“So typical! The princess hogs the bathroom forever! Scoot! It’s my turn now.”
I’m yelling as well, ordering her to get out while trying to shield my private parts with my arms. Amy tells me I’ve got one second to come out then slams the door.
I jump out of the tub and grab a fluffy, white robe from a hook. My mom and I could never afford hotels, but one of her patients, to thank her for an especially hard delivery, once sent us to a spa for a long weekend. I thought it was the grandest thing in the world, but compared to this villa, it was a cheap motel.
“All yours,” I tell Amy as I rush into the bedroom.
“Great. Now I’ll get your filthy water,” she grumbles.
As soon as the door closes, I start untying my robe, wondering what I’m expected to wear. Hopefully not my school uniform, which I’ve come to loathe with a passion.
“You’ll never believe it!” Amy cracks the door open as my boobs are once again bare. I turn my back so she won’t see, trying to come up with a system to protect my privacy. My new roommate has serious boundary issues.
“The bath has refilled itself! And it smells like bubblegum now!”
“Wonderful news. Now go wash up, and knock on the door once you’re ready to come back in.”
“Whatever, princess.” She slams the door.
I keep my robe on this time in case she decides to return to show me the soap. The bedroom is wide and airy, with a queen bed on each side. Both beds are framed by ivory nightstands holding golden lanterns. A lacquered dressing table is propped next to the window, but I can’t find a single wardrobe.
I try the knob on a door next to the bathroom. The door opens onto a large walk-in closet divided into two facing racks. Both sides hold only one outfit each. They are Grecian style white dresses, with silver leather ropes to tie them.
It’s easy to figure out which one is mine, since it’s a good five inches longer than Amy’s. I shut the door behind me and get dressed, spending at least ten minutes trying to rearrange the many folds. I circle my waist three times with the rope then make a strong knot to keep it in place. To my intense relief, whoever composed my outfit thought of leaving shoes for me as well. I tie the tan leather sandals around my calves and head out of the walk-in closet.
Amy’s sitting on the bed, gazing at her precious necklace. She startles when I come in, clutching her treasure to her chest.
I sigh. “I won’t steal it.”
Hilarity swiftly replaces her wariness. She rolls onto the bed and slams her feet against the covers, laughing until she wheezes. “What are you wearing? Trying for a part in Gladiator?”
Well, she won’t be laughing for long. “If I am, then so are you. That’s the only outfit in the closet.”
This sobers her instantly. Amy props herself on her elbows and gawks at my dress.
“You must be kidding me.”
“Wish I were.” I walk to the dressing table to gauge how ridiculous I look.
Amy thrusts her chin defiantly. “I don’t care. I’ll just wear my own clothes.”
“If you can find them…” I wink.
Come to think of it, I haven’t seen my old clothes since last night.
My reflection in the oval mirror is actually pleasant. I’m more of a jeans and tank top kind of girl, but the way the dress drapes over my breasts and hugs my hips loosely makes me feel feminine, pretty. The white linen contrasts with my olive skin and ebony hair, and the effect is quite striking. If I decide to go to prom this year, I’ll wear white. But first I’ll need to find my way back home.
Amy screeches like an alley cat as she searches every inch of the bedroom for her clothes. The chiming starts again, this time calling us out of our rooms, I guess. I stop by the bathroom to brush my long hair then head out, glad to get out of earshot of my roommate’s loud laments.
Other girls step out of their bedrooms and into the second-floor corridor. Apparently, we’re all lodging in this wing of Helen of Troy’s villa. There are seven doors on this floor—fourteen girl contenders. I’ve only talked to one so far. With any luck, the other girls aren’t raving lunatics like my roommate.
All my life, I’ve been fine being on my own. The only friend I’ve ever needed is Lily. But since landing on Mount Olympus, I long for a confidant, someone to plug the void my mom and Lily usually fill. But no one can replace them, no matter how lonely and needy I feel.
I follow the girls down the winding staircase, all the way to the ground floor. With each step the tension increases, which translates into hastened footsteps, distrustful glares, and an elbow to the ribcage. I refrain from yelping so whoever jabbed me doesn’t know she’s hurt me.
