The Petros Chronicles Boxset

by Diana Tyler

  “Chloe, which timeline do you remember?” said Nicholas, Chloe’s father. “The one where Ethan tossed the chip into the ocean, or the one where he gives it to the Cyclops?”

  Chloe set down her spoon and stared into her peppermint tea, breathing it in, letting it calm her. “Both of them. I can’t explain it, and I don’t know if my mind’s just playing tricks on me, but I remember both, like they happened on separate days.” She jumped at a knock on the door.

  “I’ll get it.” Damian returned moments later, accompanied by both Hermes and Ethan.

  Hermes flashed a mischievous smile at Chloe. “I knocked,” he said proudly.

  Chloe laughed. “I guess there really is a first for everything.” She took the wand from the placemat and handed it to him. “We didn’t use it.”

  The messenger’s smile faded as he returned the wand to its sheath. “I am aware.” He jumped and sat down on the bar, his purple tunic popping against the yellow backsplash tiles behind him. “It’s all so very complicated now.”

  Chloe watched him fold his hands in his lap and set his cap beside him. It was never a good sign when he did either of those things.

  “I know I’m new to all of this,” said Nicholas, “but it sounds to me like things have always been complicated.”

  “They have,” said Chloe. “But not very complicated.” It was a joke, but no one laughed.

  Ethan sat down next to her and took her hand. “Hermes told me what happened,” he said. “I thought I was going nuts, having déjà vu about Cyclopes and mermaids.”

  “Sea nymph,” said Chloe and Damian in unison.

  Hermes looked at each of them in turn, his expression neither angry nor disappointed, but definitely stern. “I gave you two my best counsel, and you chose to ignore it. I hope this is another lesson for you, Chloe.”

  Chloe slouched in her chair and nodded. “I’m sorry. But Damian should’ve used the wand.”

  “No one needed to get hurt,” said Damian. His mother placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.

  “It was the only way you could’ve prevented them from forcing the dýnami from you.” Hermes floated to the table and pointed to a cookie. “May I, Mrs. Zacharias?”

  “Please,” she said. “Help yourself. I thought immortals only ate ambrosia.”

  Hermes flicked his hand, as if to dismiss such a notion. “They live under an unfortunate delusion that ambrosia is the finest-tasting food in existence.” He waved a cookie into his hand and took a bite. All but his slow-moving jaw went slack as he savored it. “This,” he said, holding up the cookie, “is divine. Your culinary skill, Mrs. Zacharias, is a doma in its own right.”

  Damara smiled and rose from the table. “Let me get you some cold milk to wash it down with.”

  Hermes took another delicate bite, then turned to the others quickly, as if snapping out of a spell. “Forgive me. What was I talking about?”

  “Using the wand on the brute squad,” said Chloe.

  “With all due respect,” said Damian, “I don’t think it really matters anymore. What’s done is done. I screwed up.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Just like I always do.”

  “Damian.” Damara spoke his name both severely and soothingly in the way only mothers can. She handed Hermes a glass of milk. “That’s not true.”

  “Excuse me.” The floor screeched as Damian shoved back his chair and disappeared down the hall.

  Chloe got up to go after him, but Ethan put a hand on her arm. “Don’t,” he said. “Let him cool off.”

  Chloe rested her hands behind her head and sighed, looking up at Hermes. “Well, that went well.”

  Hermes took a sip of his milk before claiming Damian’s spot at the table. “Your brother is right. Ruing the past is never productive, but is in fact the opposite. Eione is still in possession of the dýnami.” He paused. “There’s no changing that now. She made clear her warning.”

  “Yup,” said Chloe. “If we set foot on that beach again, we’ll be giant food. I don’t mean we’ll be giant—I mean—”

  “Hermes,” said Nicholas, leaning over the table. “Has Duna indicated to you what the gods in Mount Aetna are planning?”

  “I haven’t asked him. I have no need to.” Hermes leaned back in the chair and gazed wistfully out the window. A bright red cardinal sat on the sill, the only splash of color against the gloomy palette of sky. “The Titans and Olympians were cut from the same cloth as Apollo. They will plan nothing less than global domination.”

