Helen tried to wiggle out from underneath it, but she couldn’t move her legs without excruciating pain radiating out from her hips. Something was certainly broken—her hip, her back, maybe both.
Helen squinted and tried to shade her eyes with a hand, swallowing around her thirst. She was exposed, trapped, like a turtle turned over onto its back. The blank sky held no cloud to provide even a moment of relief.
Just blinding light and relentless heat . . .
Helen wandered out of Miss Bee’s social studies class, stifling a yawn. Her head felt stuffed up and hot, like a Thanksgiving turkey on slow roast. It was nearly the end of the school day, but that was no comfort. Helen looked down at her feet and thought about what awaited her. Every night she descended into the Underworld and encountered yet another horrendous landscape. She had no idea why she’d end up in some places a few times, and other places only once, but she thought it had something to do with her mood. The worse the mood she was in when she went to sleep, the worse her experience in the Underworld.
Still focused on her shuffling feet, Helen felt warm fingers brush against hers in the hustle of the hallway. Glancing up, she saw Lucas’s jewel-blue eyes seeking hers. She pulled in a breath, a quick inward sigh of surprise, and locked eyes with him.
Lucas’s gaze was soft and playful, and the corners of his mouth tilted up in a secret smile. Still moving in opposite directions, they turned their heads to maintain eye contact as they walked on, their identical smiles growing with each passing moment. With a teasing flick of her hair, Helen abruptly faced forward and ended the stare, a grin plastered on her face.
One look from Lucas and she felt stronger. Alive again. She could hear him chuckling to himself as he walked on, almost smug, like he knew exactly how much he affected her. She chuckled, too, shaking her head at herself. Then she saw Jason.
Walking a few paces behind Lucas with Claire at his side, Jason had watched the whole exchange. His mouth was a worried line, and his eyes were sad. He shook his head at Helen in disapproval and she looked down, blushing furiously.
They were cousins, Helen knew that. Flirting was wrong. But it made her feel better when nothing else could. Was she supposed to go through all of this without even the comfort of Lucas’s smile? Helen went to her last class and sat behind her desk, fighting back tears as she unpacked her notebook.
Long splinters enveloped Helen, forcing her to remain completely still or risk impaling herself on one of them. She was trapped inside the trunk of a tree that sat alone in the middle of a dry, dead scrubland. If she breathed too deeply, the long splinters pricked her. Her arms were twisted behind her and her legs folded up uncomfortably underneath her, tilting her torso forward. One long splinter was lined up directly with her right eye. If her head moved forward while she struggled to break free—if she even let it sag a little with fatigue—her eye would be stabbed out.
“What do you expect me to do?” she whimpered to no one. Helen knew she was completely alone.
“What am I supposed to do?” she suddenly screamed, her chest and back stinging with a dozen little puncture wounds.
Screaming didn’t help, but getting angry did. It helped steel her enough to accept the inevitable. She’d put herself here, even if it was unintentional, and she knew how to get herself out. Pain usually triggered her release from the Underworld. As long as she didn’t die, Helen was pretty sure she would leave the Underworld and wake up in her bed. She’d be injured and in pain, but at least she’d be out.
She stared at the long splinter in front of her eye, knowing what the situation demanded she do, but not sure she was capable of doing it. As the anger fueling her seeped away, desperate tears welled up and spilled down her cheeks. She heard her own constricted, choked-off sobs pressing close to her in the claustrophobic prison of the tree trunk. Minutes passed, and Helen’s arms and legs began to cry out, twisted as they were into unnatural shapes.
Time would not change the situation. Tears would not change the situation. She had one choice, and she knew she could either make it now or hours of suffering from now. Helen was a Scion, and as such a target for the Fates. She’d never had any choice but one. With that thought, the anger returned.
In one sure movement, she jerked her head forward.
Lucas couldn’t take his eyes off Helen. Even from across the kitchen he could see that the translucent skin across her high cheekbones was so pale it was stained blue by the lacy veins running below the surface. He could have sworn that when she first came over to study with Cassandra at the Delos house that morning, her forearms were covered in fading bruises.
