanced around the room, which was full of medical equipment, along with a monitor that hooked into the clip on my finger and steadily beep-beep-beeped out my heart rate.
I looked down at my hand, but all my burns and blisters were gone, replaced by whole, healthy skin. The deep, ugly gashes in my arm had vanished as well, and I was wearing a fresh white T-shirt and a pair of matching pajama pants. Someone had healed me and cleaned me up, and I seemed to be in some sort of infirmary. I looked around again. This wasn’t the regular school infirmary. The walls there were painted a soft blue, not made of dark gray stone like these.
Where was I?
Worry tightened my stomach, and I ripped off the finger clip, threw back the covers, and surged to my feet, determined to figure out where I was and what was going on—
Someone cleared her throat, and I whirled around in that direction.
Babs, the talking sword from the library, was propped up in a chair in the corner. I couldn’t see the sword’s blade, since it was encased in a black leather scabbard, but she stared at me with her emerald-green eye.
The sword was here, with me, which meant that I hadn’t imagined my talk with Sigyn. The goddess really had given me a weapon and wanted me to fight some great evil. Once again, I didn’t know whether to be honored or frightened.
“Rory, right?” Babs said in her Irish accent. “That’s what everyone kept calling you when they brought you in here.”
“Who is everyone?”
She shrugged. Well, as much as she could shrug with half a face. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen them before.”
Well, that didn’t tell me anything. I glanced around the infirmary again. I spotted my clothes lying on another chair in the opposite corner, so I walked over to them.
I picked up my green T-shirt, which was ruined, given all the blood and gashes in the fabric, so I wadded it up and threw it into a nearby trash can. My jeans, socks, and boots were all still in one piece, if a bit bloody, so I left the white T-shirt on and slid back into the rest of my regular clothes. I held up my green leather jacket, examining it with a critical eye. I had taken it off in the library earlier, and it had survived the chimera attack unscathed. I shrugged into it as well.
Babs looked at me the whole time. The sword opened and closed her mouth half a dozen times, as though she wanted to ask me something. Finally, she worked up her nerve.
“Are you a Valkyrie?” she asked in a hopeful voice.
I snorted and waved my hand around, but of course nothing happened. “Do I look like I have princess-pink sparks of magic streaming out of my fingertips? Of course I’m not a Valkyrie.”
Her face fell, as though she was disappointed, but she perked right back up again a second later. “So you’re an Amazon, then? A nice, quiet Amazon who just happened to be studying late in the library when those chimeras attacked?”
“Oh, I was studying in the library, but I’m not an Amazon either.” I lifted my chin. “I’m a Spartan.”
Her green eye widened with shock. “A Spartan? No! No! You can’t be a Spartan!” Her voice dissolved into a bitter wail.
I slapped my hands on my hips. “And what, exactly, is wrong with me being a Spartan?”
She winced at my sharp tone. “Well, nothing, on the face of it. It’s just…”
“What?”
She sighed. “Spartans have a tendency to be exceptionally reckless. Always charging into battle without thinking things through. Always taking on more enemies than any sane warrior would ever dream of. Always believing that your fighting skills and killer instincts are going to be enough for you to win, no matter how badly the odds are stacked against you.”
“Why do you have a problem with that?” I asked. “Because that’s what Spartans do. We fight the battles that others don’t or can’t. That’s why we’re the best warriors in the Mythos world.”
Babs sighed again. “Yes, yes, and you die at an exceptionally alarming rate because of it. Which doesn’t work out so well for me.”
I frowned. “What does that mean? What does Spartans dying have to do with you? What kind of sword are you, anyway? What kind of sword doesn’t want to be picked up and used in battle?”
Babs’s mouth opened and closed and opened and
closed again.
“Well?” I demanded.
So far, all I had were a whole lot of questions and no answers. Somebody needed to tell me what was going on, even if that somebody was a talking sword.
Babs sighed for a third time. “Never mind. Forget that I said anything. It doesn’t matter anyway. It never does in the end.”
She was talking in riddles like Sigyn had, but since I didn’t know who or what might be waiting outside this room, I went over, grabbed the scabbard, and hooked it to my black leather belt. Then I practiced pulling the sword out of the scabbard, getting a feel for the weapon like I had in the library earlier.