  “Sounds like we need a plan B,” said Ethan, his optimistic tone almost laughable.

  “Is there a plan B that won’t get us all killed?” Chloe asked. Even she didn’t know whether her question was sincere or facetious. It didn’t seem possible that a few mortal Ashers could stand a chance against a pantheon of powerful immortals. But then again, she’d seen more than her fair share of miracles.

  She looked at Hermes. His attention was on his hands, which were folded on the quilted placemat before him. In a different outfit and without the wand, he would almost look like a normal Petrodian. But no matter how he dressed, she knew that no one could look at him without noticing the fire in his eyes, the ages-old knowledge stored behind them. He was an ancient soul in a youthful body, but his eyes gave away everything.

  “I wish I could guarantee a war without casualties.” Hermes’ voice sounded far away, as if he was speaking from some forsaken battlefield, perhaps the one at Mount Othrys where the Titanomachy had transpired.

  Damara cleared her throat and spoke up timidly. “What if…what if Chloe can convince Orpheus to help? Didn’t you say he complied in the past?”

  Chloe and Hermes exchanged glances. “Comply” was a generous word for it. The man had been teetering on the brink of madness when they’d found him alone in the cave—alone save for the presence of a hybrid monster that would have killed them all if not for Iris’s fire. Chloe was more willing to take her chances face to face with Zeus than jump through those hoops again.

  “It’s possible,” said Hermes. Bright flecks of orange glowed like embers in his eyes. “He could lull the Cyclopes to sleep, thereby preventing Eione from taking the dýnami.”

  Ethan was fidgeting, unable to sit still. “Orpheus is in heaven right now, right?” he said. “Why can’t he just come down now and take care of it himself?”

  “There are boundaries, Ethan,” Hermes said, punching every syllable. “Surely you know this by now. The dead do not mingle with the living. Besides,” he said, softening his tone, “their spiritual bodies are too pure to interact with the cursed elements of this planet.”

  “You seem to interact with the planet just fine,” said Chloe.

  Hermes lightly touched the collar of his tunic and pinched the skin of his arm. “This…this is no better a body than the tent of dust you wear. My time will come to be glorified, just as all of yours will.”

  “When?” Ethan asked.

  A smile played on Hermes’ lips. “At the end,” he said.

  “The end of what?”

  “Everything.”

  The air in the house seemed to dissipate at the word, every atom ceasing to vibrate. It was as if talk of the world’s end, or at least the world as people knew it, had never before been spoken. And why would it have been?

  Chloe considered Petros. The city was flourishing. It was governed by good people, filled with Ashers and non-Ashers alike who were all working and living together in four distinct colonies, everyone unified by faith in the All-Powerful. Sure, things weren’t perfect; there was still crime, as there had been in the other timeline, as well as the occasional sickness and premature death, but for the most part life was good, as heavenly as one could imagine.

  “An uncomfortable subject, is it?” Hermes said, not trying to conceal his wry amusement. No one responded—not with words, anyway. Sitting there, still as statues, was more than a sufficient response. Of course they were uncomfortable. Who wanted to contemplate an apocalypse?

&nb
sp; Nicholas stood up and smoothed his pants. “I’m going to check on Damian.”

  Damara’s worried eyes followed him out. She wrapped both hands around her empty mug. “Hermes,” she said tentatively, “are you insinuating that this potential overthrow could bring about the end of the world?”

  Hermes sat up straighter as the cardinal chased away a swallow. “My lady, I am many things, but one thing I am not is an oracle. I can no sooner tell you when the end will be than I can number the stars.”

  “The oracles do prophesy the end of the world,” said Ethan. “But there are probably hundreds of theories about the interpretation of those prophecies.”

  “I know one thing,” said Hermes, raising an emphatic finger. “I’ve been sent by the All-Powerful to inform you of this recent…development, shall we say? If it marks the beginning of the end, we can be certain Duna’s will is for you to try your best to stop it.”