She had a spooked, hunted look to her now. She looked more frightened than she had a few weeks ago when they all thought that Tantalus and the fanatical Hundred Cousins were after her. Cassandra had recently foreseen that the Hundred were focusing nearly all their energy on finding Hector and Daphne, and that Helen had nothing to fear. But if it wasn’t the Hundred frightening Helen, then it had to be something in the Underworld. Lucas wondered if she was being chased, maybe even tortured down there.
The thought tore him up inside, like there was a wild animal climbing up the inside of his rib cage, gnawing on his bones as it went. He had to grit his teeth together to stop the growl that was trying to grind out of him. He was so angry all the time now, and his anger worried him. But worse than the anger was how worried he was about Helen.
Watching her jump at the slightest sound, or tense into herself with wide, staring eyes, pushed him almost to the point of panic. Lucas felt a physical need to protect Helen. It was like a whole body tic that made him want to throw himself between her and harm. But he couldn’t help her with this. He couldn’t get into the Underworld without dying.
Lucas was still working on that problem. There weren’t many individuals who could physically go down into the Underworld like Helen could and survive—just a handful in the entire history of Greek mythology. But he wasn’t going to stop trying. Lucas had always been good at solving problems—good at solving “unsolvable” puzzles in particular. Which was probably why seeing Helen like this hurt him in such a nagging, hateful way.
He couldn’t solve this for her. She was on her own down there, and there was nothing he could do about it.
“Son. Why don’t you sit next to me?” Castor suggested, startling Lucas out of his thoughts. His father motioned to the chair on his right as they all sat down at the table for Sunday supper.
“That’s Cassandra’s seat,” Lucas replied with a sharp shake of his head, but really what Lucas was thinking was that it was Hector’s. Lucas couldn’t bear to take a seat that never should have been vacated. Instead, he took his place on his father’s left at the end of the community bench.
“Yeah, Dad,” Cassandra joked as she took the seat that she had automatically inherited when Hector became an Outcast for killing Tantalus’s only son, Creon. “Are you trying to demote me or something?”
“Wouldn’t you know it if I was? What kind of an oracle are you, anyway?” Castor teased, poking Cassandra in the belly until she shrieked.
Lucas could see that his father was seizing this rare opportunity to play with Cassandra, because those opportunities were nearly over. As the Oracle, Lucas’s little sister was pulling away from her family, from all of humanity. Soon, she would drift away from all people and become the cold instrument of the Fates, no matter how much she was loved by those closest to her.
Castor usually took any chance he could to joke around with his daughter, but Lucas could tell that this time he was only partly focused on taunting Cassandra. His mind was elsewhere. For some reason Lucas couldn’t immediately see, Castor really didn’t want Lucas to sit in his usual seat.
He understood a moment later when Helen sat down next to him, in the place that had, through time and use, become her spot at the table. As she stepped over the bench and slid down next to him, Lucas watched his father’s brow furrow.
Lucas shook off his father’s disapproval
and let himself enjoy the feel of Helen next to him. Even though she was obviously hurt by whatever was happening to her in the Underworld, her presence filled Lucas with strength. The shape of her, the softness of her arm as it brushed against his while they passed plates around the table, the clear, bright tone of her voice as she joined in the conversation—everything about Helen reached inside of him and soothed the wild animal in his rib cage.
He wished he could do the same for her. Throughout dinner, Lucas wondered what was happening to Helen in the Underworld, but he knew he would have to wait until they were alone to ask. She would lie to the family, but she couldn’t lie to him.
“Hey,” he called out later, stopping Helen in the dim corridor between the powder room and his father’s study. She tensed momentarily and then turned toward him, her features softening.
“Hey,” she breathed, moving closer to him.
“Bad night?”
She nodded, angling herself even closer until he could smell the almond-scented soap she had just used to wash her hands. Lucas knew she probably wasn’t aware of how they always moved toward each other, but he was.
