Curse of the Sphinx Page 11

  “Nope. I can’t believe their butcher would be as cool as you.” She held up her meat. “Thanks, Mr. Stanley.”

  He gave her a wave and turned to the next customer.

  Hope stood in line, the blinking 5 marking the only register open. Candy lined one side of the aisle, and beauty magazines the other. Diet, detox, celebrities . . .

  A fuzzy photo stopped her heart. THE MONSTER LIVES, read the headline, and there was a picture of her as the Sphinx. Her! It had to be years old.

  The desire to flee seized her, and she eyed the exit. With a swallow, Hope looked around. Did anyone know?

  “Here kitty, kitty, kitty.”

  Hope turned to see Mrs. Stephens staring at her. A Hello Kitty T-shirt and yoga pants seemed too young for the woman to be wearing, and too normal.

  “Kitty, kitty, kitty . . .” The dainty woman skipped over in her neon-pink flip-flops and pointed at the magazines.

  “What do you want?” Hope asked.

  Mrs. Stephens closed what little space was left, and whispered to Hope, “You don’t need to worry.” She shook her head. “Not yet. Not yet.”

  What did she know? “I, uh . . .” What could she say?

  “But be wary of death.” Mrs. Stephens drew close, her hand extended. “The reapers will visit and they will see.”

  Hope stepped back.

  “Is this all for you?” The cashier said in a monotone voice.

  Hope gulped back her fear, nodded at the man, then looked back at Mrs. Stephens.

  But she was just disappearing down the cereal aisle.

  “SO, ARE YOU going to come?” Haley bumped her arm as they walked down the hall between classes. Students and conversations flowed around them.

  Hope instinctively pulled away from her new friend’s contact. “No.” There was nothing appealing about going to the river again. Besides, her biggest concern was not this weekend, but tomorrow, when she would change into the Sphinx. And miss school, again.

  “Are you kidding? It’ll be epic!”

  Haley practically bounced forcing Hope’s attention her way.

  “I could get Tristan to set you up with one of his friends. I mean, face it, you could have just about anyone you want.” She slowed down and sighed. “Except Athan. I can’t believe he’s going out with Stacie.”

  Hope snorted her disgust. Stacie was best friends with Chelli. “Whatever.” She could really care less who Athan dated.

  Apparently, she was alone in her sentiment.

  “He’s just so—”

  An earsplitting cry for help broke through the din.

  The high-pitched wail was followed by more screaming. She forgot about Haley, as the noise drew her in, pulling her like a magnet down the hall. A huge crowd of students was gathered, and initially Hope thought someone must have started a fight, but the screams were increasing, and panic charged the air.

  “Someone call 911!”

  A tall young man ran by her, brushing her shoulder. And then several more people. They were running away from something. Or someone.

  Fear filled her, its icy finger tracing her spine, clenching her heart. She fought the instinct to run and forced herself toward the screams.

  Her vision tunneled, and the beige walls disappeared, as did the students in the periphery. As she approached the crowd, her height gave her a view over the other students, and she froze.

  The horror drew her, like a magnet, and she gasped.

  There on the ground, a young student thrashed. It was the boy from the campfire—the one Athan had talked to.

  Above him—no. It couldn’t be.

  “Get him off me!” The boy screamed from the floor. “Skia! Help!”

  Straddling the young man, the Skia held a black knife high in the air. The boy kicked at the creature’s legs. A grim look of determination was fixed on the sallow face. The knife came down.

  “Arghhhh!” The boy screamed, his eyes widening. “Boreas! Save me!” His screams became indecipherable as he bucked and writhed on the pale tile.

  The blade came down again and again.

  The air thinned, and Hope gasped. A deep heaviness settled in her chest, and her heart pounded a rhythm begging to flee. But she could not look away.

  This was the fear her mother held, the cause of her panic. The reason for their moves. This was the packing, the no friends, the constant hiding.

