Curse of the Sphinx

by Raye Wagner

  “Pussycat, pussycat, where have you been?” Her eyes shifted but never left Hope’s.

  Hope was speechless.

  “Did you hear me, little one?”

  Hope could only nod. What could you say to complete nonsense?

  “Here you are, Hope.” Mr. Stanley held out the white package. “Enjoy your dinner.”

  With relief, she turned her attention. “Thank you.” She took the small package from him and forced herself to walk away.

  As she maneuvered past carts and produce, she could hear Mr. Stanley. “Mrs. Stephens. Always a pleasure to see you out and about. What can I get for you today?”

  How could he talk to her so normally?

  She tried to dismiss the odd encounter, but a shiver ran down her spine as she climbed into her car.

  SHE BOUNDED UP the steps to her house, taking two at a time, and noticed a piece of paper tucked into the door. She pulled it from the jamb and read the scrawl: A joke. Mr. Stanley must have stopped by on his way into work.

  After unlocking the door, she walked into her small home, reveling in its coziness. Her living area was open—the kitchen, dining area, and living room all connected. A matching couch and loveseat filled the living room, and a TV hung from the opposite wall above the mantle where the statue of Hecate sat. Down a short hall were two bedrooms, and a cramped bathroom squeezed between them. A study sat off the living room. It was everything she needed, and therefore perfect.

  Her smile didn’t last. After her shower and breakfast, Hope checked her phone.

  I’m in. Text only from now on. Wish me luck.

  Her heart pounded, and she tapped out her perfunctory response to Priska.

  Good Luck!

  She took a deep breath. This was what they wanted.

  Hopefully, Priska would find answers soon.

  Twenty-one days until the change

  “WHO CAN TELL me about Skia?” Ms. Biggers smiled at the class as if she were discussing divine ambrosia.

  Hope sat up and flipped her notebook to a clean page.

  “Uh, they’re mythical,” Tristan muttered under his breath.

  Ms. Biggers sighed and rolled her eyes. “Anyone else?”

  A cute girl with auburn hair raised her hand. Was her name Richelle or Michelle?

  “Chelli?”

  “They’re from the Underworld. Hades created them.”

  “Very good. Hades, god of the Underworld, created Skia in response to the gods’ bastard children. It was a move for balance, a way to keep the demigod population in check.”

  Balance?

  Ms. Biggers continued her lecture. “Just as death is an inevitable part of life for humans, Skia ensure that death will be a part of the demigods’ lives. Death isn’t evil. It just is.”

  Her hand went up.

  “Yes.” There was a pause, and then Ms. Biggers waved in her direction. “You have a question?”

  Hope blushed. “Uh, yeah. Do Skia kill other things?”

  There was a giggle from behind her.

  “Other things?” Ms. Biggers frowned. “Like animals or humans? No.”

  “No, I meant, do they kill monsters?”

  Several more chuckles.

  “Ah.” The frown turned into something that communicated pride. “No, class. This is a very good question.”

  The room quieted.

  Hope scooted forward on her seat.

  “Of course, the answer’s hypothetical, as monsters are probably extinct. But theoretically, the answer would be no. Skia hunt demigods, the ones that are left, at least. It is believed, with the disappearance of the gods, that one day, the demigods, too, will disappear. Then the earth will be inhabited entirely by humans.” Her eyes grew distant.

  “Too bad we can’t get some elves to join us from Middle Earth,” Krista snarked.

  “Or angel-children.” Angela sighed.

  “Ah, Angela. You’re mixing your mythology. Nephilim is the term you’re looking for, and they’re children of gods and humans; a different way of saying demigods.” Ms. Biggers chuckled. “Now, your assignment. Analyze the myths surrounding the death of a demigod. Find one that could be the result of Skia, and write a supporting supposition. The point here again is to persuade the reader to your point of view. You can work alone, or in pairs. It’s due tomorrow. You have the rest of class to work on it.”

