The Petros Chronicles Boxset

by Diana Tyler

  “Here, man,” said Ethan, handing the scroll back to Damian as goosebumps popped up on his arms.

  Damian sat down and gently began to unroll it, revealing immaculate sheets of papyrus, inch by inch. “That’s not possible,” he said.

  Soon, the whole thing, no more than a single page, was laid out flat on the table, almost glistening under the modest chandelier above it.

  “Would you like me to read it to you?” Katsaros asked Damian as he pushed his glasses onto the bridge of his nose.

  “Do I have a choice?” said Damian.

  “Of course,” said Katsaros, the facetiousness obviously lost on him. “We all make our own choices.”

  “Damian wants you to read it,” Ethan assured him.

  Katsaros took the scroll by its rough, black edges and lifted it to his face. Then he looked down at Damian, prompting him to object before he proceeded, but no objection was made.

  “Red, the highest band, color of blood and vice,

  I have learned to see within you redemption, sacrifice.

  Orange, like the healing flower, and the burning desert sun;

  Both have power, both hold brilliance, but none compares to the Promised One.

  Yellow for the amber scrolls, prophesying salvation amid our strife;

  Your shimmer is a just shadow in the light of eternal life.

  Green for the stone I carry, a symbol of forgiveness, growth, and mirth;

  But nothing can bring as much happiness as a dying soul’s rebirth.

  Blue, the color of Carya’s sword that cut us free from prison;

  But the greatest freedom I have felt flows from faith that Phos has risen.

  Indigo, hue of an opaque void, the barrier between Petros and glory;

  Its power has been stripped away by the Finisher of our story.

  Now violet: triumphant, royal, reflecting clouds in this bathing place,

  I will emerge boldly from these waters, an orphan found and saved by grace.”

  “The first symbol.” Katsaros picked up the jasper stone by its chain and placed it in Damian’s hand. “‘Color of blood and vice…redemption, sacrifice,’” he said, repeating the words of the poem. Then he reached into the suitcase and removed each of the remaining amphoras before turning them on their heads.

  Ethan and Damian flipped the jars upright as Lydia neared the table, her eyes marveling at the odd assortment on display: five bright orange petals, a small block of amber, an emerald, a dagger surrounded by a thin film of light that glowed electric blue, an indigo strip of cloth, and a tiny, iridescent vial closed with a cork.

  “Maybe now I can know what all this means,” she said.

  Katsaros lay the indigo cloth across his hand and stroked it tenderly. “They were all part of Iris’s path. And now,” he said, turning to Damian, “the path has intersected with yours and Chloe’s.”

  Damian shook his head slowly as a hard line appeared between his eyebrows. “This doesn’t make any sense. How would my father have known about this?”

  He grabbed the emerald and placed it side by side with the jasper stone. Then he stood up and jabbed his forefinger into Katsaros’s chest. “And how do you know about this?” He stepped forward, aggressively pushing Katsaros back until the bewildered man stumbled against a cabinet filled with china.

  “Hey hey hey,” said Ethan, hurrying to Katsaros’s aid. He pulled Damian off of him and shoved him back toward the table.

  “You boys better get to school,” said Lydia as she returned the objects to their respective jars. “You can resume this conversation later.”

  “And what about my sister?” Damian fumed, kicking the leg of the nearest chair. “I’m just supposed to go on about my day like everything’s just fine, like my sister isn’t missing, isn’t in Hades like you all say she is?” He spun around to Katsaros. “How do I know you haven’t kidnapped her or something?” Then he took a step toward Ethan and pointed his finger at him. “How am I supposed to trust any of you?”

  “Damian, calm down,” Ethan said. “This is a lot to take in, but you ju—”

  “But nothing.” Damian threw the jasper stone to the floor. “You can have your rock back. I’m reporting my sister as missing. I’ve had enough of this.”

  With that, he rushed into the entryway and let himself out, slamming the front door behind him.

  Katsaros straightened his suspenders and dusted off his pants. “I told you, we all make our own choices.”