Babs’s hilt fit perfectly in my fingers, like she had been made just for me. Her nose hooked over my hand, forming a sort of wrist guard, with her eye clearly visible above. Sure, it was a little odd, feeling Babs’s lips against my palm, but I quickly grew used to it. Once I was sure that I could pull out the sword and use it with ease, I slid Babs back into her scabbard, opened the door, and left the infirmary.
I stepped into a stone hallway. No windows were set into the walls, and the cool, still air gave me the impression that I was deep underground. Instead of regular lights, the ceiling featured smooth stones that cast out a warm, golden glow. Each stone was shaped like a different mythological creature, from Nemean prowlers to Fenrir wolves to Eir gryphons. Not only that, but each stone seemed to burn a little brighter as I passed below it, almost as if the creatures were following me down the hallway. I shivered, dropped my hand to Babs’s hilt, and walked on.
A few twists and turns later, the hallway opened up into an enormous square room with more corridors branching off it. A long rectangular table squatted in the center of the area, with all the seats turned to face several monitors hanging on one of the walls. Several desks were spread throughout the room, each one seeming to have a different purpose and personality.
One desk boasted a high-end laptop, two keyboards, and three monitors. Several small foam footballs, soccer balls, and tennis balls emblazoned with various sports team logos and autographs were nestled among the computer equipment.
Tools, wires, daggers, arrows, and odd pieces of metal covered a second desk, along with a blowtorch and several pairs of goggles and gloves. Scissors, fabric swatches, rolls of ribbons, and small boxes full of sparkly plastic jewels also sat on the desk, as though whoever worked there made either really cool weapons or really cool clothes, or both, depending on their mood.
A battle ax was laid out on a third desk, surrounded by daggers, short swords, and other weapons. Several history books about ancient battles, warriors, creatures, and artifacts were neatly stacked in one corner, with colored sticky notes marking certain sections for easy reference.
A fourth and final desk was completely empty.
My gaze moved to the back half of the room, which featured several rows of floor-to-ceiling shelves. Books crowded together on many of the shelves, old, thick, worn-out tomes that looked like they hadn’t been cracked open in years, given the dust coating them. Several shelves also housed armor and weapons, everything from gold gauntlets to bows boasting silver strings to bronze-tipped spears that were taller than I was. Other objects were on the shelves as well, including jeweled necklaces, crystal figurines, and small stone statues.
All put together, the room was an odd mix of modern high-tech gear and ancient artifacts.
As much as I would have liked to wander around and look at all the computers, tools, and weapons, I still had no idea where I was or who had brought me here, and I wanted to leave before they came back. So I stepped deeper into the room and peered down the various hallways, searching for a way out—
A loud bang sounded in the distance, as though someone had thrown open a door and it had slammed into a wall. The sharp noise was quickly followed by an even louder voice.
“Absolutely not,” the voice said, drawing closer and closer. “I don’t want her on the team.”
Since I didn’t know who or what was coming my way, I ducked into the shadows behind the closest shelf and peered around a couple of silver jewelry boxes.
Footsteps scuffed against the floor, and Ian stormed into the room, followed by a man who was much calmer and walking far more slowly: Coach Takeda.
My eyes narrowed. What was he doing here? What was going on?
What was this place?
Two other kids who looked about my age—seventeen or so—entered the room behind Ian and Takeda. One of them was a petite girl with beautiful mocha skin, hazel eyes, and wavy black hair that brushed the tops of her shoulders. She wore a bright blue crop top, black leggings, and black ankle boots with chunky heels. A blue-plaid designer bag that was big enough to double as a suitcase dangled from her left arm.
The girl went over to the desk covered with tools. She nudged a couple of hammers aside to make room for her enormous purse, then plopped down in the chair. She rooted around inside her purse for several seconds before pulling out a large notebook and an ink pen, which she set off to one side on the desk. Then she picked up a piece of wire and started bending it with her bare hands. Pale blue sparks of magic shot out of her fingertips and flickered in the air all around her. So she was a Valkyrie.
