The Petros Chronicles Boxset

by Diana Tyler

  He cursed and tore his gaze from the Moonbow. He’d been warned enough. He didn’t need the Moonbow and its so-called “Way.” Whatever the Way was, he needed more than a pretty poem and a centaur to convince him it was worth risking his life for.

  Leaves crunched behind him, followed by the sound of pattering footsteps on the sidewalk. He turned to see the man from the house jogging toward him, a hard scowl compressing his square, thick-skinned face.

  “I’m leaving!” called Damian through the whipping wind.

  “There’s been a change of plans, Mr. Zacharias,” the man growled. He reached under his overcoat, crossing a hand to his holster. “I don’t expect to outrun the track star…”

  Damian’s blood ran hot as he glimpsed the black grip of either a gun or a Taser. Faster than he could think, an electrifying tingle raced up and down his body. His shoes and hands disappeared, and he took off running, soundlessly and safe, straight past the would-be assailant and into the Rosses’ house.

  He barreled through the brick wall and skidded through the kitchen, finally stopping when he stumbled into the dog dish, spilling kibble onto the floor. He heard jingling, then a yippy bark as an overweight dachshund rounded the corner. It stared directly at him as it bristled and bared its teeth.

  “You can see me?” said Damian. He held out an invisible palm for the dog to sniff, but the animal growled and bit two fingers, though not hard enough to draw any blood. “Son of a…” Damian shook the pain from his hand. “I guess that was your warning, huh?”

  The dachshund’s hackles lowered as it sniffed around Damian’s shoes and licked his shoelaces.

  The front door swung open. The man swore and slammed it behind him, causing the dining room chandelier to shake. Not feeling so confident in his invisibility now, Damian ducked behind the island and scooted around to the edge farthest from the living room. The dog lapped up its water, then waddled back to the dark room it had come from.

  Damian started to crawl for the wall, but stopped himself. Why was he back in this house anyway? What had his subconscious been thinking? Everything had happened so fast outside when he saw the man reach for his weapon, from his doma manifesting again to deciding in a split second in which direction to run.

  “It worked like a charm,” said the man, presumably into a phone. Damian heard him kick back into a recliner. “I scared him, and the doma took over.”

  Seeing a mirror opposite the dining room table, Damian stood in front of it. He was still invisible, but for how long? Only until his fear wore off?

  “Invisibility,” the man said, drawing out the word as though he were particularly impressed. “Can you believe that? Never seen anything like it. Makes you wonder what the girl can do.”

  Damian tiptoed across the entryway into the study where a briefcase sat open atop the executive desk. He carefully flipped through its contents, but it was too dark to see anything clearly. He toyed with a nearby lamp switch, but turning it on would be too risky. He’d have to take the briefcase with him.

  “Oh.” The man’s recliner snapped closed. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t think about that.” Even from yards away, Damian could hear an angry voice yelling on the other end of the line. “I’ll see to it, sir.”

  The man kicked something, and then his footsteps approached the study. Damian shut the briefcase as quietly as he could just as the man turned the corner and saw it disappear.

  “Damian!” the man yelled. He charged the desk, his arms outstretched as he jumped and turned like a bull that had been bitten by a horsefly.

  “Don’t worry,” Damian said from the fireplace. “I’m not squatting. I’m stealing.” Then he walked into the mantle, through the chimney, and stepped out of the house with not a clue what to do next.

  “Ethan? Ethan, please…please wake up, honey.”

  Ethan groaned as he opened his eyes, a massive headache pulsing behind them. The bright fluorescent lights over his head were nearly blinding. He was thirsty and nauseated. What he wouldn’t give for some fresh air…

  He tried to push himself up from the bed he was lying on, but he couldn’t move—and not because he was paralyzed. He was strapped in. He kicked with his feet, but to no avail. They, too, were confined to the bed by what might as well have been concrete slabs crossing his body.

  “Ethan, can you hear me?”