  Chloe yawned, her mind straying from thoughts of global catastrophe to those of a feather pillow under her head, her stuffed rabbit next to her cheek, and delicious REM sleep.

  “I’ve already used my doma twice today,” she said. “I say we forget about all of this till tomorrow.”

  “And then what?” Ethan asked.

  “And then I find Orpheus.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  HECTOR

  The sun was barely over the trees when Hector Zacharias dragged himself onto the track. He felt self-conscious in his bright black-and-red sprinting shoes, a birthday gift from his parents. “The shoes won’t help,” he’d told them. He’d been on the track team practically since the day he’d learned to walk and had nothing but a drawer full of consolation ribbons to show for it.

  Every year, he’d begged his parents to let him quit. He was tired of early practices, of coming in last, of seeing the disappointed look in his coach’s eyes and the pitying one in his peers’. However, as an only child and the son of an Asher with superhuman speed, he’d always maintained the slightest smidgen of hope—the same hope his parents had—that he might one day be the fastest. And the years of discipline and training would only make his doma stronger, so much so that his fame would eclipse his father’s.

  “Nice kicks.”

  Hector heard Gino’s voice and then felt the other boy’s hand clap his shoulder a little too hard. “Thanks,” he said. “They were a birthday present.” He looked down at his shoes as he walked, fully aware of how ridiculous they looked, not because they were ugly—they were one of the best brands—but because of how ludicrous it was for them to be on his feet.

  “Happy birthday.” Gino’s smile was wide and fake enough to be almost a snarl. “How old are you? Eighteen?” Hector hesitated, then nodded, and Gino clamped down even harder on his shoulder, digging his thumb into the muscle. “How exciting. You might get a doma today.”

  Hector tried to pull away, but Gino’s hand was like a vise.

  “Maybe,” Hector said.

  Gino grinned as he eyed a muddy puddle up ahead. “Are you hoping a doma will make you faster than me?” He yanked Hector into the mud, laughing as the soles of Hector’s shoes sank in.

  Hector sprang from the puddle and wiped his shoes on the dew-soaked grass. That was it. His chest heaved as hot rage flooded his veins. He lunged forward and shoved Gino as hard as he could. Gino, his thick legs planted on the earth, hardly moved.

  A small crowd gathered around them, eager to watch Hector get the snot beat out of him.

  Gino cracked his knuckles and pushed up his sleeves. “Obviously your doma isn’t strength,” he said. “Or intelligence.”

  Hector held his breath, watching helplessly as Gino reared back, wolf-like aggression etched into his face.

  “That’s enough!”

  Every eye swung toward the coach. He was standing by his car in the parking lot behind them, casually smacking his gum and zipping up his wind jacket.

  “Later,” Gino growled at Hector through gritted teeth. His pulled back his shoulders as he spun toward his posse, who were all snickering and pointing at Hector’s mud-begrimed shoes.

  Hector turned toward the parking lot, half tempted to hop back in the car and drive home, never to set foot on the track again. But he knew he would never hear the end of it if he did that. Word would get around school that he was not only a weakling but a coward, too. He had a little more self-respect than that.

  Coach Contos shut his car door and started toward him. “Chin up, kid. Gino feels threatened by you. That’s the only reason he gives you a hard time.”

  Hector laughed. “Yeah, right. He humiliates me because I’m an easy target.” He kicked the ground, caking even more mud onto his shoes. “It makes him look good, I guess.”

  “It makes him look like a buffoon, if you ask me.” The coach stopped smacking and leaned closer to whisper, “I’d use a stronger word, but it’s liable to get me fired.”

  “Thanks for the pep talk, coach,” said Hector.

  “Let’s get those shoes broken in.” Contos patted him on the back, and then jogged ahead toward the field.

  Hector bent down and flicked off as much mud as he could. He could already hear his mother scolding him for stepping into mud, and his father sighing when Hector explained he’d been pushed into it. To his credit, his father did attempt to hide his disappointment at his son’s lack of machismo and feign enthusiasm toward Hector’s good grades, but he wasn’t fooling anyone. Hector knew that if his dad had had the choice, he would’ve chosen Gino to be his son over Hector in a heartbeat.