When I reach the landing, I exhale gratefully. At one point on the staircase, I got scared I’d get pushed down and break my neck. The girls who arrived first form a half circle in the hallway. I lift myself on my tiptoes, expecting to find Aphrodite, but it’s a half-naked man blocking the way. Apparently gods like to show skin—lots of it. Now I understand why two of the girls who were there before me gush like witless hens.
The man is in fact one of the twelve gods we were introduced to yesterday—the one who followed Hades with a wobbly gait, drinking wine from a bejeweled goblet.
“Dionysus is so hot!” one of the two blushing girls manages to say between giggling bouts that shake her corkscrew curls.
Dionysus, God of Wine—obviously. Like yesterday, he’s drinking from his cup, smiling at the girls amassed in the hall as the red wine seeps into his dark blond beard and escapes in rivulets down his chiseled chest. A girl wavers next to me, as if she’s about to faint. I hold onto her arm to steady her, a gesture she barely registers. The wine resembles blood too closely for my taste, and instead of a handsome, all-powerful being, all I see is a smiling vampire. I shudder and take a step back, letting go of the girl.
Amy slides next to me, a cross expression on her face. She’s wearing the dress, but she’s clearly furious about it.
“Good morning, ladies,” Dionysus greets us, dimples forming on his cheeks. More vapid giggles answer him. “I’m here to serve as your guide on this glorious day!”
“You try wearing this stupid dress and you’ll see how glorious it is,” Amy mutters, bringing a small smile to my lips.
“If you’ll follow me, I will now lead you to the training arena.”
Without waiting for an answer, Dionysus struts out of the villa, obviously conscious of the appeal his perfect physique has on the girls. Like moths drawn to a flame, they follow him closely. I pray none of us will get burnt.
We form an odd procession as we ascend toward the arena, situated on the opposite side of the ocean. I’m surprised I didn’t notice the circular building yesterday, since it is now all I can see on the horizon. Dread, slow and ineluctable like the tide of the sea, fills me.
Dionysus was met in front of the villa by his entourage, which includes maenads, lovely women who worship the ground he walks on; mountain nymphs whose hair and skin are both the ochre color of the rocky mountain; and satyrs—half men, half goats.
I’ve taken the whole Mount-Olympus-and-gods-are-real notion in stride, accepting even Triton and his dolphin tail, but satyrs are where I draw the line. Or maybe my skepticism has returned now that I’m less tired and disoriented than yesterday. My eyes keep darting to their hooves and short tails while I pinch myself, expecting to wake up.
But although I leave an angry red spot on the back of my left hand, I don’t wake up. Instead I’m still surrounded by satyrs and mountain nymphs, cringing every time they shake their tambourines or play their pan flutes.
“Please make this nightmare end,” I mutter to myself.
“I’ll take a change of clothes first,” Amy answers me.
“Why? Don’t you feel like dancing in your pretty dress?”
She hisses. “It’s humiliating. My friends would never let me hear the end of it if they ever saw me like that.”
“So you do have friends!” Amy bares her teeth at me wh
ile pulling desperately on her dress, as if it could magically morph into pants. “It’s not an outfit I would have picked for myself either.”
“I saw you smiling at your reflection. The princess in her princess dress.”
“Will you let it go already? I’m not a princess.”
“So you say…”
I’m tired of pretending her taunts don’t get to me. “No, seriously. No fairytale for me.”
She opens her mouth to argue some more, but her antagonistic attitude deflates like a punctured balloon.
“You’re not lying,” she says.
“I’m not.”
“Well I’m sure you still have it easier than me.”
I stop as we reach the arena. Its marble walls gleam as they catch the sun.
Bending over Amy, I whisper, “We’ll have to compare notes sometime.”
Aphrodite and the boys shimmering next to our group interrupt Amy’s snickering. “So unfair! They get to fly…or something, while we walked.”