  Could Priska be wrong about Skia? And if it wasn’t Skia that killed her mom . . . Had a demigod found them in Bellevue?

  Guilt sat heavy in her stomach. If she’d said something to her mom . . . If she’d only been less selfish. If they’d only moved . . . they would’ve been safe. Her mom would have been alive.

  A FEW MINUTES before nine, she finished her paper. She tilted her head side to side, cracking her neck. By the gods, she was tight. Her muscles were stiff from sitting for so long.

  Orpheus was a depressing subject to write about, and while the myth surrounding his journey to and from the Underworld to claim his wife was well known, the story of his death was not.

  It was not unreasonable to believe that Hades would look at Orpheus’s actions as selfish. When Orpheus appeared in the Underworld and begged to take his wife back to the mortal realm, it was because he loved her too much to live without her. But then he refused Hades’s offer to remain in the Underworld with Eurydice which would have kept him united with his love. Even after the refusal of his offer, Hades still gave Orpheus a chance to get his wife back. But Orpheus was impatient and broke the terms of the contract, thus losing his wife to death. After all this, it was more believable that a “reaper,” or Skia, killed the demigod than a bunch of women tore him limb from limb because he wouldn’t sleep with them. Not if he truly loved his wife.

  She shook her head. A run would help clear the thoughts buzzing inside.

  The night air was crisp and cool.

  As Hope jogged down Main toward Columbus, she noticed another runner. Someone coming toward her.

  As soon as she recognized him, she debated turning around. But the idea of Athan being behind her was even less appealing. Stuffing down her apprehension, she fixed a smile in preparation to acknowledge him.

  She could tell the second he recognized her. His pace slowed, and his face, previously set in the concentration of running, shifted.

  “Hey.” She tipped her head toward him.

  He nodded and ran on.

  She could hear the sound of his retreating steps, and then she turned right on Columbus.

  As she turned left on Broadway, her thoughts drifted to her assignment, and she wondered if love really made people do stupid things, like go to the Underworld to try and win your wife back. If what happened to her mom was any indication, love was just trouble.

  As her mom told it, she’d made a mistake. She didn’t tell her husband about the curse until after they were married. It wasn’t just that she turned into a Sphinx at the new moon. No, if she ever had a “complete family,” i.e., a husband and child with anyone other than Apollo or his offspring, she would die. While Leto told Hope over and over that love needed to be built on trust, actions spoke louder than her words. When Leto told the men she loved of the curse, they fled.

  That hurt.

  Hope was finishing the loop around Goldendale when she saw Athan again.

  She hadn’t been friendly with him, even bordering on offensive at times, but she did not feel bad about it. Regardless of what his life had been like. Regardless of the fact he’d lost his mom, too.

  Almost as though she’d called his name aloud, Athan jogged toward her, his gaze fixed on her.

  “Hey Hope,” he called as he approached.

  She slowed her pace only slightly. “I’m not finished with my run. Do you mind?”

  To her surprise, he started to jog next to her. “How about if I finish with you?”

  Flustered, she said, “Okay.” But her uncertainty made it sound like a question.

  He said nothing, and their steady footfalls pounded a rhythm.
Thump-thump, thump-thump. A sense of security trickled over her senses.

  “Do you run at night a lot, Hope?”

  What? “Not usually.” She dared a glance from the corner of her eyes. “Maybe once or twice a week.”

  He stumbled, then surprised Hope with his rejoinder. “Do you think that’s safe?”

  “Thanks for the concern. I’ll be just fine.” She was relieved to see her house on the left, and she slowed her pace. “Here’s my stop. I hope the rest of your night is”—she really didn’t care how his night was, and she finished lamely—“nice.” She was up on the porch, bending down to get her key, when she realized he’d followed her up the steps.

  He leaned against the door, and when she stood up, he was staring. Uncomfortable with his gaze and uncomfortable with his presence, she demanded “What?”

  “Why don’t you run during daylight hours?”