  He sucked in air through his teeth, making a hissing sound as his mother’s voice reverberated like a brass gong in his ears. He could hear her, all right. He turned his head toward her, blinking away the black globs and flashing lights that smeared his vision. The only thing he could think of to account for how awful he felt was whatever incense had been burning in the gallery. He couldn’t remember ever leaving that place, or what he’d said to the councilman after learning he was being “rewarded” with a premature Coronation.

  His eyesight finally returning, he saw that he was sitting up on a gurney, and that a network of neon yellow belts secured his chest, arms, knees, wrists, and ankles. He looked at his mom, words catching in his throat as he saw that she was in a gurney beside him, wearing an olive-green hospital gown and the saddest expression he’d ever seen.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked her.

  Black mascara trailed to her cheekbones. White lines streaking her makeup gave further proof that she’d been crying. She didn’t appear to be in any physical pain, like he was, but her eyes were filled with a heart-rending fear that he could hardly look upon.

  Lydia shook her head and smiled weakly. “You’ve been asleep for hours. I was worried about you.”

  Ethan looked around the room. It was white and windowless, empty except for the two gurneys, a large mirror on the wall, and a clock above the sliding glass door, ticking away the seconds. “Where are we?”

  His mother dropped her gaze to the harsh glare of the epoxy floor. “The third floor of the Religious Council building.” Her mouth quivered. “Where your father works.”

  “Dad works here?”

  Ethan knew his father worked for the council, but he hadn’t imagined his workplace looked like this. He’d assumed that his dad worked with classified ancient texts and religious relics, or with festival planning, or the treasury. Not with ordinary citizens constrained on stretchers.

  A sequence of beeps blared from the glass door. Silently, the door glided open and a tall, aluminum platform rolled into the room. A familiar pair of brown Oxford shoes followed it.

  “Dad?”

  Mr. Ross slowly lifted his head from behind the platform. “Son.” His red face was struggling to keep his emotions in check. He slipped off his glasses and put them in the breast pocket of his lab coat. “I’m so sorry,” he said, losing his grip on the platform. It rolled away from him, and a tray of syringes clattered onto the floor.

  “Moris, don’t say that,” said Lydia, her broken voice barely above a whisper. “This isn’t your fault.” She fidgeted with the edges of the restraint belt at her knees. “They shouldn’t make you do this. You knew nothing about the artifacts.”

  “Do what?” Ethan looked back and forth between their faces, but neither one wanted to answer.

  “They’re punishing me because I told you about this.” Moris’s shoulders drooped, his shame-filled eyes glazing over as he stared at the opposite wall. “They found your journals, Lydia. They read everything.”

  He went to her side and did his best to hold her without crying. When he locked eyes with Ethan, the tears poured out.

  “Dad, what are you talking about? The chief councilman said we’re having our Coronation.”

  But no matter how hard Ethan’s coping mechanism tried to persuade him that Coronations were benign, honorary, even fantastic affairs, he wasn’t fooling himself. It didn’t take a genius to realize that the chief councilman had no intention of sending him and his mother off to their respective Elysiums. What he hadn’t been so sure of was whether Coronations were this way for every Petrodian when they reached seventy-five, or if the irony was uni
que to these circumstances.

  But now his father’s face was telling all.

  “A Coronation is a…” Ethan’s heart leapt as he glanced down at the syringes and the stainless-steel needles sticking out of them. “You’re going to kill us?” He hadn’t meant to sound so accusatory. Of course his father was innocent. None had a say in their vocation. They were urged to “obey and comply,” or bear the consequences.

  His father sat up straighter and sniffed back his tears, trying to collect himself. “They tell us it’s only the body that dies. That our souls go to paradise, or whatever place the serum determines we’re to dwell in and rule as sovereigns.”

  “You believe that?” Ethan asked. Surely his father wouldn’t lie to him now.

  As if feeling the eyes of his overlords behind him, Moris tightened his jaw and subtly turned his head—a discreet headshake.

  “You can’t do this!” Ethan shouted. Then he looked into the mirror, certain someone was looking back at him from the other side, and said, “Don’t make him do this.” He wasn’t saying it for his sake, but his father’s. What man could live with himself after dealing death to his own wife and only child?