  Damian was turning the corner onto his street when he remembered his car was on the side of the road near Lake Thyra. He glanced down at his cellphone to check the time, but—no surprise—it was dead. He sighed and pulled his keys from his pocket, then jogged toward the garage to see if his bike had air in the tires. He couldn’t be late. He really wasn’t in the mood for detention, or an interrogation from the headmaster.

  As he turned the key in the side door leading into the garage, he heard a car pull up behind him, followed by two doors shutting and footsteps coming toward him.

  You should have gone straight to the police, he thought.

  “Damian Zacharias?”

  Damian turned to see two hulking police officers in hunter-green uniforms standing in the driveway, each holding a hand to the holstered Tasers on their hips.

  “I.D.” said the shorter, broader of the two. His arms were twice the size of Damian’s and all muscle. Damian pulled out his I.D. card and handed it to the officer. “You want to tell us why your vehicle was found nine hundred meters from Lake Thyra?”

  Damian gritted his teeth, debating whether he should tell them the truth, tell them everything, like he told Ethan and Katsaros he would. His sister couldn’t really be in hell. Hell was a myth, a legend invented by ignorant, uncivilized people.

  His mind flashed back to the jasper stone and the suitcase, and Ethan’s story about his father… All of that could easily have been fabricated, too. Why Katsaros and the Rosses would conspire against Damian and Chloe in such an outlandish manner was beyond him, but the Fantásmata could get to the bottom of it, and Damian would certainly be rewarded.

  And then he remembered the Moonbow, how its seven colors had streamed through the window, covering Katsaros’s arm and face, and how the red light had lingered longer than the rest, symbolizing “blood” and “vice” and other things he couldn’t remember. That much had been real, and for that reason alone he couldn’t tell them the truth.

  “I went running through the old vineyards after school and my car broke down,” he said.

  “Funny,” said the taller officer. “It started just fine for us.”

  Damian shrugged. “It has a mind of its own.”

  “Uh-huh. And where were you all night?”

  Damian looked down at his damp, dirty jeans and wrinkled shirt, then picked at the grime on the back of his ears and neck. He put on a shameful face and looked up at the policeman with bleary, apologetic eyes. “I slept by the lake. I was too tired to walk home.”

  “You could’ve called someone or alerted the precinct with the alarm,” said the short one. When Damian showed him his dead cellphone, the officer grunted and took a few steps back to confer with his partner.

  Damian’s heart thumped nervously in his chest. He forced down a lump in his throat as his hand began to sweat around his keys. They were sure to find a hole in his story, or come up with more questions that would stump him. He’d be cornered eventually. Why delay the inevitable? No one fooled the Fantásmata, at least not for long.

  The stocky officer walked back to Damian as his partner returned to the car. “We’ll have your car taken to the school. Now clean yourself up and get to class.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Damian with a respectful nod.

  “And kid,” the man snapped, “keep your phone charged. It’s for your own safety.”

  “Will do, sir.”

  Damian’s knees went slack as he watched them drive away. He grabbed onto the doorknob, leaned against the wall and exhaled h
ard, as if he’d been holding his breath for minutes. He was off the hook, although for how long he had no idea. It was only a matter of time before they noticed Chloe was missing, and when they did, he wouldn’t get off so easy.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  EPIPHANY

  Orpheus extended his arm in salute to the guards at the palace gates, but they continued staring straight ahead without so much as a twitch to acknowledge his presence.

  “Open the gates.” Orpheus stepped between them and placed his hand on the iron latch.

  “Remove your hand, bard,” one of them growled, “or I’ll cut it off.”

  “I’m here to see Apollo,” said Orpheus, backing away, “with news of the Vessel.”

  “He’s heard your news,” said the other man, turning to Orpheus with an indignant sneer. “Your uncle will be here shortly to escort you back to the cesspit you came from.”

  “This is outrageous!” Orpheus shouted. “My father and I had a bargain!”

  He lunged toward the guard closest to him, and in one swift motion ripped the spear from his hand and angled its tip toward the man’s throat. Two seconds later, he perceived the blade of the other guard’s sword poised next to his ear. He could fool no one pretending to be a soldier.