  As he stood up, Hector felt every muscle in his legs and feet begin to cramp. Tingling heat, like a thousand ant bites, covered his soles and arches. His calves balled into tight, round spheres, pulling the skin around them taut. His hamstrings and quadriceps burned as if he’d just sprinted four hundred meters. He crumpled to the ground, squeezing his thighs in a desperate effort to force the spasms to stop, but they persisted and worsened, so much so that he had to bite the side of his jacket to keep from crying.

  Coach Contos turned and waved at him. “You comin’, kid?”

  Willing himself to appear normal, Hector waved back. “Be right there. Just stretching.” He folded forward as if to touch his toes.

  Hector lay back and fixed his eyes on the puff of cloud above him. How many objects and animals could he find in its shape? He focused on finding out as the excruciating pain continued to grip and sear his lower half. I’ve cramped up before. It’ll pass…it’ll pass…

  After what seemed like hours, the pain did pass, slowly releasing his muscles one at a time. As he sat up, a strange sensation of warmth filled his legs, rushing through them like a surge of hot bathwater. Feeling a lingering discomfort, he looked down at his legs to see his polyester sweatpants pulled tight around his thighs, as if they’d shrunk two sizes. “What in the…”

  He stood up and flexed his legs, then reached down as inconspicuously as possible to feel the bulging muscles. “Whoa…”

  He did a few hops and then shifted his weight to his toes, jumping higher, and higher still, as if propelled by a pogo stick. When he stopped, he wasn’t out of breath the way he would normally have been. Instead, he felt energized, as if he’d just downed an entire pint of espresso. He wanted more.

  Picking up his duffel bag, he jogged onto the track, ready to see what his new legs were capable of. They felt light and springy, ready to run. He told himself to play it cool, then took off his jacket and joined his teammates for the warm-up.

  Gino smirked. “I wish I’d known it was your birthday. I would’ve gotten you some ballerina shoes.” He lunged into a stretch as his friends all laughed. “Maybe a tutu to go with them.”

  Hector pivoted and walked briskly toward the starting blocks.

  “I think you made him cry, Gino,” Hector heard someone say.

  “Hector, you’re going the wrong way,” Gino called out. “The dance studio’s that way.”

  Hector heard the coach muttering his rebuke as he always
did. It never helped. Maybe if Gino were a lesser runner the coach would suspend him from the team for poor sportsmanship or verbal abuse. But Gino was the fastest, and therefore beyond punishment.

  Hector took a deep breath and stepped into the blocks. Slowly, he leaned forward, positioned his hands beneath his shoulders and placed his front foot under his hips. He’d done this hundreds of times, and hundreds of times he’d been humiliated. But not today.

  Coach Contos shielded his face from the sun and squinted at Hector. “What are you doing, kid? Come warm up with the rest of the team.”

  “I want to race Gino,” Hector called. “The hundred-yard dash. If I lose, I’ll take the ballerina shoes.”

  Gino crossed his arms and grinned. “And the tutu?”

  Hector nodded. “And the same goes for you if you lose.”

  The team, and even the coach, chuckled at this.

  Gino unzipped his jacket and threw it into his friend’s face. He stormed toward Hector, looking ready to land that punch. He slapped his thighs and bent over the starting line. “You’re gonna regret this.” Then he spat onto the track and glanced over at the coach. “He won’t always be there to stop me from beating the crap out of you.”

  “Are you done talking trash?” Hector was crouched down with all his weight shifted into his fingertips.

  Gino grunted. “I’m ready to kick your ass.”

  “We’re ready,” Hector yelled. He saw the coach shake his head, likely debating with himself whether this was a good idea.

  “After this,” the coach said, “I’m ordering you two to keep your distance from each other.”

  “That’ll be easy.” Gino laughed at Hector. “I’ll always be way ahead of you.”

  “You hear me?” the coach shouted.

  “Yes sir!” the boys answered.

  The coach shook his head and went into the field house. He emerged seconds later with the starting gun in hand and the bright orange sleeve on his arm.