The other kid—a guy—sat down at the computer desk and flipped on all three of the monitors. He was a couple of inches under six feet tall, with a runner’s thin build and lean muscles. His dark brown hair was cut short, and the light from the monitors made his dark brown eyes and bronze skin gleam. He wore black jeans, along with a gray T-shirt that read Bigtime Barracudas, a popular football team in Bigtime, New York.
He hit the power button on the laptop, then leaned back in his chair and propped his black running shoes up on the desk. While he waited for the laptop to boot up, the guy pulled out a candy bar from one of the desk drawers, ripped off the wrapper, and sank his teeth into the chocolate. He grunted with happiness. A guy after my own sugar-addict heart.
He gulped down the candy bar, then dropped his feet and scooted his chair closer to the desk. With one hand, he typed on the laptop. With the other, he typed on another keyboard, his gaze sweeping back and forth between the laptop and the other three monitors the whole time. So he was a Roman. They were the only guys who could multitask that quickly.
Takeda moved over to the long table in the middle of the room. He crossed his arms over his chest, but his face remained as calm and blank as it was in gym class. Ian stalked the length of the room, from the guy with the laptop, across the wide open space in front of the wall monitors, over to where the girl with the tools was sitting on the opposite side of the room, and back again.
“No,” Ian repeated. “I don’t want her on the team.”
“You saw what she did to those chimeras,” Takeda said. “She killed both of them all by herself. Not many Spartans could do that. Not many warriors could do that, period.”
I blinked. I supposed I shouldn’t be surprised that they were talking about me, given how strange this entire day had been. Chimeras in the library, meeting with Sigyn, and now this…whatever this was. What sort of team were they talking about? And why did Takeda want me to join it? Somehow I didn’t think it had anything to do with sports.
“So she’s a good fighter. So what?” Ian said. “You’ve read her file. You know about her parents. You know they were Reapers. And not regular Reapers but Reaper assassins. Rebecca and Tyson Forseti were responsible for the deaths of dozens of people, including several members of the Protectorate.”
My heart clenched, and my stomach twisted with guilt, shame, and embarrassment. Every word he said was like a dagger stabbing into my gut—because they were all true. The sick feeling in my stomach intensified, and for a moment, I thought I was going to vomit. But I swallowed down the hot, sour bile rising in my throat and focused on that cold frost coating my heart, letting the chill numb my turbulent emotions.
“All of that is true,” Takeda said. “But perhaps you shouldn’t be so quick to judge Miss Forseti, espe
cially not based on the sins of her Reaper parents.”
His soft, chiding words made Ian jerk to a stop, and something very similar to my own guilt, shame, and embarrassment flashed in the Viking’s gray eyes. But he shook off the emotions and started pacing again.
“Forget about Rory Forseti for a second,” Ian said. “Amanda Ersa was only on the team for two days. She didn’t even have time to unpack any of her stuff.”
He looked over at the empty desk against the wall. So did the guy with the laptop and the girl with the tools. Sadness filled all three of their faces.
“We might not have known Amanda all that well, but she was still one of us,” Ian said. “She hasn’t been dead three hours yet, and you’re already talking about replacing her with someone else.”
“I feel Amanda’s loss just as deeply as you all do,” Takeda said. “More so, because she was my responsibility.”
His voice was as soft and calm as before, but I could hear the regret rippling through his words. Like all warriors, Takeda had seen his share of death, but that didn’t make it any easier to deal with, especially not when the victim was a teenage girl.
The Roman guy sighed, quit typing, and pushed his laptop away. He asked the inevitable question. “But?”
Takeda squared his shoulders. “But the mission comes first, before any of us. You know that. You all know that, along with the risks. This is what you signed up for, Mateo. You too, Zoe.”
Zoe snorted. “Speak for yourself.”
Takeda stared at her, his face still that calm, emotionless mask. Zoe scowled and crossed her arms over her chest, causing more blue sparks of magic to shimmer in the air around her.
“Well, I agree with Ian,” Mateo said. “Amanda might not have been here long, but she was still our friend.”
“She was your friend,” Zoe muttered. “She didn’t like me.”
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