  “Oh my gods! Help him!” The auburn-haired Chelli, shouted above the melee. “Brand! Brand!” Her wide eyes searched the group, a silent plea for help. Finding none, she stepped forward to go to her friend.

  The Skia shoved her, and, as if shot from a cannon, the girl flew into the crowd, knocking people over like bowling pins. A tangle of legs and arms lay in a heap, unmoving.

  Hope stood transfixed by the horror in front of her. This . . . This was her mother fighting for her life.

  The Skia stabbed, and the boy’s thrashing grew weaker with each blow.

  “Boreas.” His screams turned to pleas, then a whimper. Still the pale hand of death struck, again and again.

  No one. Not one person moved to help him. The boy’s cries weakened, and then stopped. Where the knife had struck there was no blood, no gaping stab wound. Nothing. The boy’s body continued to lurch off the ground, seizing and then relaxing.

  This was her mother’s death.

  Cold webs of alarm circled her heart. He could kill her next. And she didn’t have her knives. She never even looked for them. How could she forget? And she was defenseless without them.

  The Skia turned his midnight eyes toward her.

  “You,” the demon hissed. “You cannot hide from me. I will come for you.” He turned back to his prey, and bringing his pitch-colored blade above his head, he drove it into the young man’s chest.

  She swallowed a scream, and backed up into the solid body of a familiar figure.

  Athan.

  He stood, oblivious to her, staring at the seizing boy. His brow furrowed, and the muscles in his neck tightened.

  Without another word, she stepped around him and ran.

  What a fool she’d been. Priska had told her to get the blades. Weeks ago.

  When she got home, she went straight to the spare bedroom. She pulled down the first box with her mother’s name on it and opened it. There on top of black velvet sat the heavy leather tome of the history of her curse. With a sigh of relief, she lifted the large book and set it to the side. Her mother always wrapped the immortal blades in velvet. Her arms trembled as she grabbed the bundle and hugged it to her chest.

  It was going to be okay.

  She went to her room and sat on her bed. Holding the edge of the fabric, she let the weight of the daggers unroll the material. They fell onto her comforter with a clink, sinking into the puffy down. Sliding her hand around the weapons brought a warmth to her soul, a sense of confidence.

  But it didn’t last. Fear drove her to call and text Priska several times over the course of the evening. But the ache in her chest was confirmed as her phone lay silent. Nothing. She would call Mr. Davenport’s office. Maybe he’d heard something. As she lay in bed, thoughts sprinted through her mind. Skia had killed that boy, no, demigod. And now the Skia was hunting her.

  Curse day one

  A SEARING PAIN jolted her awake.

  The throbbing started in her hips, radiated down her thighs and into her calves and ankles. Cramping, burning, like muscles that were already sore. The tingling of her skin, building until pins and needles poked at each pore. She sat up, and just in time. Her wings released, and the early morning rays of sun streaming through the window made her feathers shine.

  She climbed out of bed and checked her phone. No messages. Should she leave? Move? Was there anywhere safe to go? While fleeing sounded like doing something, would it matter?

  Gods, if only she could just get a hold of Priska!

  Pink streaked the sky, then yellow, and finally it was late enough to call.

  She dialed, silently praying
to any god that might be listening that Priska would be back.

  The phone rang only once.

  “Mr. Davenport’s office, this is Melody.”

  The musical lilt reminded her of Sarra, and her question caught in her throat.

  “Hello? Anyone there?”

  “Um, hi. This is Hope . . . Treadwell. Is Priska there?”

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Treadwell.” The chipper voice didn’t sound the least bit sorry. “Priska is still on vacation. We aren’t expecting her back for a few weeks. Is there something I can help you with?”

  “Uh, is Mr. Davenport available?”

  “No. He’s in with a client. I’ll tell him you called, if you’d like?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Will do. Thank you.”

  Ten minutes later her phone buzzed with an incoming text.

  No news from her. Be careful.

  Careful. With a long, slow exhale, she thought of Priska’s advice. She would keep a blade with her, but would it matter?