  “Ethan…” Lydia’s voice was soft as she laid her head on Moris’s shoulder and interlaced her fingers with his. “Let’s enjoy these moments. Please.” She looked up at Ethan, her eyes imploring him not to…not to what? Not to try to protect his father from murdering his family against his will?

  If he only had minutes to live, Ethan wasn’t about to waste one of them playing by the Fantásmata’s rules. There had to be something he could do.

  “They’re being merciful, son.” Moris almost sounded sincere. “Believe me when I say your death at Enochos would be much, much worse.”

  That, on the other hand, was unquestionably sincere.

  Ethan took a deep breath and closed his eyes. The first thing he pictured was Chloe’s face. Desperation gripped him, singeing his skin from the inside out. She didn’t deserve to be in Hades any more than his father deserved this diabolical form of punishment.

  “You will commence the Coronation now, Mr. Ross.”

  The voice came from a round, gray in-ceiling speaker in the corner.

  “You should be the one doing this, you coward!” Ethan yelled at the councilman. “Not my dad.”

  Moris kissed his wife’s hair. She grabbed his neck, pulled him to her and kissed his mouth. “I love you so much,” she said, loud enough for the councilman to hear. “I always will.”

  “I love you, too,” Moris said, then turned and glared at the mirror.

  “Come now, Mr. Ross. Inject the serum so that their final destinations may be determined.”

  Moris’s hand shook as he bent down and retrieved the tray. He wheeled the platform over to Ethan’s bed and removed a pair of latex gloves from the top drawer.

  “No, Moris, let me go first,” Lydia said.

  Ethan felt his heart constrict as all the blood in his body rushed down to his feet. His breaths became labored and shallow. His tongue and fingers were numb. Shock dizzied his mind and made the room spin in circles. It was as if he was succumbing to death already, a death beginning in the seat of his soul, where acute, inextricable emotions now boiled and churned. He was living the darkest nightmare, one he never could have thought up on his own, not in a million years.

  Forcing his tongue to loosen and his lips to part, he focused long enough to tell his dad he loved him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  TRAVELLER

  Ethan laid his head back and closed his eyes. Though he was stationary, he felt like he was hurdling through space, seconds away from being sucked into a black hole. He was sweating and shivering at the same time. He heard his father pull on the gloves.

  Duna, if you can hear me, please do something.

  Katsaros had told Ethan he was one of Duna’s messengers. And so far everything he’d said had been true, corroborated by his mother’s own research. If Katsaros had been right about the portal in Lake Thyra, right about Iris, the domas, and the Moonbow, why wouldn’t he also be right about the god above it all?

  Katsaros had also said that part of his mission was to restore faith to Petros, beginning with Ethan. But what could faith possibly do for a man on his deathbed? Regardless of his doubts, Ethan prayed as terrible silence roared through the room.

  “Shhhh,” a voice whispered in Ethan’s ear. His eyes flashed open as he jerked his chin toward the sound. “Shhhh,” it repeated. “It’s me. It’s Damian.”

  Ethan could feel the pulse in his neck thudding against the pillow. With no time to process whether what he heard was a hallucination or wishful thinking, he gave a slight nod and with a long exhale, mouthed the word, Hurry.

  “I’m gonna get you out of this thing,” said Damian. “Stay here until you can’t see your parents.”

  Ethan fought to keep his face from moving.

  “I’ll hold their hands, and then I’m going to touch you. You can’t let go of me. Blink twice if you understand.”

  Ethan did.

  “Grab my shoulder. Then we’ll take the escape route out.”

  “The door,” whispered Ethan. “It’s locked.”

  “I can go through it.”

  Even though Damian was invisible, Ethan could still imagine the proud smirk on his face.

  Ethan glanced over at his father, who held his mother’s elbow with shaking hands, the needle poised and ready to inject.

  “Now,” Ethan urged Damian.