  “Stand down,” said the armed guard coolly. “Sing us a song if you like, then get out of our faces until Hermes arrives.”

  Orpheus did as he was told and handed the guard his spear. His face hot with both rage and humiliation, he pivoted fast and plodded down the black, basalt hill from which he’d come. Sing them a song? Never. But he would play them a song…

  He hopped over a wall of red scoria rocks and leaned against it as he pulled the backpack off his shoulders. He kissed the lyre’s crossbar as he dragged it out and tickled his fingertips on six smooth strings. “Bring me luck,” he whispered.

  He began to play a Delphic hymn, one of the first songs he’d ever composed, in honor of Apollo. Though each note made his insides seethe, he knew it was the perfect choice for subduing the loyal sentinels, half-witted souls who bowed blindly to the prince of Hades.

  “Cover your ears!” he heard one of the guards yell.

  Orpheus shook his head. Not even balls of beeswax, like Odysseus used against the Sirens, could stop the melody from trickling into their thick skulls and enchanting them. He stood up and strolled leisurely up the hill, swaying to the music as the guards spun in circles, banging their weapons together and spitting out gibberish at the top of their lungs.

  “I wanted to spare you your dignity,” Orpheus intoned. “But you’ve forced my hand.” He knelt down and began the song again, this time slowing the rhythm. The guards’ spears fell to the ground as their voices faded and their eyes glazed over. “Watch me turn Apollo’s trusted sentries into worthless house cats.”

  The guards groaned and sank unceremoniously against the gate, their chins drooping onto their chests.

  “Sweet dreams,” Orpheus said.

  He removed the men’s swords from their scabbards, kept one for himself, then flung the other down the hill toward a multilayered outcrop of pumice. When he heard the guards’ snores and saw their limbs twitching, Orpheus kicked them onto their sides, lifted the latch, and let himself into the palace.

  Orpheus’s stomach lurched at the smell of blood permeating the throne room. The last time he’d stepped foot in it had been the day of his death, when Hermes led him to the three judges of the dead who resided in the sweltering heart of Tartarus. He recalled that it had smelled intolerably of rot and brimstone, but this…this was the smell of death, of open tombs and decomposing flesh.

  The air was thick with the stench, a putrid blanket of smoke pervading the atmosphere as he coughed and choked against it. Unable to see two steps ahead of him, he hugged the lyre to his chest, fearful it might fall into a blaze and be carried off into the Phlegethon River.

  “Apollo!” he shouted, the rotten smell latching onto the roof of his mouth. He gagged and picked up his pace, anxious to exit the cloud of plague before he fainted.

  Whisperings floated to his ears, and finally the smoke tore apart just enough for him to make out the great black throne and two figures standing beyond it. Before them, a fall of murderous red magma roared as it cascaded from the igneous stratum above. The noxious scent persisted. He zipped his jacket to his chin, pulled it over his nose and mouth, and continued.

  “Apollo, the mission is done.” As he called out, waves of a tar-like substance gushed down, masking the magmatic tide.

  The figure wearing a glinting horned helmet—Hades, no doubt—raised his arms to either side. Apollo motioned for Orpheus to come forward.

  Orpheus gripped his sword, chuckling nervously. What good would a sword do him here? He’d have better luck with his lyre, although neither wounding his father nor rendering him unconscious would bring him closer to Eurydice. He removed his hand from the sword and tossed it aside, resolved to see how far civility could get him.

  “Where is Hermes?” asked Apollo as Orpheus approached.

  “I couldn’t say. With the Vessel, I presume.” Orpheus stood at Apollo’s side, mere inches from the precipice, just a nudge away from the volcanic cauldron below. He took a step back.

  “How did you get here?”

  Orpheus held up his lyre. “There was some confusion with the guards. I thought a good long nap might clear their minds.”

  “Ah, and what was the confusion?”

  Before Orpheus could respond, Hades’ gilt armor clanged as he dropped to a knee and fell onto his back, a twisted expression of both agony and ecstasy etched into his sunken gray face. He closed his eyes and began to squirm and jerk, a dark red cloud wafting toward him from the inferno.

