Goddess in Time

  THE TWELVE*

  DYNAMOTHEOS POWERS

  AEROKINESIS—The ability to control and move air and wind.

  AUTOPORTATION—The ability to move oneself to a different location through nonphysical means.

  CORPOPROMOTION—The ability to use the body to its fullest extent.

  CORPOPROTECTION—The ability to protect oneself from harm, whether seen or unseen.

  HYDROKINESIS—The ability to control and move liquids.

  NEOFACTION—The ability to create an object out of nothing.

  PHOTOMORPHOSIS—The ability to control light and fire.

  PSYCHODICTATION—The ability to communicate, whether in words, feelings, or other senses, telepathically with another hematheos.

  PSYCHOSPECTION—The ability to read the thoughts and emotions of others.

  TELEKINESIS—The ability to move objects through nonphysical means.

  VISIOCRYPTION—The ability to hide, mask, or cloak an object.

  VISIOMUTATION—The ability to change the appearance of an object.

  CONTENTS

  The Twelve Dynamotheos Powers

  Disclaimer

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Excerpt from Sweet Venom

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  About the Author

  Back Ads

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  DISCLAIMER

  When it comes to using dynamotheos powers, there are three unbreakable rules.

  1. Don’t use them against other students at the Academy, the ridiculously cliquish private school for hematheos—descendants of the gods—where I am currently entombed.

  2. Don’t use them to succeed in the nothos—nondescendant—human—world.

  3. And, under absolutely no circumstances can you use them to travel through time.

  Most people are frightened off by the consequences. The prospect of spending an eternity in the Olympic dungeons—or, if the gods are feeling particularly softhearted (insert eye-rolling sarcasm here), a flat-out smoting—is enough to keep the average hematheos from stepping over the line.

  If you’d met me a week ago, I would have told you I’d never break those rules. Okay, I might have severely bent the first one on occasion because, seriously, some of the theobrats at my school deserve a little thunderbolt to the backside every once in a while. But I definitely don’t need to use my powers to get by in the real world. And the power of time travel . . . that’s just a fairy tale.

  There are twelve powers, ranging from the ability to control the wind (aerokinesis) to the ability to change the appearance of something (visiomutation). Twelve powers. That’s it.

  Well, at least I thought so. But that was before. Before the trip to the secret archives. Before I found out the mysterious thirteenth power of time travel was full-blown reality. Before I realized what might be possible—what might be undone. Before.

  Nothing’s been the same since.

  And right now, I’m about to shatter rule number three.

  1

  I probably shouldn’t have taken the book. Burn that—I know I shouldn’t have taken the book. Mrs. Philipoulos is pretty cool for a descendant of revenge goddess Nemesis, as long as you don’t mess with her library books. If she had seen me stuff one in my bag she’d be in serious fits. Instant detention for at least a year.

  But when you’re in the top secret archives of Olympus in the top secret second basement of the top secret school for the descendants of the Greek gods, on a tiny island in the Aegean that the rest of the world believes to be uninhabited, and a book starts glowing as you walk by, you kind of have to pay attention. It would have been practically negligent of me to ignore it.

  I almost passed right by. I was only in the archives to help my friend Phoebe find the transcript of her dad’s trial, but she was several steps ahead of me. The dusty burgundy cover didn’t exactly stand out among shelf after shelf of musty, old, leather-bound books. Except for the Olympic records, which include files from forever right up until the present, nothing in the archive is less than a hundred years old. In other words, it blended like ice in the Arctic.

  As I got close, though, the faded lettering on the spine glowed. Commanded my attention. I couldn’t help but read the words formed by the light-etched script.

  The Art and Science of Chronoportation

  No author’s name. No publisher’s mark or call number or any writing beyond the title on the spine. Nothing to indicate it might even be listed in the admin-only section of the digital catalog.

  I pulled the volume from the shelf, shoved it into my messenger bag, and pretended like nothing out of the ordinary had just happened.