Judging by the boys’ green complexions, I’m not sure I’d like to trade places with them. Gabriel, the only one who looks like he’s fared well with the unorthodox ride, beams as he waves at me. I grin and wave back, genuinely happy to see him.
With a flourish, Dionysus steps aside to let his sister, or whatever weird family connection he has to Aphrodite, enter the arena first. The guys rush after her yellow dress while we’re stuck with the drunken troubadours. If I’m to be in the vicinity of Dionysus again, I need to find earmuffs. Or better yet, I need to find a way off of Olympus.
I gaze up from the center of the arena, sawdust tickling my bare toes. It is four stories high and wider than the throne room. Each floor is a balcony, running around the whole circumference of the arena. These balconies showcase a multitude of arches, each framed by statues on both sides. Seats covered in plush red velvet await the spectators.
The third level holds only twelve thrones that belong to the twelve Olympian Gods who hold our future in their hands. I resent them. They live up here, presiding over this piece of heaven, while humans fend for themselves. They said we were meant to save humanity, but I don’t see why they can’t get their hands dirty and help out—they are all powerful, after all.
I also wonder what they have in store for us. What little mythological knowledge I have is enough to tell me gods can be cruel. What will happen to the losers of their competition? Zeus didn’t say it, but I can surmise there will be but one winner. So what about the rest? What about me?
“Hope!” Gabriel saunters toward me.
“How was your first night?”
“It was fantastic! Theseus’s villa is beautiful! I haven’t seen a servant anywhere—and I looked, believe me—but they had all my favorite beauty products.”
There was no makeup in our bathroom. But now that I look at the other girls, sporting red lips and dark eyelashes, I understand the rooms must adapt to their guests. Neither Amy nor I are the pampered type.
“And Heath was nice to me. I don’t make him nervous, unlike the other boys.”
“Idiots, all of them. You’re perfect.”
“And you’re kind,” Gabriel answers. “I know I’m different.”
“Then half of the planet is. Different is good.”
Gabriel takes my hand and presses my fingers with his. “Heath is really cute.”
“Heath is an ass.” Gabriel frowns. “Listen, I’m happy if you two can be friends. But watch your back, ok? I don’t trust him.”
Apparently, I’m too late with my warnings. If I’m to believe his dreamy eyes, Gabriel has a crush on Hateful Heath.
“Have you seen our outfits? Aphrodite picked them up for us.” Gabriel twirls and trails a reverent hand on the pleats of his white toga. “It’s the first time I can wear a dress without standing out. The other boys aren’t exactly happy about it…”
I laugh as I nod toward Amy, surveying the other contenders in the arena. “My roommate isn’t exactly thrilled about her dress either.”
“Are you kidding me? It’s gooorgeous!” Gabriel claps his hands excitedly. “Aphrodite has impeccable taste. But I must say that you rock it better than the other girls. You could be one of them.” He gestures at Dionysus and Aphrodite.
I roll my eyes. “You’re crazy.” Compared to the gods, I’m an ant next to a panther.
The gates under two large arches on each side of the arena roll up with a menacing roar. Gabriel interlaces his fingers with mine as we draw courage from each other.
“This arena is the exact replica of the Colosseum in Rome,” Gabriel whispers. “Do you know what happened in the Colosseum?”
A metallic taste fills my mouth as images of bloodthirsty felines and gladiators armed to the teeth pop into my brain. I force myself to stand still when all my instincts scream for me to seek shelter.
I don’t know if I should feel relieved or terrified as a mountain of muscles strolls into the arena. This mountain is surmounted by a rugged but handsome face, with unkempt beard and hair, and it carries no weapon as far as I can see—although his bulky arms alone would be enough to tear my head off in one swift motion.
The man stops before our whimpering group and smiles. I exhale shakily.
“Welcome, young champions. I am Heracles.”
The boys whistle deferentially at the most famous hero in mythology. When silence returns to the arena, Heracles speaks again.