“Tell me about it.”
“It’s just hard,” she said shrugging, trying to dodge his questions.
“Describe it.”
“There was this boulder.” She stopped speaking, rubbed her wrists, and shook her head with a pinched expression. “I can’t. I don’t want to think about it any more than I have to. I’m sorry, Lucas. I don’t mean to make you angry,” she said, responding to his huff of frustration.
He stared at her for a moment, wondering how she could be so wrong about how she made him feel. He tried to stay calm while he asked her the next question, but still, it came out rougher than he would have liked.
“Is someone hurting you down there?”
“There’s no one down there but me,” she replied. By the way she said it, Lucas knew that her solitude was even worse somehow than torture.
“You’ve been injured.” He reached out across the few feet separating them and briefly ran a finger across her wrist, tracing the shape of the fading bruises he had seen there.
Her face was closed. “I don’t have my powers in the Underworld. But I heal when I wake up.”
“Talk to me,” he coaxed. “You know you can tell me anything.”
“I know I can, but if I do, I’ll pay for it later,” she groaned, but with a touch of humor. Lucas pressed on, sensing her lightening mood, and wanting so much to see her smile once more.
“What? Just tell me!” he said with a grin. “How painful could it be to talk to me about it?”
Her laugher died and she looked up at him, her mouth parting slightly, just enough so Lucas could see the glassy inner rim of her lower lip. He remembered the feel of it when he kissed her and he tensed—stopping himself before he dipped his head down to feel it again.
“Excruciating,” she whispered.
“Helen! How long does it take to use the powder—” Cassandra cut off abruptly when she saw Lucas’s back moving away down the hall, and Helen blushing furiously as she darted toward the library.
Helen hurried through the room with the peeling petunia wallpaper, avoiding the rotted floorboards by the soggy, mold-infested couch. It seemed to glare at her as she ran past. She’d already come this way a dozen times, maybe more. Instead of taking the door on the right or the door on the left, both of which she knew led nowhere, she decided she had nothing to lose and went into the closet.
A mossy wool overcoat loomed in the corner. There was dandruff on the collar and it smelled like a sick old man. It crowded her, like it was trying to shoo her out of its lair. Helen ignored the cantankerous coat and searched until she found another door, hidden in one of the side panels of the closet. The opening was only tall enough to permit a small child to pass through. She knelt down, suddenly creeped out by the wool coat that seemed to watch her bend over, like it was trying to peek down her shirt, and hurried through the child-sized door.
The next room was a dusty boudoir, caked with centuries of heavy perfume, yellow stains, and disappointment. But at least there was a window. Helen hurried to it, hoping to jump out and free herself from this terrible trap. She pushed the lurid peach taffeta curtains aside with something approaching hope.
The window was bricked up. She hit the bricks with her fists, just jabs at first, but with increasing anger until her knuckles were raw. Everything was rotted and crumbling in this labyrinth of rooms—everything except the exits. Those were as solid as Fort Knox.
Helen had been trapped for what felt to her like days. She’d become so desperate she’d even closed her eyes and tried to fall asleep, hoping to wake up in her bed. It didn’t work. Helen still hadn’t figured out how to control her entrances and exits from the Underworld without half killing herself. She was frightened that she was actually going to die this time, and didn’t want to think about what she would have to do to herself to get out.
White spots crowded her vision, and several times now she had almost passed out from thirst and fatigue. She hadn’t had any water in so long that even the sluggish goo that spattered reluctantly out of the taps in this hell-house was starting to look appealing.
The strange thing was that Helen was more frightened in this part of the Underworld than she had ever been, even though she wasn’t in any imminent danger. She wasn’t hanging from a ledge, or trapped in the trunk of a tree, or chained by the wrists to a boulder that was dragging her down a hill and toward a cliff.
She was just in a house, an endless house with no exits.