  She stumbled out of bed and made her way to the kitchen.

  After breakfast, there wasn’t much to do. She was caught up on homework and her house was spotless. So that left watching crummy daytime television, reading a book, or surfing the net.

  The claws on her back legs clicked on the floor as she went out to the study. After drawing the blinds, she booted up her laptop and entered demigod into the search engine.

  Eight hundred thousand results.

  There were quizzes to find out if you were a demigod. She wasn’t. Quizzes to find out if your boyfriend/girlfriend was a demigod. She didn’t know enough about anyone to answer the questions except for Priska, who according to the test wasn’t a demigod either!

  She typed in Skia.

  Two hundred fifty-nine thousand results.

  She scrolled through the first two pages. A lot about fonts, art graphics, an art gallery…

  There!

  Strong’s Greek Site. Skia—shadows of the Underworld, minions of Hades.

  Hope read through page after page after page.

  There was information about the dark immortal blades Skia used to kill demigods, and Hades’s deal with Themis that gave him power to “create” living beings from the dead to restore balance.

  So where did monsters fit in with divine balance?

  Curse day two

  SHE CALLED THE school to let them know she was “still sick, but feeling better today.” She expected to be back Monday. Ms. Slate informed her that her absences were being noted, and she would need to make up her work with her teachers.

  After she hit End on her phone screen, she stuck her tongue out at the black rectangle.

  She was reading when a knock startled her.

  “Hope?”

  A man’s voice calling her name stunned her.

  The knocking became pounding. “Hope, are you in there?”

  Adrenaline pumped through her body as her heart raced.

  Was that . . . Was that Athan?

  What was he doing here? She slid off the couch, her gaze focused on the door.

  Another knock. “Hope?”

  The deadbolt was engaged. The curtains and shades were drawn.

  The next knock rattled the window, and his words came in fragments. “Car here . . . two days . . . no way . . .” The voice faded around the side of her house.

  She scanned through her home and noticed, for the first time, that the window above the sink in the kitchen was bare.

  She needed to hide.

  She crept down the hall toward her bedroom, but froze when she noticed the light coming from her doorway.

  The spare room? She couldn’t be sure if the blinds were open or closed. That left only… the bathroom?

  Ugh. The thought of sitting in the bathroom for the next few hours made her grimace. A tapping coming from her bedroom window made the decision for her. She opened the door and was relieved to see the muted light came through a frosted window. She shut the door and waited.

  And waited.

  The silence was strained, even after her heart rate slowed. When she heard the crunch of gravel, followed by a vehicle pulling away from her house, she began to relax. Even so, she stayed in the bathroom until she changed back.

  When she went to take the garbage out, she almost stepped on it.

  On her front doorstep lay an envelope with the assignment from algebra. On top of the envelope was a small bouquet of daffodils.

  HOPE NEVER USED to count the days. Oh, sure, she would count how many days since their last move, but time as a Sphinx wasn’t a burden then. It meant she could fly. Now, it was one more weight, an ever-present secret, a stressor she couldn’t afford to forget. She counted down, like a time bomb, waiting for the explosion that would kill her. Because she knew—she knew—sooner or later, she would be discovered, and then she would have to run for her life.

  She rolled over to turn off the alarm.

  It wasn’t like she was sleeping anyway.

  “Oh, craptastic! You came back.”

  A shove from behind, and Hope turned.

  Krista’s features were contorted into an ugly sneer. “I thought we’d gotten lucky and you moved . . . or died.” She pushed past Hope, followed by her entourage. “Too bad.” The words drifted back with a chorus of snickers.

  She shook her head and went to her locker. It didn’t matter.

  “Oh. My. Gods. Where were you last week? And Saturday? I totally called you, like a hundred times. Why didn’t you answer?” Haley’s verbal ambush was almost a relief. “You totally disappeared after the”—she held her hands up in air quotes—“Skia attack, which the teachers are all calling a seizure, by the way. I thought maybe . . . Well, anyway, here you are.”

