I left mine at home when we went into the abyss—no signal in the monster realm—but I need to check on Mom and Dad. I try home first, and I’m not sure if I should be relieved or afraid when there’s no answer.

I hang up and dial my mom’s cell. She picks up on the first ring.

“Hey, Mom.”

“Grace?” she gasps. “Gracie, are you okay?”

“Are you with Dad?” I ask.

“Yes, he’s right here.”

My entire body sighs in relief. They’re safe. For now.

There are sounds, and then my dad is asking, “Grace, where are you?”

“I’m fine, Dad,” I say.

“Are you—” He hesitates, trying to find the words. “Are you back?”

“No, it’s not over yet,” I say, avoiding the direct question.

Silence. “But you’re okay?” he asks.

“Yeah, Dad,” I say. “I’m okay.”

“And your brother?”

I glance at Milo, as if he’d have the answer. “He’s fine, too.” As far as I know. Nick, on the other hand . . . “Look, Dad, you guys can’t go home.”

“What happened?”

How can I tell them without freaking them out? I can’t tell them the truth. “They know where we live,” I say simply, hoping they won’t ask too many questions. “Just find a hotel and wait for my call.”

“Gracie, this is—”

“Dad, please!” I shout, my fear making me more assertive than usual. “Please,” I say again, softer. “I need to know you’re safe. Promise me you won’t go home until I call.”

He hesitates, and I can practically hear him thinking. In the end, though, he trusts me.

“Okay,” he says. “We promise.”

“Promise what?” Mom asks in the background, and I can hear the worry in her voice. I don’t have time to reassure them.

“Thanks, Dad.”

“You take care of yourselves,” he says.

“I love you, Grace,” Mom shouts, almost desperate. “Come home soon.”

I bite my lip as I hang up.

They’re safe, and I feel some of the fear leave my body. With a sigh, I drop Milo’s phone back into place. He doesn’t say a word. His hand is on the gearshift between the seats, and I have the almost irresistible urge to lay my hand over his. Almost irresistible.

Until Nick and my biological mother are safe, my sisters are back with the gorgons, and the looming war is over, I have to stay focused on the mission. Lives are at stake. My love life can come later.

CHAPTER 9

GRETCHEN

The dungeons of Olympus are a harsh contrast to the shiny white marble world above. Those halls—all sparkle and gemstones—are what I imagined Mount Olympus would be like. This is like a slumlord’s boiler room compared to the high-rent high-rise above. The gods are sending a clear message that if you end up in their basement, you’re in big trouble. It doesn’t look that different from the abyss—dark, wet, never-ending, and foul-smelling.

The main hallway at the base of the staircase branches off in several directions. I stop to listen. The place is eerily silent. It’s starting to make me nervous. The sooner we get out of here, the better.

With no standout reason to choose one branch over the others, I lead us down the left-hand corridor, mostly because it’s the biggest and there are torches lighting the way. It seems the most likely to lead somewhere important.

Or it could be a trap.

“Stay close to the wall,” I instruct, “and right on my heels.”

We follow the corridor around corner after corner, with nothing but stone walls to guide us. There isn’t even a rat or a medieval torture device to break up the monotony. It reminds me of King Minos’s labyrinth. If a minotaur is the biggest bad we run into down here, we’ll be in great shape.

Then we round one last corner, and it all changes.

I hold up my hand, and everyone behind me stops.

The hallway spills into a vast open space. Encircling the outer wall of the chamber is a row of cells, cages closed in by iron bars. The rough stone floor stretches a few feet beyond the cell walls and then drops away. Smoke rises in its place, like a moat of fire. Across the gap, on a stone island floating amid the smoke, are more cages—dozens of cages with thick steel bars that overlook the flames.

Every cage I can see is occupied. The dungeons of Olympus are overflowing.

Somewhere in here, Ursula is suffering.

“Then she took off her dress and she had eight legs,” a booming male voice bellows.

Another male voice cackles with laughter.

Swinging my backpack off my shoulders and dropping it on the ground, I wave everyone back and press myself against the edge of the wall. Looking toward the sound of their voices, I spot two guards tromping around the walkway.

“I’m like, what are you, a spider?” the first voice says. “And she says, no, I’m a daughter of Arachne!”

That sends the other guard into a fit of laughter.

I turn to the group and gesture at them to move up against the wall. We wait, unmoving, as the guards draw closer. Bending at the waist, I reach down and pull out a handful of zip ties from a cargo pocket.

I hope they’re continuing their perimeter walks, and not heading for our hallway.

They reach the juncture and—I hold my breath—keep walking. After a quick glare at my companions to keep them in place, I take off at a run. The guards turn at the sound of my footsteps, but I launch into a flying kick, nailing the talkative one in the gut and knocking him into his laughing friend. I land on my feet between them, quickly dropping to my knees and yanking zip ties around their wrists.