  A shiver snaked up Orpheus’s spine as he saw the amorphous cloud take shape, spinning and shedding its vapor as it carved itself into dozens of outstretched arms and fingers, all scratching for Hades, hideous faces calling his name.

  “What is all this?” Orpheus asked Apollo, pointing first to the wall of flowing magma and then the phantom mist now descending upon Hades, encircling him.

  Wailing and emitting earsplitting screams, Hades’ chin was tilted back, inviting the crimson brume to enter his open mouth. And enter it did, curving up in an exaggerated arc before it nosedived down, nebulous faces and flexed fingers shrinking to fill his nostrils and blow through his parched parted lips.

  But Orpheus didn’t have to ask again. The laurel leaves secure in his satchel were still feeding him knowledge of the modern world, including what the mortals knew as Coronations. “So the Coronations are sacrifices,” he said.

  He could now see that the tar covering the magma was not tar at all, but fresh Petrodian blood.

  Apollo glared at him out of the corner of his eye while Hades sucked in the last misty sinew and puff of cloud.

  “Where are the dead?” Orpheus asked. “Where are their bodies?”

  “Don’t be daft,” Apollo said. “The bodies are in their graves, being devoured by insects and worms like any others. “Their souls bypass the Styx and fly to the judges. You do remember, don’t you?”

  Orpheus nodded slowly and thought back to the Vale of Mourning. He wondered how many there had been sacrificed. How many lives had been cut short in order to sate the appetite of reprobate deities? How many, like Eurydice, had not been ready to leave the brightness of life for the shadows of death, even death spent in Elysium?

  In all his countless years spent languishing in that woeful plain, Orpheus had never once approached anyone and asked to hear their story. He’d thought that doing so would only wrench his heart all the more, and besides, he only cared to speak to one person, the woman who lived on in his memories, and in his songs.

  “Where is Eurydice?” he said, gritting his teeth as Hades groaned, still supine on the floor of smooth, volcanic glass. “I’ve done what you asked. Thetis took the girl into the portal last night.”

  A smile tugged at Apollo’s lips as the casc
ade of blood weakened to a trickle. “She isn’t here.”

  Orpheus shook his head, frustration pounding against his temples. “Of course she isn’t here. She’s in Elysium. Take me to her!”

  Apollo placed a cold hand on his shoulder, the yellow pupils of his cerulean eyes radiating like the noonday sun. “You have made me very proud, son. In return for your loyalty, I’ll intercede on your behalf before the judges and persuade them to reassign you to Elysium.”

  The living blood in Orpheus’s veins began to boil as his hands started to tremble, shaking uncontrollably until they loosened their hold on the lyre and let it fall to the floor. He should have kept the sword. He shouldn’t have hesitated to find out what happens when a deathless god’s head goes rolling.

  “Where is she?” he yelled, jerking his shoulder free of Apollo’s hand.

  Hades stood up and charged at Orpheus, driving him toward the throne as he kicked the lyre over the cliff’s edge. With Hades’ fist in his stomach, Orpheus watched in horror as the instrument spun down, down, down until it pierced a spitting red bubble and sank into the fiery torrent.

  “Enough!” Hades shouted, his breath a freezing, rancid mist against Orpheus’s face. “Your father is generous with his own offspring, but I am not so patient.”

  He picked Orpheus up by his collar and, with one arm, held him out over the crag. “Your choices are these, and these alone: you may follow after your precious lyre and have that pitiful mortal frame you’re wearing eaten away by fire, after which you return to the Vale. Or, you may ascend to Petros again as you are, still pitiful and as wretched as ever. And when your time comes, you, too, shall have a Coronation.”

  He lowered his arm, black eyes staring down at Orpheus as his pale lips curled into a snarl. “Make your choice.”

  Feeling the heat of the fire on his soles, Orpheus looked down at his feet and the black stone altar rising up from the burning sea, overflowing with blood. He wasn’t afraid; he’d died before, at his own hand. It hadn’t been so different then, hanging from the fig tree where he’d first kissed Eurydice. His feet had dangled there just the same, hovering helplessly above the pit of death. There, the last flicker of hope had died, just as it was dwindling now.