  “Yep, here I am.” Hope offered a tentative smile.

  The bell rang.

  “Okay. I’ll meet you for lunch.” Haley’s brow furrowed. “Where do you eat lunch?” She started walking backwards.

  “The library.” Hope turned to go to class.

  “I’ll come find you,” Haley yelled, and then sprinted down the hall.

  “SO, WERE YOU really with Athan last week?” Angela whispered.

  Hope sat in Chemistry with her book open trying to get some of her make-up work done. There were a few more minutes before class started, and she was scribbling answers.

  “Hope?” Angela’s voice interrupted.

  She looked up.

  “Were you?”

  Her face bunched. Did she really need to go there? “Was I what?”

  “Were you with Athan Friday?” Angela’s eyes were alight.

  Hope recoiled. “Why would you ask that?”

  “It’s just a rumor. You were both gone, and someone said you skipped together.” She gave a slight shrug.

  Athan? “Uh, no. I was home sick. Thursday and Friday.”

  “No biggie,” she said mock defensively. “I was just asking.”

  Students shuffled in, and the bell rang. Mr. Burgess stood, and Krista came running through the door.

  “Sorry. My locker was jammed.” She slid into her seat and tossed her thick curls.

  Hope turned away from the sickly-sweet, honeysuckle scent of Krista’s hair.

  As class got underway, Hope couldn’t help but wonder, who started that rumor? And why?

  Maybe she would ask Athan in algebra. Just the thought made her palms sweat. No, she could ask Haley at lunch.

  “I HEARD THAT!” Haley squealed, and then clapped her hand over her mouth.

  They sat in the library in the overstuffed chairs in the back corner. The air was musty and smelled of old paper.

  Haley leaned toward Hope and whispered, “Tristan said Lee and Scott were talking about it in gym.”

  Lee and Scott. The freckle-faced boy and Brawny Jock. Hope shook her head. “I don’t get it.”

  “I know. And did you hear about Chelli?”

  Chelli was at home with several broken ribs and a broken leg. Allegedly.


  But hadn’t she seen the Skia that Saturday at the river? And if she was a demigod, wouldn’t she have already healed?

  Hope nodded. “Is she going to be okay?”

  “No one knows. She hasn’t answered her phone since the attack.” Haley arched her eyebrows. “You know what I think?”

  Hope leaned forward.

  “If Chelli could see the Skia attacking Brand . . . that would make her a demigod, too.”

  “Do you think Skia got her, too?”

  Haley shook her head. “I think someone rescued her. Took her to a conservatory, maybe.”

  “Athan?”

  Haley shrugged. “He’d be my guess if he doesn’t come back.”

  Hope tilted her head. “Why wouldn’t he come back?”

  “Um, duh.” Haley laughed. “If he was searching for other demigods, what is there to come back for now?”

  Of course. “Right.”

  Twenty-two days until the change

  HOPE HAD JUST turned in her make-up assignment in mythology when Ms. Slate called her down to the office. She knew what this was about, but she’d deluded herself that she’d escaped this conversation when Mr. Jeffers hadn’t called for her yesterday.

  “Miss Treadwell.” Mr. Jeffers pointed to the seat across from his desk. “Back again?”

  “Sir?” She stood to the side of the chair, wanting to avoid the uncomfortable heat.

  “Have a seat, young lady.” His tone brooked no argument.

  She gulped and sat. The sun’s rays began to warm her immediately.

  “I’m a little disappointed to see you again so soon. Are you all right?”

  “I . . . I was sick, sir.” It was the best she’d come up with.

  He nodded. “I see. And do you by chance have a doctor’s note?” He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his desk.

  “No.” She shifted to the left trying to avoid the sun. “I didn’t go to the doctor. I don’t have one here, yet.”

  “Well, I suggest you get one. If you are sick again and miss school, you will need to bring a doctor’s note for your absence to be excused.”