Curse of the Sphinx Read online

  “Do you live there?”

  “What? Oh gods, no. I’m in Redmond, honey. You couldn’t pay me to live in a small town. But I hear it is really lovely.”

  “How big is it?”

  “Well, let me see.” The clicking of a keyboard kept the silence at bay. “The nearest big city is Portland, but you could get almost anything you need in the Dalles, and that’s just a thirty minute drive. But they have their own school, and two grocery stores.”

  “Do they get many tourists?”

  The agent’s laugh was more derision than humor. “Um, no. With the exception of the observatory there really isn’t anything to do in Goldendale. Do you want me to look for something else?”

  “No, this sounds perfect.”

  It took more time to settle into a small community, but maybe she would be able to stay longer without risking discovery by another immortal.

  She called a moving company and arranged to have them pick up her things from storage in the morning and deliver them to the house on Main Street in Goldendale in the afternoon. She coordinated for an agent to meet them, and then, finished with the necessities of moving, she grabbed her bags from the closet. She wrapped the statue of Hecate in soft cotton, then surrounded it with her clothes. It took only a few more minutes to pack the rest.

  “Hope Treadwell!” Mrs. Smith’s abrasive voice was followed by a pounding on her door. “Get out here right this minute, young lady. I need some help.”

  This was the only reason Mrs. Smith had taken her in. At sixteen, she was perfect for babysitting. It also helped that the Smiths received a healthy stipend for fostering.

  She opened the door and glanced down at the mousy woman. She waved the envelope at her, and then stepped around her into the hall.

  “Oh.” Mrs. Smith’s shoulders slumped in defeat. She must have already gotten a call from Children’s Services.

  Hope wondered briefly how long she’d known and didn’t tell her. Without a word, she brushed past the older woman, loaded her car, and drove away.

  HOPE ENTERED GOLDENDALE High School, and the residual scent of pine disinfectant wafted through the abandoned halls. She’d intentionally arrived early, anxious to get things in order, eager to be settled.

  As she walked into the front office, a bell chimed at her arrival. A well-nourished middle-aged woman glanced up from the computer, her flat brown eyes widening as she noted the new face. Hope glanced down at the nameplate on the desk: Ms. Slate. The silence became increasingly awkward.

  “Hi.” Hope’s voice broke, and she cleared her throat. “I assume this is where I’m to register?”

  Ms. Slate didn’t even so much as say good morning, but turned and began gathering papers.

  Hope waited, noting the older woman’s overprocessed burgundy hair and clothes that were too tight to be called “fitted.”

  Ms. Slate whipped back around and handed a packet of papers to her. “You’ll need to fill that top one out now, and wait while I get your classes together.”

  Hope took the proffered pen and began writing. She stuttered over the last name, crossing out an N before writing Treadwell.

  Feeling the hairs on her neck prickle, Hope looked up to see the plump woman staring at her.

  “Here’s your schedule and your locker assignment,” she said. “Class starts in fifteen minutes. You can bring the rest of the papers back to me at the end of the day.” Ms. Slate grabbed the paper marked Registration, put it in a wire basket on the counter, and sat back in front of her computer.

  “But you don’t even have my name.”

  “Hope Treadwell.” She didn’t even look away from her screen as she spoke. “Your attorney called Friday and told us you’d be coming.”

  She nodded. “Of course. Thank you.”

  The woman continued her furious typing.

  Nice and friendly here. With a shrug, she left to find her locker.

  In the few minutes since she’d been in the office, the hallways filled with students. It was no surprise to feel the shift of scrutiny turn on her. The real estate agent said she was the first person in years to move into the small town of Goldendale, and as an emancipated student, she was an anomaly. She tried to ignore the whispers, but with her supernatural hearing the voices were undeniable.

  “Yeah, I heard her parents are dead and she lives by herself.”

  “Doesn’t she have any family?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Maybe she doesn’t want to live with them.”

  “But she can’t live by herself, can she?”

  “Maybe she’s on the run.” Coarse laughter.

