The Petros Chronicles Boxset

by Diana Tyler

  To my husband this book is affectionately dedicated. Thank you for loving me and encouraging my writing every single day.

  CHAPTER ONE

  HERMES

  For the first time in thousands of years, Hermes felt tired. He’d been tracking the mortals’ scent all night, his winged sandals fluttering through the trees, his golden wand lighting the way. He knew it was only a matter of time until the Asher’s invisibility wore off, and then they’d all be as good as dead.

  The Moonbow had been waning for the last half hour as warm streaks of sunrise sprayed its arches with the rosy foam of dawn. It had been watching him since he emerged from Lake Thyra with his treacherous heart set against his brothers, the hell-bound lords of the Underworld, who would doubtless condemn him to a century of torture once they learned of his present errand.

  But the Moonbow had bewitched the wandering messenger. Hermes could feel no fear nor contemplate remorse as long as its peaceful bands hovered over him. What he was doing was undeniably out of spite for his brothers, yet for some reason he couldn’t help but feel that the Moonbow was smiling on him, nudging him onward even as his immortal limbs grew weak and heavy in the air.

  Hermes’ mind drifted as he stared through a net of leaves into the fading Moonbow that filled it. His thoughts traveled back to the last time he could recall ever feeling so weary. It had been immediately after the War against the All-Powerful, the night he and his brothers, the bold triumvirate, were expelled from heaven along with countless other rebels, all of whom had been hypnotized by Apollo’s promise of unending power and a paradise of their own to rule as they pleased.

  Hermes had been in on the lie from the start. Together with Poseidon, Apollo, Zeus, Hades, and the Titans, he had been plotting the coup for what seemed like eons within the timeless stretch of eternity. It was called “the War,” but no swords were wielded nor chariots mounted until the dreaded end, which each black-hearted devil knew full well was coming.

  Before word of their treason reached the All-Powerful, the weapons had been innocuous words, whispers of rumors that infected heaven’s streets like an insidious plague. The symptoms were mild at first, hardly noticeable. A few complaints, a few disputes, a furious brawl here and there when the devout grew defensive and could stand the heresies no longer.

  In the beginning, the revolt comprised only a few small circles of murmuring adherents. But, little by little, even the most pious ears were tickled and the strongest minds corrupted. To Hermes’ surprise, there were soon enough of them to form an entire army that could rise up, dethrone the All-Powerful, and make greedy gods of themselves. It was then that the faithful took up arms against the rebel forces and drove them outside the city walls, as ruthlessly and swift as when a ferocious squall besets a sailboat.

  Spirits, every one of them, the rebels awoke in one piece, their wishes granted. Around them now was a kingdom all their own, far from the stifling sovereignty under which they’d served and worshiped for untold ages.

  The world was a newly created planet called Petros, meaning stone, named for the rocky terrain and jagged mountains that defined it. The atmosphere was so dense that many rebels swore that the fingers of death, which did not yet exist, were wrapping around their throats. For millennia, they’d been accustomed to the pure, rarefied air of heaven; now their lungs labored and burned with every breath.

  The anemic color of the clouds hanging low over the sickly green hills was a sore to the rebels’ eyes. They kicked the weeds and cursed the thorns as they hiked to the highest peak on which the three would erect their thrones and rest their flimsy shelters, all pigsties compared to their former abodes.

  Hermes, one of the few with the gift of flight, had fallen from the sky halfway to the top of the summit and awoken half a day later, hoping it had all been a terrible dream, a hallucinatory warning from his subconscious. His conniving mind stopped scheming, slowing to assess the bruises and aches racking his body, this frightening pain he had never before experienced. His ichor blood felt frozen as regret gripped his muscles and sorrow seeped into his bones.

  He wanted to cry out to Duna, to confess that he’d made a grave mistake and that he’d do anything to escape this loathsome world and reenter heaven’s gates. But the darkness within him would tolerate no remorse, nor would his brothers let him lie idle for long, pitying his wounds and rethinking his choice. Give it some time, they’d said, for we have it here. And in time we shall all be kings.