  She made no move to unlock the door, but flipped the key over and over in her hands. Part of her wanted to yell at him to leave, and part of her wondered at his interest. “I usually do. I just needed to clear my head.” She frowned. “I appreciate your concern, but really, we’re in Goldendale. I stay on main streets, I’m a black belt in tae kwon do, and I’m stronger than I appear. I really think my safety shouldn’t keep you up tonight.” She stood waiting for him to back off the porch.

  But he didn’t.

  She huffed. “If you don’t mind, I really need to get inside and get ready for bed. It’s late. At the risk of sounding parental, you should do the same.”

  He shifted his weight. “Okay. Just, if you want a running partner, you could always give me a call.”

  Never. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Her sarcasm was biting.

  The playfulness disappeared. He leaned forward, his gaze steady, intense. “Think about it. I’d like for us to be friends.”

  He bounded down the steps and was halfway up the block before she could process what he’d said.

  Over the next few days, she kept wary watch over the stupid mortal boy. It was exhausting. He interacted with everyone. Everyone got a smile, a joke, a touch, a laugh.

  He obviously wanted to be friends with everyone.

  But there was a practiced intensity that made it feel . . . false.

  Like watching a movie.

  Her worry about being singled out faded, then disappeared.

  Sixteen days until the change

  HOW ARE THINGS going? Any news? Hope typed out the text and waited, as she did each night before bed.

  Nothing concrete. More demigods here than expected. Several from Athena, but others, too.

  Who else? What did that mean?

  Him, among others. Not sure that it means anything, except there are more demigods than I thought.

  More demigods? And some from Apollo . . . Should I be worried?

  No. Just be careful.

  I am. Careful. Safety. The familiar mantra pounded with her heartbeat.

  I’ll check in with you tomorrow.

  K. Bye.

  Hope set her phone down with a sigh. Years ago Priska had told her that each god only had one demigod child. Clearly that wasn’t the case. What else didn’t she know?

  Sleep claimed her for a few hours, and she was buried in a cocoon of warmth. A buzz from her phone nagged at her senses, and she grabbed the offending device.

  One new message at two fourteen am.

  Hope swiped across the screen and opened the message.

  Got it. Unbelievable. Call u in the am.

  She sat up, all vestiges of sleep gone. She wanted to call. Her fingers itched to dial Priska’s number. But Priska would have called if she could.

  Call ASAP. I’m up.

  It would have to do.

  A minute later she checked her phone to make sure the text went through. Five minutes later Hope checked to make sure she didn’t miss a response. And again, five minutes after that. And again, and again, and again. But nothing.

  Sleep pulled, and Hope fought it, clutching her phone like a lifeline.

  When the phone beeped, her alarm going off, Hope wanted to scream. Priska should have called by now. Why hadn’t she called by now?

  She spent the day on her bed, her phone in her hand, her stomach in knots.

  It didn’t matter if she missed school. It didn’t matter if she didn’t eat, or take a shower. It didn’t matter. Because nothing was going to make her miss this call.

  But it never came.

  THE INTERCOM BUZZED. “Ms. Biggers?”

  Hope flinched. The cumulative lack of sleep and panic had settled into hopelessness and dread. Perhaps it was paranoia, but something in her gut told her this was for—

  “Please send Hope Treadwell to the office.”

  She could feel the weight of twenty-two pairs of eyes, and flushed.

  She’d gotten back to Goldendale last night, but without any reassurance about Priska her anxiety remained high, and she’d hardly slept the last six nights. She reached over and grabbed her backpack.

  “Go ahead, Hope. Get your things together,” said Ms. Biggers, waving her hands. “You can get the assignment from Krista later.”

  Hope stopped her hand midair. Right. She glanced at Krista just in time to see her turn away with a sneer. At least the feeling was mutual.

  She stepped out into the hall and trudged to the office.

  “Go ahead and sit there, Miss Treadwell.” Ms. Slate indicated a row of hard plastic chairs. “Mr. Jeffers will be with you shortly.”

  Shortly. Was that code for time to stress you out more?