  From a group of cookie-cutter girls: “I don’t understand why she would come to Goldendale?”

  “Who would want to live here?”

  “Look at her clothes. If she has money, why does she dress like that?”

  “Well, I don’t think Burberry is out with their line of school clothes, yet.”

  “Maybe she forgot her tiara at home,” someone suggested. There was a round of giggles.

  And the inevitable group of jocks, who thought they were the gods’ gifts to women.

  “That’s what I’m talkin’ about. A girl with her own place.”

  “Yeah, then your mom won’t be walking in with Rice Krispy treats again.”

  “Shut up. She’s smoking hot. I’ll bet she’s really lonely. I’d better, ya know, go cheer her up.”

  “Uh, no one is that lonely.”

  She’d heard it all before, and even worse. As she spun the dial on her locker, someone approached her.

  “Hey there, beautiful. Can I help you find your first class?”

  She rolled her eyes before glancing at the chunk of testosterone standing next to her. She almost gagged on his cologne. “No, thanks, I’m sure in a town this small, the school can’t be so big I’ll get lost.” She grabbed her book, and then met the young man’s bulging eyes. “Oh. And I don’t like Rice Krispy treats.”

  She snapped her locker shut and turned away, leaving the young man with his mouth unhinged, his pack of friends howling with laughter.

  She walked into her first class, mythology, and found an empty seat on the front row. After setting her bag on a desk, she went to have her paperwork signed by the instructor, Mrs. Biggers.

  “Good morning. I’m Hope Treadwell.” She spoke the practiced words and stood at the desk waiting for acknowledgement from the drab, middle-aged woman.

  Mrs. Biggers looked up. “Good morning.”

  As the teacher came around to the front of her desk, Hope noticed her bright-red leather clogs, a stark contrast to her sedate appearance.

  “I’m Nancy Biggers. I’m excited you’ll be joining us. It’s always refreshing to have a new perspective.” Without waiting for a response, Mrs. Biggers continued. “Well, here’s a copy of Mythology and Men, and the reading list for the remainder of the year.”

  Hope glanced down as she grasped the book. But Mrs. Biggers did not let go.

  “What amazing eyes you have. Gold? Is that your natural—”

  Taken off guard, there was a moment of hesitation before Hope cut her off. “Contacts.”

  Mrs. Biggers nodded and released the book.

  Hope turned to go back to her desk. Her seat, however, was now occupied by a short girl with long, dark hair and dark eyes. Hope’s bag and papers now sat on the desk to the left.

  “Hi.” The girl leaned forward. “I’m Krista. I hope you don’t mind that I moved your stuff.”

  Hope nodded. “No problem.”

  “I’m nearsighted,” Krista added.

  Krista wasn’t wearing glasses, but it wasn’t worth pointing it out. Hope slid into her seat and focused her attention on Mrs. Biggers’s lesson.

  “All right class, let’s get started. Today we’ll be talking about Aphrodite. Does anyone know the myth behind Aphrodite’s birth?”

  There was laughter from the back.

  Mrs. Biggers addressed the cause of the disturban
ce. “Boys. Something you would like to share? Do you find a lot of humor in mythology or just Aphrodite? Perhaps you would like to do an analysis on the comedy found in Aphrodite’s interactions with men?” She left the last question hanging like she meant it.

  “No ma’am. Er, no thank you. I’m sorry we disrupted.” It was the dark-haired boy who’d offered to help Hope to class.

  Mrs. Biggers continued, “So you’ll have the next four days to write a five-page paper on whether you believe Aphrodite to be a benevolent goddess or not, and you need to cite at least six interactions with mankind supporting your claim. Be sure to address the conflicting view. Remember, this assignment is meant to persuade.”

  Relief. There were lots of myths about Aphrodite, and this assignment was new to her. Now there would be something to consume her evenings. With a mental sigh, she opened up to the index to find the pages dedicated to the goddess of love and desire.

  “Hey.” Krista was leaning toward her, her whisper too loud for just the two of them. “It was Hope, right?”