“Starting today, you’ll be trained as heroes under the supervision of myself and other chosen ones. But although you’ll know me for my strength, there is more to a hero than muscles and sheer force. My comrades and I will attempt to teach you the essential knowledge we’ve learned from our own quests. Listen, learn, and practice so you have a chance to reach the Pantheon as we once did and rise above your mortal status.”
Heracles claps his hands, the sound loud as a gunshot. As if waiting for his signal, our teachers begin drifting into the arena.
Five men and one woman, all middle-aged, join Heracles. I’m relieved there’s at least one woman, and she’s tiny and delicate looking—it further confirms that wits are as important as brains. Or maybe she’s extremely courageous. I can’t wait to hear her story.
Chapter 9
After only rudimentary introductions, the old band of heroes lead us back through one of the gates.
The gate leads to a concrete maze, dimly lit by wall-mounted torches. There are stairwells going down—hinting at a whole other sublevel concealed underneath the arena—but we take a short corridor opening onto a vast arsenal.
Every kind of medieval weapon, from crossbows to broadswords, hangs on the walls.
“Where are the rifles?” a blonde girl asks.
“What are rifles?” asks the hero with the helmet and gold sheepskin cape, who introduced himself as Jason.
The blonde girl looks dumbfounded. “Long weapons that go boom?”
“Like a canon?”
“But portable,” she explains. “We use them to hunt.”
“You hunt with canons? Where’s the glory in that?” Jason’s full lips turn into a frown.
“Well, it’s not as easy as you make it sound. I killed my first stag yesterday. Artemis thought it was impressive enough that she brought me here.”
“Gods,” Jason mutters. The other heroes nod in agreement.
“As heroes, you will learn to respect your opponents,” Heracles says. “Whether they are the animals you hunt, or the creatures you’re meant to slay, they all deserve an honorable death.”
“What about people?” a scrawny guy with a beak-like nose asks. “You can’t fight fair and square and hope to win. I won my fight yesterday by breaking a bottle of whiskey on that dude’s head. Ares thought it was cool.”
“What is your name, boy?” Heracles asks.
“Josh Matlin.” He beams proudly.
The boys standing close to Josh take a step back. Not only isn’t there the slightest trace of guilt in his voice, but his smile as he recal
ls the fight is vicious.
“You’ll never win this competition, Josh Matlin.” Heracles’s voice is flat as he delivers the sentence—it’s not a threat, but a certainty. I’m glad to see the cruel smile fall off Josh’s lips, although his stare is mean enough to make me shiver. “Gods and heroes do not answer to the same rules—”
“But aren’t you a god now?” interrupts a boy with reading glasses and a helmet of jet-black hair.
“I am the only hero who received this honor. But I was human once. And though I erred often and committed awful deeds, I try to hold on to my humanity. Mortal values such as love, respect and generosity are a hero’s most precious weapons.”
There isn’t one hero who contradicts him.
“So are you saying that heroes are better than gods?” Reading Glasses prods.
Indignation paints itself on the heroes’ faces.
“Gods are the air we require to breathe, the water that assuages our thirst, the rain that grows our crops,” Ariadne, the woman, explains. “They created humans in their image, and without them there would be no life.”
It is impressive, I won’t deny that, but Ariadne hasn’t exactly answered our question. Why aren’t gods subjected to the same honor code as heroes? Shouldn’t they lead by example?
“There will be time to talk, later,” Heracles speaks again. “Now, please pick your weapon.”
“How are we supposed to choose?” Heath asks.
Gabriel is right, he does look cute in his toga. Long, lean muscles that were concealed under his shirt and pants yesterday now show in all their glory. But I still can’t stand him.
“You don’t choose your weapon. It chooses you,” Heracles answers enigmatically.
I stare at the wall distastefully. I don’t want a weapon. I don’t want to fight. Gabriel and I are the only ones not rushing toward the weaponry. I move closer to Heracles, who towers over me. Even standing on tiptoes, with my face upturned, I can barely reach his chest.
“Are we expected to fight each other?” I ask him.
I’ve read The Hunger Games, and I cried all the way through the book. There’s no way I could hurt anyone.
Olympian Challenger Page 5