  Hope tapped her foot; the anxiety demanded some form of release. The trip last week to Seattle had been completely unfruitful. After waiting three days at Priska’s apartment, she went to see Mr. Davenport. Priska had been in contact with him the entire time she’d been gone, too. But all communication from her had stopped. Her last text was to Mr. Davenport about a minute after the one Hope got, promising to call in the morning with travel arrangements. Then, nothing.

  Mr. Davenport had tried to locate her through tracking her phone, but the last known location of her phone was Atlanta. He’d filed a missing person report with the police. He’d even hired a private investigator to look for her.

  On the sixth day, Mr. Davenport pushed Hope to go back to school, and promised to continue to marshal all his “resources” to locate Priska.

  “She didn’t believe it was safe for you on this side of the mountains, Hope. Too many demigods here. Go back and hide where you’re safe. I’ll let you know the minute I find out anything,” he said.

  So she’d come back.

  “Mr. Jeffers will see you now.” Ms. Slate interrupted her reverie.

  Hope sighed.

  She opened the door and walked into a plain, functional office. A metal desk sat in the middle of the room. Wire baskets filled with papers sat on either side of the computer screen in the center of the desk. The overhead lighting was off, but sunlight lit the room. The shades were adjusted so a beam streamed right into the chair opposite Mr. Jeffers’s desk.

  “Ah, Miss Treadwell.” Mr. Jeffers wheeled out from behind his desk in a sleek wheelchair. “Thank you for coming in.” He extended his hand. His fair skin contrasted with curly brown hair, just starting to gray at the temples. He wore a short-sleeved polo, and she could see the cording of muscles in his forearms.

  Hope shook his calloused hand. “Of course, sir.”

  “Pull up a chair.” He pointed at the hot seat, then wheeled around behind his desk. “You seem to have disappeared for a few days.” He glanced down at something on his desk, then back at her. “Four, to be exact.”

  She nodded.

  “Would you like to elucidate?”

  “My aunt . . . disappeared, and I was . . . worried. I went to see if I could find her.”

  Mr. Jeffers nodded. “And did you?”

  She shook her head.

  “Hmm. Are you close to your aunt?”

  “Yes, sir.”
r />   “But you don’t live with her?”

  “No, sir. She lives in Seattle.” Dang! The seat was uncomfortable as well as warm. Hope shifted trying to pull out of the light.

  “And she’s not your guardian, correct?”

  “That’s correct. She travels, and we thought—” What was he getting at?

  “So the responsibility for your education falls on . . .” His head dipped at her meaningfully.

  “Me?”

  “And here we come to the crux of it, Miss Treadwell. You’ve been at our school for a little over a month and you’ve had six absences. All . . . unexcused.” He tapped the paper in front of him. “Are you unwell?”

  She swallowed. “No, sir.”

  “You’ll not find me unreasonable.” He sat back and spread his arms wide. “But, I don’t write the laws, Miss Treadwell. At ten absences I have to report you to the truancy board. I imagine at that point your emancipation may come under scrutiny.” He sighed and wheeled out from behind his desk. “You’re skating on thin ice. I would hate for you to get in over your head.”

  Too late.

  “If you need to talk with someone, I can arrange for you to meet with Mrs. Rossi, our school counselor.”

  Mrs. Rossi, aka Angela’s mom. “No, thank you.”

  “Then I suggest you get caught up in your classes.” He indicated the door with a wave of his hand. “Good day.” He turned to his computer screen, effectively dismissing her.

  Good day? Who said that anymore? She left, stopping to get a note from Ms. Slate before heading back to class.

  So what was she going to do when she changed?

  Nine days before the change

  “EXCUSE ME?” WHAT was her name? Gods, if only she’d paid more attention when all those girls introduced themselves. She leaned forward, entering the girl’s personal space. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but . . .” She hated to admit it. “I need some help.”

  The brunette sat up her eyes wide. “Oh. Hope. Hi.” Her smile was tentative. “What can I do for you?”