  She met the gawking girl’s stare, nodded once, but said nothing.

  “So, uh.” The girl paused. “How do you like Goldendale?”

  With a cursory glance, Hope noticed more than one interested face looking at her.

  “Fine,” she replied. With an arch of her eyebrows, she tried to convey her disapproval of the interruption.

  But Krista was not easily put off. “I heard that your parents died and you actually chose to live here.”

  When she merely nodded in response, Krista continued pressing. “Why?”

  At one time she might have been offended, but she’d experienced the barrage of curiosity that came with being a new face in a small community. She knew she was hot gossip.

  Taking a deep breath, she voiced the practiced lie, “I like small towns. My mom and I moved a lot, and I’ve always preferred them. When my mom found out she was ill, she helped me pick out a place where I’d be safe. We have no other family, so she helped me do the paperwork to be emancipated. That’s all. Look, Krista.” She continued before the girl could come up with anything else. “I know you are just trying to be nice, but I’d really like to do my work now. Maybe we can talk later.”

  She made the suggestion merely as a courtesy. Over the last couple of years, and the many moves, she’d met too many girls like Krista. She knew they weren’t fishing for friends but gossip. And it wasn’t as though Hope was looking for friends. Because, who would want to be friends with a monster?

  “Oh, right. Sure,” Krista replied, her lips pulling into a saccharine smile.

  Hope tried to match the fake smile, but her eyes dropped. She picked up her book, flipped through the pages, and read in silence until the bell rang.

  By lunch, she realized her story had already spread. She was glad the school was small, and that people talked. Perhaps this time would be easier.

  The bell rang, and, as the students herded toward the cafeteria, Hope made her way to the double doors of the library. As she stepped through, she saw at least two dozen computers, several desks tucked around the edges, and, off by a corner window, a wise librarian had placed a few overstuffed chairs.

  She dropped her bag by the worn chairs and sank into the soft seat, her body sagging as tension released.

  When the bell rang, her muscles stiffened as if anticipating an attack. Pushing down her anxiety, she trudged off to class. Both her diffidence and the gossip helped deter significant interaction with the students, and when the last bell rang, she allowed herself to feel the exhaustion from the day.

  Despite her anxiousness to be gone from school, when Hope got into her car, she remembered her empty house, and her heart sank into her stomach. She was suddenly in no hurry to get home. She abruptly took a left turn into a small shopping plaza where a gas station, a mechanic garage, and a Red Apple grocery store were clustered together. She parked in front of the Red Apple.

  The store was old; its white tile floor grayed with time, and the fluorescent lights cast unnaturally bright light, emphasizing the worn appearance of the store. But it was clean, she noted, as she walked past the prepackaged foods and headed to the meat counter.

  The butcher was busy adding chicken to the display case, but stopped when he saw her approach.

  “Can I help you?” He greeted her from across the counter.

  The man was lost somewhere in his fifties. He wore a long blue plastic apron tied around a plump midsection, and his hair—where he still had it—was gray, circling just around the back of his head from ear to ear.

  “I would like sixteen ounces of filet mignon.” She scanned the case looking at the beef as a way to celebrate her independence.

  The butcher’s eyes widened. “Excuse me,” he said with suppressed laughter, “I don’t often get requests for that kind of steak.” He was smiling, and the smile changed his face, made it less commonplace. It was a smile of great buoyancy. “Let me see what I have in the back,” he said, and disappeared through the double doors behind him. He came back a few minutes later carrying two slabs of meat. “I have twelve ounces of top loin, or sixteen ounces of sirloin. Both are fresh today.”

  She didn’t even think about it. “I’ll take both.”

  He chuckled again and began to wrap the meat.

  She looked around the store, reading the signs hanging from the ceiling. Baking supplies, soups, canned vegetables, cereal—

  “You like riddles, young lady?”

  Taken off guard, she turned to the butcher and nodded.