  Now, in my dorm room almost a week later, with the door locked and my extraspecial do-not-enter assurance in place, I know why the book glowed. Why it called to me. It was waiting for me, to give me the one thing I’ve been waiting ten long years for: the chance to fix everything.

  And today is the day I will finally find the courage to actually read it.

  “Calm the fluff down,” I tell myself, pacing back and forth in front of my desk like the kind of person who stresses about things, which I’m (usually) not. Like saying the words out loud might have more impact on my freak-out. “Just because it’s the title of the book doesn’t mean it’s real.”

  I pull out my desk chair, plop onto the seat, and straighten the book on the surface of my desk. I nudge it into perfect center.

  Letting my nervous energy out by chipping the black polish off my nails bit by bit, I resist the urge to start pacing again.

  I am so not a fidgeter. I push limits and bend rules and pretty much let everything go. Or at least I try to. But most of the annoying stuff in life is inconsequential, which makes worrying about it ridiculous.

  This book—this possibility—is . . . world-changing.

  I’ve heard about chronoportation all my life. The mysterious, dangerous, and highly illegal power of time travel. But it’s just a joke, an urban legend like Bigfoot, Atlantis, and the Seven Cities of Gold. Hematheos conspiracy kooks have spent centuries trying to unravel its secrets, to find the key to unlocking the fourth dimension. It’s an unending quest because it doesn’t exist.

  The book is real, though.

  I’ve rubbed my fingertips over the edges enough to make sure of that. The leather is worn so smooth I know it must be centuries old, and the heavy coating of dust on the top edge suggests it hasn’t been touched in almost as long. Which also makes me believe it might be legitimate. Why would Olympus and Mrs. Philipoulos go to all the bother of hiding the book in the super-restricted archives if the thirteenth power was pure fiction?

  There’s only one way to find out.

  Sucking in a deep breath, I lean forward to my desk, where the book sits. Waiting. It’s not that I’m afraid to flip open the cover. Okay, I’m a little afraid. Who knows what will happen to me when I take a peek? If Olympus really wanted the contents of the book hands-off, they might have installed supernatural protection. There might be a hideous or painful curse sealed into the pages.

  Which is why the book has been sitting under the hamper in my closet. Every morning I take it out and put it on my desk, with every intention of finally reading it. I don’t know what’s holding me back. Let’s just say fear is a completely foreign emotion to me, so I’m not dealing with it particularly well.

&n
bsp; “Oh for the love of Zeus,” I snap at myself. “Stop being ridiculous.”

  How can I fix things if I’m too scared to even read a stupid book?

  I reach for the leather cover.

  My hand freezes, hovering over the gilt lettering of the title, almost like an invisible force is keeping me from making contact. I know the only force at work here is fear. Fear of the unknown.

  “Not knowing is worse,” I whisper. Worse than any punishment Olympus could throw at me.

  Without allowing myself another weakhearted thought, I dip my fingers beneath the cover and fling the burgundy leather to the side.

  Knock, knock, knock.

  “Aaarck!”

  I leap back, away from the book, sending myself and my chair sprawling across the linoleum tile floor. My heart races, prepared for swarms of locusts or fire-breathing monsters. Or both.

  I check my skin for boils.

  Knock, knock, knock.

  It takes a few seconds for my brain to register the fact that someone is knocking on my door. Probably someone mostly human—I hope—since minions of Olympus don’t usually bother much with courtesy.

  “Yeah?” I call out, forcing my breathing and heart rate back to the vicinity of normal. I think I pull off nothing-out-of-the-ordinary pretty well for a girl flat on her back under a desk chair.

  “It’s me,” a male voice answers.

  Troy!

  “Crap,” I whisper, then louder, “Just a sec.”

  I scramble off the floor, righting the chair as I snatch the book off my desk and try to shove it in a drawer. Only I can’t find an open spot. My drawers are too full of old homework and school notices and other junk.

  “Come on, Nic,” Troy whines. “You wouldn’t believe what happened in chemistry today.”