  They had been right. In time, the fatigue had worn off, the bruises had healed, and repentance had become as vulgar a notion as revolution had once been. Petros had become home, and Hermes had made himself one of its sovereigns.

  For thousands of years, he had been an indispensable part of the oligarchy, and then of the counterfeit trinity after Apollo had imprisoned the Titans and his siblings within the bowels of Tartarus, and adopted Hermes and Hades as brothers. It was then that Hermes, true son of Zeus, began to prove himself more clever and cunning than his two “brothers” combined. It had been his duty, his greatest pleasure, to bend mortals to his will, to convince even himself that his gods-breathed, grandiose lies were true.

  And then the Vessel had risen; just as the oracles had prophesied two thousand years before their birth. The whole Underworld knew the Vessel would be an Asher, one of the gifted mortals who received supernatural abilities when they reached eighteen. And because the All-Powerful had ordained long ago that there could only be one Asher per family, Hermes was sure the girl called Chloe was the one. He didn’t consider that her twin brother could be a threat as well.

  That oversight was Hermes’ undoing.

  Apollo and Hades blamed him for the Ashers’ escape. He was their eyes and ears, they’d said, but he might as well have been blind and deaf, and unforgivably brainless. He wasn’t needed anymore. They had their blessed Fantásmata, their brainwashed, power-crazed disciples with whom they communicated through drug-induced channeling and cataleptic trances.

  Hermes was nothing but an underling now, an impotent peon like the other rebels who stood guard around Hades’ gates, as if they could ever fend off the All-Powerful for even a second were he to descend to their sulfuric depths. If he chose to, he could thresh them like wheat and grind them to grain with a single breath. The question of why he didn’t had settled over Hermes’ mind like a fog, filling the void where his ruses and plans once dominated. He would rather be annihilated than continue living with countless gallons of mortal blood staining his conscience.

  Perhaps this was his punishment, one much worse than being bound in Tartarus or cast into the Vale of Mourning.

  Just hours ago, he’d been certain that the greatest torture was to possess a hubris matched only by two other spirits in the universe, and have no purpose or outlet with which to gratify it. But something in the air this night, perhaps the Moonbow itself, had convinced him otherwise. The greatest torture was not to be deprived of satisfying his pride, but to recognize its repulsiveness, to feel the unbearable weight of blood caked on his hands, to carry guilt like a yoke upon his shoulders, and to remember a peaceful existence before any of it.

  Hermes’ heart quivered, one side fighting to beat fast with swelling offense and anger, the other side resisting, for it knew that blaming his brothers for his dismal fate was futile. Evil had been stagnant within him all along, and they’d known how to draw it out, capturing it like sap from a tree. But he wasn’t dumb; the All-Powerful had created him to be one of the shrewdest of all. While others might have been manipulated and deceived, Hermes was fully aware of the choice he was making. There was no one to blame but himself.

  Unable to fly any longer, Hermes grabbed onto the nearest tree branch and sat down. He leaned his head against the trunk and breathed in the Petrodian air. It had once tasted so vile, but it was now nectar compared to the choking swelter of hell.

  The amber glow surrounding the Moonbow dissolved into the clear blue canvas of sky. He pointed his wand at it, commanding i
t to stay, but of course it was impervious to his magic. It came and went as it wished, offering solace, delivering warnings, chasing down destinies, answering only to the All-Powerful.

  Who would Hermes answer to now? He’d betrayed the All-Powerful. He’d been ostracized by his brothers. But he had not antagonized the Moonbow, the silent messenger that overlooked the deeds of mortals and spirits both. Perhaps by helping the Ashers it loved, he could win its favor. He could do something noble, that might reach the All-Powerful’s ear and lighten the load of guilt bearing down on him.

  Hermes jumped as his reverie was shattered like glass by the sound of a man’s voice a stone’s throw away.

  “Damian, look,” the man shouted.

  Hermes looked down through the density of looming Folóï oaks, but saw nothing but a red fox scampering past. And then he saw it, a faint glimmer spanning four feet of air on which transparent waves rippled and shook as if pebbles were skipping across it.