  But he hadn’t had to give the command; he felt the straps immediately slackening. He froze, resisting the impulse to jump off the gurney now and rip the syringe from his father’s hand. He held his breath and tensed his muscles. Stay calm. Just stay calm.

  In his peripheral vision, he saw his father take a step back. He knew he was listening to Damian.

  “Proceed, Mr. Ross,” came the chief councilman’s voice.

  Let this work, Ethan prayed, his fingers twitching. Then he watched in awe as his parents disappeared and his mother’s restraints snapped apart, one by one.

  “Secure the cell!” the councilman barked.

  Ethan sprang from the gurney and pushed it into the doorway as two humongous guards with guns waited impatiently for the door to open. Then he stood still as his father faded into view for a moment; long enough for Damian to reach out, touch Ethan’s hand, and guide it to Damian’s shoulder. Ethan grabbed hold with both hands and tried not to flinch as Damian led them straight through the steel walls.

  “Don’t look back, just run,” Damian said, as they sped down the hall, heading toward the exit sign.

  “They’ll know we’re going that way,” said Ethan.

  “He’s right,” his mother said, panting. “We need to take another way out.”

  “You know another way?” Damian slowed and turned to each of them. “It helps that I can see you. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to. Still figuring this out.”

  Ethan tightened his grip on Damian’s back. “Thank you for coming.”

  Damian turned his profile to him. “We’re not out of the woods yet.”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  Damian gave a curt nod. “You’re welcome.”

  Adrenaline surged through Ethan’s veins. His mind raced a million miles per hour as every neuron activated and fired, desperate to devise a way out. After what seemed like an eternity had passed, he had formulated a crude plan. There were no guarantees it would work, but it was their best shot.

  The councilman had likely already filled the stairwell with police, one touch from whom would make them visible and break them apart. But he’d have to keep his idea to himself.

  Ethan stuck his head inside a janitor’s storeroom, switched on the light with his free hand, and looked around.

  “Ethan!” Damian rasped, tugging him forward.

  Ethan resisted and stepped into the closet, pulling the other three with him.

  “We can’t hide in here,” Damian said.
“They’ll be here any second.”

  “Son, what are you doing?” his father said, as he accidentally stepped on Ethan’s toe.

  Ethan looked at his father’s flushed face; he looked like he’d just run a marathon.

  Ethan let go of Damian and grabbed a stepladder from a lower shelf. He stood on it and rifled through the assortment of bleach, trash-can liners, and microfiber cloths.

  “Looking for a rope,” he finally replied.

  “Down the hall, last room on the left,” Moris whispered. “Why?”

  “Come on,” Ethan said. He placed his parents’ hands in Damian’s and grabbed onto Damian’s arm, knocking over a mop as he turned off the light and pulled them back into the hall.

  The two guards were in the middle of the corridor, their thick arms jutting out to either side as they stalked in small circles, waiting. A door slammed inside the stairwell just a few feet away, followed by the echoing voices of the councilman’s goons. They were trapped.

  Ethan halted abruptly, and pointed over Damian’s shoulder toward a room on the left. The room seemed a hundred light years away, but what other choice was there?

  “Dad, switch places with me.”

  Without hesitation, Moris turned and placed his hand on the back of Damian’s neck. Ethan latched onto Damian’s forearm, lifted one hand from his shoulder, and ducked under the web of limbs as his arm slid its way to Damian’s hand. Then he stepped forward, positioning himself ahead of the others.

  “Follow me,” Ethan whispered.

  Damian pursed his lips as a muscle jerked in his jaw. But he kept his mouth shut. He didn’t have an alternative plan, so Ethan’s would have to do.

  Ethan led them within just a few feet of the guards. He stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of the cameras mounted on the right side of their helmets. He was almost positive they were thermal-imaging devices. A momentary panic flooded his system, but it was soon replaced with relative calm as logic kicked in: if they could be detected, they definitely would’ve been caught already.

  Ethan breathed out slowly as a prayer of protection went up from his heart. Ahead of him, the guards continued to spin and haphazardly wave their arms, the black holsters across their chests daring him to come closer.