The Immortal Fire

  The first was a silver flattened cylinder with a cap on it. Zee took off the cap and discovered that it was a lighter, which was not exactly what he was expecting. Frowning, he depressed the button, but nothing happened. He tried a few more times, then put the lighter aside and turned his attention to the scroll. Carefully he broke the seal and unrolled the paper.

  Before him was a drawing of some kind—there were some mountains, a body of water, a town—

  No, no, not a drawing, but a map.

  Zee sucked in air and studied the paper before him. It was a map, all right, but what it was a map of he couldn’t tell. There was no indication of the location it depicted—making it, if you asked Zee, rather a failure of a map in the first place.

  There was something specific about the mountains, though. Zee studied that part of the map carefully and noticed there was some kind of structure on one of the hills—he saw some sets of pillars, some rock formations, and a long, zigzaggy staircase.

  Zee rolled up the map again, tiptoed out into the hallway and, after looking carefully for oncoming Mielswetzskis, went over to his cousin’s room and knocked on the door.

  “Hi,” Zee said.

  “Hi,” said Charlotte.

  “Listen, uh, I’m sorry. I don’t like you getting carted off, you know?”

  “I don’t really like it either,” said Charlotte defiantly.

  Zee bit his lip. This sort of thing wasn’t really his strong point. He didn’t even, truthfully, feel that sorry—sure, he shouldn’t have snapped at her, but his feet still itched as if they wanted to break into a run and not stop till he found the Prometheans. (Though that might require a rather long bridge.) He decided to get to the point.

  “Um, I got this.” Zee handed her the map. “It just came in the mail. No idea who sent it.”

  Her face softening, Charlotte reached for the scroll and unrolled it. “It’s a map,” she said in a puzzled voice.

  “I gathered that,” said Zee.

  “But what of?”

  He shrugged.

  “Not a very good map, then,” mumbled Charlotte.

  “Nope. It came in this.” Zee handed her the brown paper and watched as she studied the strange writing. “It could be a trap.” Mysterious maps do not just arrive in the mail—nothing in their lives was that easy, and when it was, there was usually someone trying to kill them on the other end.

  “You mean”—Charlotte looked up, smiling a little—“just because we get a mysterious map in the mail from someone who doesn’t know how to address an envelope doesn’t mean we should go waltzing off to find out where it leads?”

  Zee grinned. “Something like that. And there’s this, too.” He handed her the lighter. “It doesn’t work.” He got up to pace around the room, while Charlotte fiddled with the lighter.

  “Oh, well, that clears everything up. I suppose it’s too much to ask people to tell us what’s going on?”

  “Come on, Char,” said Zee, staring out the window. “What would be the fun in that?”

  “Speaking of, Mr. Metos e-mailed me. We’re supposed to come over tomorrow, whenever we can get out.”

  “Or we could just go talk to him now,” Zee said, motioning out the window. Mr. Metos’s small hatchback was parked across the street. In the darkness, he could see the form of his teacher, alert and waiting, watching over them from the shadows.

  The next morning, after Mr. Mielswetzski left for school and Mrs. Mielswetzski went off to a meeting, the cousins left the house to find Mr. Metos waiting for them in his car down the block. He looked ragged and exhausted, and Zee realized he had been there all night. They drove off in silence.

  They had been to Mr. Metos’s last apartment a few months before, after Philonecron’s servants had tried to nick Charlotte on the street and he’d gotten there just in time. He’d explained everything to them then—that Greek myths were real, that someone named Philonecron was trying to overthrow Hades with an army made of children’s shadows, and that he was collecting these shadows by following Charlotte and Zee around. And Zee hoped that now, in this new apartment, he might explain everything again. Zee was ready to make him explain.

  Charlotte, meanwhile, wanted to look around the apartment to try to find some sign of Mr. Metos’s possible secret son. Beyond a closet full of boy-size clothes or a bunch of photos on his refrigerator—which would sort of negate the secret part—Zee was not sure what exactly that would be. He was, in truth, a little skeptical about Charlotte’s theory, but he wasn’t about to tell her that.