  “Yeah, hold on,” I answer, searching desperately for a hiding spot. My room is not exactly spotless on the scale of cleanliness. Closer to pigsty. “I’m just, uh—” Maybe under the bed. “Getting dressed.”

  Diving to the floor, I shove a pile of stuff out of the way, slide the book under, and—just in case—move some of the clothes back into place.

  Perfect.

  “What are you doing in there?” he asks. “Sounds like you’re tackling the furniture.”

  “I told you, Travatas,” I gasp as I unlock my door and swing it open wide, “I was getting dressed.”

  His gentle green eyes, with bright gold centers that match the color of his short-cropped hair, give me a once-over beneath raised brows. He knows me too well. To sell the lie, I tug at my tank top hem to make it look like I had to rush.

  Troy Travatas is my best friend on the island—and, since I’m pretty much stuck here until graduation, thanks to Olympic decree, that makes him my best friend anywhere. I don’t like lying to him. But we’re practically opposites on the bold-and-daring front. Even the thought of stealing a book from the archives would give him a rash. The prospect of attempting time travel—if it really exists—would probably kill him.

  Apparently buying my just-getting-dressed act, he shrugs and takes a step forward. Right into my do-not-disturb assurance.

  “Ow!” he howls, jumping back from the photomorphosis electric-shock curtain I laid over the doorway.

  “Sorry,” I say, waving my hand over the invisible shield to make the power disappear. “You rushed me and I forgot.”

  He scowls as he steps—tentatively—into my room.

  A burnt smell wafts by me. His Imagine Dragons tee is smoldering at the shoulders. I act quickly before he notices, pretending to brush some dust off his shoulder as I use a little aerokinesis to cool off the red cotton knit. He still hasn’t forgiven me for the fireworks incident with his Green Day tee. And that was just a tiny hole.

  “That hurt more than last time,” he complains. “What’d you do, double the strength?”

  “Not on purpose.”

  I must have been so keyed up about the book that I added some of my nervous energy to the projection. Usually I don’t have to worry about keeping anything more dangerous than a cheerleader out of my room. With the book here—I guess I went a little overboard.

  As Troy tromps into my room, rubbing his shoulder where the shock probably traveled up his arm—thankfully there is no evidence of smoldering tee—I close the door behind him. Like it’s any other day, he collapses onto my bed, falling in a careless heap across my black comforter.

  Only it’s not any other day. And when he flops onto my bed, the bounce knocks a pillow onto the floor, and when Troy reaches down to pick it up, he dislodges some of the clothes covering up the book.

  And, because the book is probably cursed to cause me more trouble than it’s worth, it’s glowing again.

  “Seriously, I don’t know how Ms. Alatza gets away with some of these lessons.” Troy lifts himself up onto one elbow, his ankles crossed and his sneakers hanging off the end of the bed. “She gave us an unknown sample in the morning, and we had to spend all day performing tests to identify the compound.”

  “Oh yeah?” I ask absently, wondering if there is any way I can rehide the book without being obvious about it.

  “You wanna know what my sample was?” he asks. Not waiting for a response, he answers, “Potassium.”

  “Huh.”

  Maybe if I fake tripping, I could fall right in front of the book and flick some clothes back into place while I’m down. I think I could pull it off.

  “Do you know what happens to potassium when you add water?” He sits up. “Of course you don’t, because your parents aren’t making you take the Summer Intensive Premed Program so you can get into med school, even though you want to be a musician. It explodes.”

  In my heavy-duty combat boots, it would only be a matter of taking a step, catching the toe of one on the heel of the other, and voila! Instant klutz.

  I’m ready to begin my fake fall when Troy says, “Sorry.”

  “What?” I look up, wondering why he’s sorry.

  Guess I’d been too caught up in my tripping plan to listen to what he was saying. He pulls himself up into a sitting position—right above the book, darn it—and gives me a sad, apologetic look.