  “It’s fading again,” came the same disembodied voice, much quieter this time.

  Slowly, the see-through apparition became obscured as flesh tones and flashes of clothing suffused it. Hermes could make out four human forms, all still hazy as they regained their corporeality. Only one was familiar to him, the one named Ethan, whose voice he had heard.

  Ethan and an older man and woman had their hands planted firmly on the fourth person’s shoulders and wrists, clinging to him like children to their mother. Reluctantly, as they regarded the sunshine and shadows on their skin, and crunched the leaves beneath their feet, they removed their hands and stepped away.

  So this was Damian, the Asher who had escaped Hermes’ notice. The one responsible for his demise.

  “No one to blame but yourself, old man,” Hermes muttered to himself. Then he rose from the branch and flew down to the ground, smiling softly at the thought of both vengeance and redemption being irresistibly within reach.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ATTACK

  I see them! Up there!”

  Hermes’ keen ears rang as his head whipped around. The guards were closer than he’d anticipated; clearly they too had simply been biding their time until the Asher’s doma ran dry.

  Hermes floated toward the four fugitives and held out his palms to show them he meant no harm. Then he opened the satchel on his hip and plucked from it four tiny pomegranate seeds, souvenirs from Circe’s isle that he’d been saving for a special sort of mischief. He couldn’t help but grin as he cupped them in his hand.

  “You’ll have to trust me,” Hermes said.

  “Who are you?” The woman’s hands trembled as they clutched the man beside her. Her husband, Hermes assumed.

  “It’s Hermes,” said Ethan, smirking at Hermes’ dog-skin cap and winged sandals. Hermes’ cheeks flushed with pride, and he gave a modest bow. “You’re the most notorious con artist in history. Why should we trust you?”

  Hermes didn’t have time to retort. He could hear the guards’ footsteps growing louder. The guards would see them at any moment, and Hermes couldn’t make anyone but himself invisible. But the seeds…

  “The councilman’s guards are closing in on you.” Hermes tapped the top of his ear. “I can hear far better than the bloodhounds they have with them.”

  “You haven’t answered Ethan’s question.” Damian threw back his shoulders and stepped forward. “Why should we trust you?” He cracked his knuckles and set his jaw.

  Hermes smiled. The Asher had no idea whom he was dealing with. “It’s because of you that I’m here, Damian. Why I’m as wanted a man as you are.”

  “What are you talking about?” Damian asked. “Wanted by who?”

  “I’ll explain later,” Hermes said. “That is, if you’re not all executed first.”

  “What’s that in your hand?” Moris asked as he peered through his smudged glasses.

  Hermes took a seed and gave it to the older man. “It’s your salvation. Eat and see.”

  Ethan dropped his black carbon helmet and reached out to grip his father’s arm. “Don’t do it, Dad.”

  “I swear to you the effects will be temporary,” Hermes said. “On Petros, this magic is forbidden to last longer than a few hours. Like your doma”—he inclined his head toward Damian—“everything has its limits.”

  Ethan’s father pulled away from his son and brought the seed to his lips. “There’s only one way to find out if he’s telling the truth.”

  “Moris…” Lydia whispered, her face awash with terror as she watched her husband swallow the seed and begin to shake. “Moris!”

  “Just be patient,” Hermes cooed. His eyes widened with glee as he watched the metamorphosis commence. It always started with this kind of unbecoming spasm: the limbs twitching, the head jerking, the eyes rolling. And then…

  “My gods, what’s happening?” The woman covered her mouth and dropped to her knees.

  Moris was shrinking, and tawny hair was sprouting from head to toe as his clothing disappeared.

  Ethan lunged forward and seized Hermes by the throat. “You picked the wrong day to mess with my family.”

  “Ethan, look,” said Damian.

  Ethan tightened his grip as he turned his head. Behind him stood a tan, sturdy-looking ibex staring at them with large yellow eyes.