  When they arrived, they found that Mr. Metos’s new apartment looked quite a bit like his old one—and was decorated similarly, with a shabby sofa, boxes of books, and nothing else. Zee idly wondered where he kept the spears.

  Soon the two cousins were sitting on the sofa, just as they had months before, and Mr. Metos was standing before them, his face a mask of seriousness. “I must admit, I am…puzzled. Chimera do not generally behave that way. They sow destruction everywhere, yet no one was hurt in this attack. And they do not place people in rooms in abandoned warehouses and trap them inside. Usually when they abduct someone, it is—forgive me, Charlotte—for the sake of their own dinners.”

  “Great,” said Charlotte.

  “I suppose it’s possible the Chimera was, well…saving Charlotte for later.”

  Next to Zee, Charlotte grumbled something under her breath.

  “Do you think it was…random?” Zee asked. “I mean, with everything that’s going on…”

  Mr. Metos shook his head. “If we were in Italy or Turkey, maybe. But the activities in the Mediterranean have not spread this far. Yet. And even if they had, the Chimera taking one of you two, of all people, is too much of a coincidence. It was coming for you. We can assume that. But it makes no sense. They are not errand runners. And unlike your friend the Ketos, who is controlled by Poseidon, a Chimera does not have any masters. At least until now.”

  Charlotte and Zee leaned in, as Mr. Metos seemed to be considering something.

  “I have not been very forthcoming with you, and once again I put you in more danger. As I said, your adventures have not gone unnoticed. It is typical of the gods that Philonecron would try to overthrow Hades and all anyone cares about is the mortals who stopped him. I have long feared that Olympus would try to punish you. Now you publicly humiliated Poseidon—and were the last to see him before his disappearance. This is not the sort of thing they will take lightly.”

  Charlotte and Zee did not speak. There was really nothing to say.

  “It is safe to assume that Olympus sent the Chimera to attack you, though I am still puzzled by its behavior. In a way, though…in a way it is a relief.”

  “What?” the cousins said simultaneously.

  “The gods do not discriminate among mortals. We were afraid that Olympus would punish random people for your sins, or indeed…all of us. We had some intelligence…”

  Charlotte and Zee looked at each other heavily. They kept trying to save people but seemed to put them in more danger as a result.

  “They may still,” Mr. Metos continued. “But we have a plan.”

  Zee’s heart sped up. “What?”

  “I am sworn to secrecy. I will just say we have a…weapon. Something that will give us leverage over Zeus. The Prometheans have guarded the secret of this weapon for generations. Keeping the knowledge of it secret and safe until it was…ready…has been our mission since Prometheus himself, and has been mine all my life….” He paused and gazed at the cousins. “Though now I find I have a new one.”

  “What’s that?” Charlotte asked.

  “Keeping the two of you alive.”

  “Oh,” said Zee.

  “And apparently I cannot do that by myself, and I cannot do that while you two lead your daily lives in the open. I have made every attempt to shield you from danger, and with every attempt the danger seems only to grow. There’s only one option that I can see.”

  Charlotte and Zee looked at eac
h other. “What?” Charlotte asked, her voice shaking a little.

  “You are coming with me. We are going to the Prometheans.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Frenemies

  AFTER HIS VISIT TO THE ORACLE, PHILONECRON made his way back to his darkened island and settled himself into a nice, dank cave. The trip had not gone according to plan. The plan had been for Philonecron to announce himself, at which time the Oracle would gasp and prostrate herself in front of him, trembling at his greatness and power, and plead for his eventual mercy when he took his rightful seat on the throne of the Universe.

  In fact, that is precisely how everyone should greet Philonecron, and if he were going to be perfectly honest—and he firmly believed that honesty was essential for personal happiness—he was a little puzzled that no one did. Even—he must admit—a little hurt.