  “Your parents,” he says, leaning forward over his knees and looking completely embarrassed. Pink cheeks and everything. “I didn’t mean to mention them.”

  “Oh.” I hadn’t even noticed. “It’s fine. No big deal.”

  I wave off his apology.

  His head jerks back and his eyes widen. Then narrow. A look of utter suspicion furrows across his face. Uh-oh.

  Troy knows me well enough to expect talk of my parents to make me—at the very least—grumpy. I haven’t seen them face-to-face in years, and can’t until after graduation. Nonchalance on this issue is definitely cause for alarm.

  “No big deal?” he echoes. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” I say quickly. “Of course.”

  “You’re acting a little off.” His brow scowls deeper. “Even for you.”

  “Thanks,” I retort, trying to act like my normal sarcastic self. Nearly impossible at the moment. Nothing feels normal right now. In his current position, forearms resting on his knees out in front of the bed, all Troy has to do is dip his head to see the glowing book.

  It takes all my willpower to keep my gaze from darting down to check, which would only make him want to look, completely defeating my whole hide-it-under-the-bed purpose. But it’s hard to ignore a glowing tome sitting inches below your best friend’s butt.

  “I’m fine.” I force myself to maintain eye contact. “Really—no!”

  Apparently, I didn’t force myself strongly enough.

  Following the direction of my wayward gaze, Troy drops his head down to peer under the bed. Seeing the book, he glances back up at me with a question in his eyes before reaching down and grabbing the edge.

  Oh Hades. If only I’d kept my eyes where they belonged.

  If only I hadn’t lost my cool. I never lose my cool. This whole situation
is messing with me.

  “Did you know your book is glowing?” Troy asks with a laugh.

  I watch, in horror, as he reads the illuminated words.

  In a heartbeat, his eyes spear me to the spot. “Where did you get this?”

  “Where?” I shrug, trying to play it off. “I don’t remem—”

  “Cut the crap,” he interrupts, which is so unlike him. “This is serious, Nicole.”

  “Maybe,” I say, turning away to fiddle with the drawer handles on my desk. Mostly so he won’t see the signs of panic I am sure are playing in bright red across my face.

  “Maybe?” he scoffs.

  The mattress squeaks and I feel Troy walk up behind me.

  “Definitely.” He drops the book on my desk with a thwack. “You know this is illegal. You shouldn’t even have this book.”

  Now, Troy is my best friend, and I’m sure he means well. But I don’t deal well with people telling me what I should and should not do—never have. I feel the rebel side of me—which is, I’ll be the first to admit, almost all of me—raise its hackles, ready for a fight.

  “Well, I do have it,” I say, turning on him, jabbing a finger to his chest. “And I don’t need you to tell me it’s illegal. I’ve done plenty of illegal in my lifetime,” I gloat. “According to Olympic law, I’m a one-woman crime spree.”

  Granted, on the scale of major Olympic transgressions, I’m still pretty small-time. But I doubt any of the gods expect me to become an exemplary hematheos anytime soon.

  “Not like this, Nicole,” he says quietly. “This is serious. Olympus will—”

  My fear dissolves like sugar in coffee.

  “Olympus can go hang, for all I care.”

  And I mean it.

  2

  Mt. Olympus and I don’t exactly have a lovey-dovey relationship. More like it’s kind of my personal mission to sidestep the gods and their stupid laws as much as possible. They’ve never given me a reason to respect their leadership. Quite the opposite.

  My parents spent their entire lives following Olympic law to the letter. Dotting every i and filing every report in triplicate. My dad was an adviser to Zeus, living and working on Mount Olympus, an honor awarded to a devoted few. Mom volunteered as a liaison between Olympus and the nymphae, the wild family of minor nature deities. We were happy. Then, in an instant—because of one stupid prank I pulled—all Dad’s years of service and devotion and straight-arrow living went out the window. He and Mom got banished from the hematheos world, forced to live as ordinary humans and make their way on their own, without powers or godly connections. They had to start from scratch.