These visits to the parts of the Underworld where she was in no immediate danger lasted the longest and ended up being the hardest in the long run. Thirst, hunger, and the crushing loneliness she suffered—these were the worst kind of punishment. Hell didn’t need lakes of fire to torment. Time and solitude were enough.
Helen sat down under the bricked-up window, thinking about having to spend the rest of her life in a House where she wasn’t welcome.
It started pouring rain right in the middle of football practice, and then everything went sideways. All the guys started throwing each other around, sliding in the mud, really tearing up the turf. Coach Brant finally gave up and sent everyone home. Lucas watched Coach as they all packed it in, and could tell he wasn’t really into the practice to begin with. His son, Zach, had quit the team the day before. From what everyone said, Coach hadn’t taken it well, and Lucas wondered how bad the fight had gotten. Zach hadn’t been in school that day.
Lucas sympathized with Zach. He knew what it was like to have a father who was disappointed in you.
“Luke! Let’s go! I’m freezing,” Jason hollered. He was already stripping off his gear on his way to the locker room, and Lucas ran to catch up.
They rushed to get home, both of them hungry and wet, and walked right into the kitchen. Helen and Claire were in there with Lucas’s mom. The girls’ track uniforms were soaked through, and they hovered expectantly by Noel with excited looks on their faces while they dabbed at themselves with towels. At first, all Lucas could see was Helen. Her hair was tangled and her long, bare legs glistened with rain.
Then he heard a whispering in his ear, and a flare of hate flashed through him. His mother was on the phone. The voice on the other end was Hector’s.
“No, Lucas. Don’t,” Helen said in a quavering voice. “Noel, hang up!”
Lucas and Jason rushed toward the source of the Outcast’s voice, compelled by the Furies. Helen stepped in front of Noel. All she did was hold out her hands in a “stop” gesture, and the cousins ran into her hands like they were running into a solid wall. They were thrown back onto the floor, gasping for air. Helen didn’t budge an inch.
“I’m so sorry!” Helen said, crouching over them with an anxious look on her face. “But I couldn’t let you tackle Noel.”
“Don’t apologize,” Lucas groaned, rubbing his chest. He had no idea Helen was that strong, but he couldn’t ha
ve been happier that she was. His mother had a shocked look on her face, but both she and Claire were fine. That was all that mattered.
“Uuuhh,” Jason added, agreeing with Lucas. Claire crouched down next to him and patted him sympathetically while he rolled around, trying to get his breath back.
“I wasn’t expecting you boys home so soon,” Noel stammered. “He usually calls when he knows you’ll be at practice. . . .”
“It’s not your fault, Mom,” Lucas said, cutting her off. He hauled Jason to his feet. “You okay, bro?”
“No,” Jason replied honestly. He took a few more breaths and finally stood all the way up, the blow to his chest no longer the thing hurting him. “I hate this.”
The cousins shared a pained look. They both missed Hector and couldn’t stand what the Furies did to them. Jason suddenly turned and walked out the door, out into the rain.
“Jason, wait,” Claire called, hurrying to follow him.
“I didn’t think you’d be home this early,” Noel repeated, more to herself than anyone else, like she couldn’t let it go. Lucas went to his mother and gave her a kiss on the forehead.
“Don’t worry. It’ll be fine,” he told her in a choked voice.
He had to get out of there. Still wrestling with the knot in his throat, he went upstairs to change. Halfway down the hall to his room and half out of his clothes, he heard Helen’s voice behind him.
“I used to think you were a good liar,” she said softly. “But not even I bought it when you said ‘it’ll be fine.’”
Lucas dropped his sodden shirt on the floor and turned back to Helen, too wrung out to resist. He pulled her to him and let his face rest against her neck. She fitted herself against him, taking his weight as his big shoulders curved over and around her, and held him until he was calm enough to speak.
“A part of me wants to go find him. Hunt him down,” he confided, not able to tell this to anyone but Helen. “Every night I dream about how I tried to kill him with my bare hands on the steps of the library. I can see myself hitting him over and over, and I wake up thinking maybe this time I have killed him. And I feel relieved. . . .”
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