  But that was not the real issue. Your enemy is your friend, the Oracle had said. He could not fathom it. She was not his friend, not his friend at all. Friends don’t thwart each other’s plans. Friends don’t crush each other’s dreams. Friends don’t send each other shooting several hundred feet through the night air and plunge them into the cold sea.

  You know what friends do? Friends help each other. Like the trident. The trident was his friend, his special friend; it was there for him. Of course it was physically there, since Philonecron never let it out of his sight, but it was there for him emotionally, too. And if he needed to turn a prying wood nymph into a cockroach so he could pluck off her legs, it was there for him then, too. Do you know how long he had been waiting for a friend like that?

  Your enemy is your friend. Could it be? Was she there for a reason? Was Fate playing her hand again? For Fate had chosen him, Fate was guiding him, Fate had laid out his path, nemesis and all.

  And then, finally, he understood. Everything was out in front of him, past, present, future. His enemy was his friend. For if it had not been for her, he would be ruler of the Underworld right now; he would never even have thought to cast his sights higher than that. And if it had not been for her, he never would have been on Poseidon’s yacht, never would have fallen to the bottom of the sea, never would have been swallowed by the Ketos, never would have had the trident fall into his hands. His enemy, as repugnant and odious as she was, had acted all along in the service of Fate.

  He clapped his hands together and gasped. Oh yes, his enemy was his friend, for she spurred him on to greater things, to more noble heights. And when he did overthrow Zeus, he would have her to thank.

  But something was wrong, something was making him uncomfortable, and not just the sharp point in the rock on which he was sitting. He had gone to the Oracle to ask if he would overthrow Zeus. How could it be you? she had said. There is a way to these things, she had said. You are Poseidon’s heir.

  He did not understand. He hardly needed the Oracle to tell him who his grandfather was. He had, after all, just turned him into a sea cucumber. But there was something he was missing.

  He closed his eyes and heard her voice again: There is a way to these things. You are Poseidon’s heir.

  How remarkable it is to be a genius, how extraordinary. Even he—modest he—stood in awe of the power of his own mind. He felt it hum and buzz, so much like the trident, as it studied the jumble of pieces before him, then one by one picked them up and began to put them together.

  He would need a spy, first of all. He could go to the she-beast’s lair himself—he had been there before, after all, shadow collecting—but Philonecron possessed enough self-knowledge to realize that that might not be a good idea. Despite how rational and judicious he might appear to you, he was emotional, too, and it simply would not do if, when face-to-face with the miniature Machiavellian monstrosity, passions overcame him and he blasted her to bits. For he needed her alive.

  No matter. Using the skin of a nearby tropical crawling bat for parchment, Philonecron crafted a message, then boarded his chariot (and it was, he must admit, quite a nice thing to have a chariot) and sped across the waves toward the mainland. Soon he was in the sewers of Athens and watching a raven, his message tied to its leg, fly through a door and into the long passage to the Underworld.

  Even in his excitement, Philonecron could not help but feel a wave of nostalgia as he stood by the open door that led to the home of his heart. Even as a variety of Underworld creatures flew, stomped, and slithered past him out the door into the mortal realm, he had eyes only for the darkness they had come from. Familiar smells wafted up to him—mildew and rot and festering Harpy carcass and even, if he concentrated, a bit of burning flesh from Tartarus. He bit his knuckle and turned his head away—it was all he could do not to dive through the door into the nether realm’s embracing bosom.

  Then, with a flapping of wings, his bird was back (or at least its skeleton). Heart aflutter, Philonecron pulled a scroll off its legbone and quickly unrolled it.

  He had found his spy.

  Two days later, Philonecron met up with Eurynomus. It took some doing, as the demon moved with absolute quiet, had skin the color of flies, and possessed a natural tendency to lurk in the shadows. He could even move through wood and stone as easily as air. He was the perfect spy—but it did make him hard to find in a crowd.