  “Disguise,” said Hermes, as he broke free with ease from Ethan’s grasp. It took every ounce of self-control to keep him from breaking the boy’s knees with a single blow of his wand. “It’s the only option you have as long as his doma isn’t working.” He clenched his jaw as the guards’ footsteps pounded like a drumbeat in his ears. “Choose quickly.”

  Lydia rushed forward and stole a seed from Hermes’ hand. Ethan started to object, but she hushed him and gulped it down. A few seconds later, she was a plump, perfect little squirrel.

  Ethan raked a hand through his hair as he yelled, then sighed, at the plight of his parents.

  Hermes suppressed a laugh. If this mortal were so overwhelmed by the child’s play of Circe’s enchantment, how would he react if he ever glimpsed the horrors of hell itself? It would likely be too much for his delicate heart to take.

  “Come on, Ethan,” Damian said, as he paced between the two creatures. Both were sitting still as statues, their pricked ears attuned to the enclosing enemy. “What do we have to lose?”

  “What if he’s wrong?” Ethan’s voice cracked with fear. “I’d rather be dead than live as an animal.” He glanced at his parents and blinked back the tears welling in his eyes.

  A foreign feeling tugged at Hermes’ heart; he knew it vaguely as empathy. He locked eyes with Ethan and spoke with more earnestness than he ever had before. “You have no reason to believe that I’m telling the truth. But I assure you, I am.”

  Ethan gave a curt nod and held out his palm. Hermes dropped the two remaining seeds into it and then floated up into the autumn-colored canopy of trees; rather than the feeling of power propelling him, he felt the weight of guilt falling off his soul like shackles.

  “On three?” Damian took a seed from Ethan.

  “If we’re stuck like rodents or goats or whatever else for more than a day,” Ethan said, “I’m going to hunt you down and kill you for talking me into this.” He patted Damian’s shoulder and held the seed over his tongue. “On three.”

  “One,” began Damian, “two, three…” And down went the mystical seed from an infamous imp he’d grown up believing was nothing more than a fairytale character. This was insanity.

  Damian’s heart pounded as his knees buckled and every muscle in his body went rigid. He trembled uncontrollably as what felt like hot electricity surged through his veins, shocking every inch of him from the inside out. His stomach twisted with nausea as the world around him spun in circles. Struggling to focus his vision, he saw Ethan watching him, the seed still in Ethan’s hand, his face painted white with fear. So much for “on three.”

  Unlike Moris and Lydia, Damian wasn’t shrinking; instead, he was growing taller, wider
and heavier, from head to toe. He closed his eyes; he didn’t want to see what he was becoming.

  “What in the…” he heard Ethan say. “You’re a bear?” He sounded incredulous, and not a little peeved.

  Have fun hunting me down. Damian laughed silently. At least his mind was still his own. He opened his eyes to see six armed guards rushing toward Ethan. Damian pitched his weight forward and fell onto all fours.

  “There!” one of the guards yelled and pointed at Ethan. “Freeze, Mr. Ross. Put your hands behind your head.”

  Damian didn’t have time to weigh his options. He opened his jaws as wide as he could and let out a deafening roar. The forest went quiet. The guards stopped dead in their tracks. All eyes were on him, waiting for his next move.

  Unsure what signs of aggression were normal for bears, Damian did what came naturally. He dug his claws into the earth and pawed at it, then flattened his ears as another roar bellowed from his belly. He shot a glance at the guards, whose guns were trained on him. With a snort, he pivoted on his back feet, swinging his body around toward Ethan.

  “Looks like the bear will take care of him for us,” one of the guards said.

  This might actually work, Damian thought. He lowered his head, nose to the ground, and charged Ethan, knocking him down with his powerful paws before Ethan knew what had hit him. Careful to use his gums instead of his teeth, Damian clamped his mouth around Ethan’s shoulder and shook him violently until he fell limp. He’d gotten the message.

  Damian lifted his head toward the guards and roared until his lungs felt ready to explode.

  “Let’s get out of here,” the guard whispered. “Let it enjoy its dinner. We’ll come back at nightfall.”

  The guards holstered their weapons and slowly backed away. Damian could hear their breaths released like air from a burst balloon.