  “Listen to this.” He took a deep breath. “You throw away the outside and cook the inside. Then you eat the outside and throw away the inside. What did you eat?” He finished wrapping the second piece and handed her both packages.

  She stood silent, staring at him while she contemplated the puzzle. It took only a minute before she broke into a smile and replied, “An ear of corn!”

  “Hmm. I guess that could work.” His head nodded. “But I’m a butcher. You’ve got to think meat.” He pointed at the packages in her hand. “My answer would be a chicken.”

  He was still smiling, and Hope felt a portion of her gloom lift.

  He came around the counter, and as he peeled off a plastic glove, he said, “My name is Peter Stanley.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m here during the week, seven to four. Let me know ahead of time, and I’ll get you anything you need.”

  She took the outstretched hand and shook it. “I’m Hope. Thank you, Mr. Stanley, for the meat. And the riddle.”

  As she drove home, she found herself thinking of Mr. Stanley’s riddle, and smiled as she mumbled aloud to herself. “Chicken.”

  IT WAS LATE and books covered the bed. Despite the effort to study, Hope jerked awake from the obnoxious ring tone. She pushed her chemistry homework aside and grabbed her phone.

  “Hello?” Her voice was groggy with sleep.

  “It’s Priska.”

  She rolled onto her back and held the phone to her ear. Who else would it be? Priska had given her the new phone, and hers was the only number programmed in it. There was no one else who even had the number besides the school. “Yeah?”

  “How’s school?”

  She snorted her response, “Fine. Suzy Sunshine is in three of my classes, and I think I’ll try out for the cheer squad.”

  Priska’s laugh was just a fraction off. Forced. And then she continued. “And did you get settled? Clothes and kitchen unpacked?”

  “Yep. It’s all good.” But not really. Just hearing Priska’s voice was causing waves in the pool of her emotions. “How are you? How’s Turkey?”

  “Unproductive. The priestesses were a nightmare. I finally got through today, but so far no one on Olympus is talking about your mom, or her death. Artemis said she’d keep her ears open, but it sounds like Skia.” There was a long sigh. “I’m going to leave tomorrow.”

  “Are you coming home?”

  “Not yet. I’m going to try and get into a conservatory.
I want to see if there is any chatter among the demigods. Sometimes they know even more than their parents.”

  “A conservatory?” She sat up. The conservatories were safe from Skia, and provided free housing for the offspring of the gods. They were also exclusively for demigods, some even requiring the immortal parent to vouch for their children before they would allow entrance. “How much longer will you be?”

  “I don’t know. A month, maybe two? It depends on how long it takes to get in. This is the only other thing I can think of. She paused. “I’ll call you every night until I get in.”

  “And then? What happens when you get in?”

  “Not sure. I’ll play it by ear. But I with all the subterfuge, I may not be able to call.”

  Hope was silent. The phone calls weren’t nearly enough, but she clung to them, her only contact with someone who loved her.

  “I promise I’ll text you every night, Hope. I’m sorry. I know this isn’t easy for you.”

  But this is what she wanted. “Will you be safe?” Some demigods were allegedly vicious killers, notably the sons of Ares.

  “It’s part of why I’m going where I’m going. There’s an Athenian shrine close by, and I hope the conservatory has at least one of her daughters. They tend to be resourceful women, and not impetuous. I’ll be fine. Remember, lie low.”

  Hope knew. “Okay.” It came out as just a squeak.

  “I’m sorry. I wish there was another way.”

  Hope nodded at the phone.

  “And Hope?”

  “Yes?” she hiccupped.

  “Stay put until I get back. No friends. Don’t stand out. And keep the immortal daggers close by. If you can get away with carrying one, it would probably be wise to have one on you all the time.”

  The daggers? She swallowed hard. They were two mismatched knives that her grandmother purportedly stole from demigods she’d fought hundreds of years ago. One was about six inches long with a blood-red ruby in its hilt, the other a couple inches longer, bright gold with inscriptions of the sun. They’d probably been packed in one of the boxes of her mother’s things. She’d need to dig them out.

  Tomorrow.