  But then, there he was in Philonecron’s cave, his blue-black skeletal form emerging from behind one of the rocks, cloaked in gloom and silence. Though it was not his appearance Philonecron noticed first. Eurynomus wore a coat made out of vulture skin and feathers that perfectly matched his flesh—but there was no accounting for taste. Or smell.

  Slowly the demon gave his report: The mortals were going nowhere. There was a man whom they’d hoped would take them away, but he had disappointed them.

  Philonecron understood. The girl and poor, misguided Zero were being kept against their will by the meddling Metos, who meant to protect them from the big bad gods. (The foolish Promethean had it backward; it was the world that needed protecting from the girl.) He should have known. You get to know a lot about a person when you’ve chained them up and watched a Harpy gnaw on their liver. Metos wanted to keep them safe, out of harm’s way—but what if he were to think they were in danger where they were, that he could not protect them on his own?

  It would be simpler to just go to the Promethean headquarters himself, of course—blast through and “convince” the Prometheans to let him in on their secrets. But nothing was ever simple. Philonecron had tried to find their headquarters, back when Charon had warned him the god-fighters were onto his attempted coup, and it was as if it did not exist. It was apparently hidden from Immortals. If what he sought was inside the building, he would simply have to wait until it came out.

  Philonecron had the lifespan of one moon, the Oracle had said, and the moon was waning. It was time to act.

  There was not much time. The beast was stupid, bestial, indiscriminate—but that was no different from Poseidon, and Philonecron had handled him perfectly well. It would simply require a little retraining, that was all. And for dramatic impact, it truly could not be better.

  The plan was perfect. The attack would look like it was ordered from Olympus—targeted at her, and only her—and yet she would somehow, miraculously, survive. She would think it was through her own cunning and skill, she would think she was in control, but behind her there was Philonecron, the glorious puppet master, joyously pulling the strings. She would escape, Metos would take them to his fellows, and Philonecron would follow. Whatever his answer was, it would emerge. Once again, his spiteful little nemesis would be the one to give him exactly what he needed on his Fateful journey.

  A few inquiries made, a few arms twisted, and soon Philonecron had found what he was looking for, in a lair deep within the Polish Carpathian Mountains.

  “Hello, my pretty,” he cooed, leveling the trident at the great monster. “How would you like to do a favor for the future Lord of the Universe?”

  CHAPTER 12

  Anger Management

  FAR AWAY FROM TH
E WRECKAGE OF HARTNETT MIDDLE School, from the fleeing Chimera and the faltering flames, from the giant Malls and Great Lakes, is another ordinary school in another ordinary city very like this one. And in this school was a teenage boy named Steve, who appeared to be quite ordinary indeed. Sure, there were extraordinary things about him—his uncanny knack for remembering trivia, for one, which had earned him the captainship of the school Quiz Bowl team. His devotion to the mother who had raised him on her own, for another, which would have earned him some teasing were it not for the third extraordinary thing: his temper.

  That third thing was the reason this teenage boy currently sat in the office of the school’s psychiatrist, where he was mandated by the school to be every Thursday during lunch period. No one seemed to care that Steve was a growing boy and needed to eat lunch—a fact that made Steve rather angry. No one else noted the irony.

  “How are you feeling today, Steve?” asked the psychiatrist.

  “Hungry,” Steve grumbled.

  “Yes, well, besides that. I heard you had some problem in biology today.”

  Steve’s eyes flared. “Mr. Ward accused me of cheating. I would never cheat! I just knew the answers, that’s all.”

  The psychiatrist nodded.

  “I mean, what kind of a place is this?” Steve continued, his arms folded tightly across his thin chest. “A kid does well on a test, and instead of saying, ‘Oh, great job, we’re really proud of you,’ they think you must have cheated? He called my mom. Now she’s gonna think—”

  “Steve,” said the psychiatrist. “Not every teacher is familiar with the disparity between the effort and interest you put into your schoolwork and your intelligence.”

  “I wouldn’t cheat,” Steve said, sulking.