“I don’t—” I shake my head and scan the room. “There isn’t any blood. She’s probably—”

“I’m sure she’s fine,” he says, stepping into the room and to my side. “Oracles generally are. She probably saw it coming and was gone before this even happened.”

“What about the drag marks?” I demand, pointing at the tracks in the dust. “It sure looks like she was here when they showed up.”

“Not necessarily.” He turns to study the marks. “I can name a dozen creatures that might leave those marks with heavy tails or dragging limbs.”

I take a deep breath and hope that he’s right, that the oracle left before the creatures showed up. True, I barely know the woman. I’ve only spoken with her on two occasions, and neither time was exactly a social visit. But she guided me toward my destiny, helped me see the major turning point in my life when I went from worthless daughter to powerful descendant. I can never repay that gift.

“We need to find her,” I say.

“Gretchen,” Nick says, sounding disgustingly hesitant. “She could be … anywhere.”

“Then we’ll search anywhere. Everywhere.” I picture the matching layers of dust in my bootprints and the drag mark in the other room. “Whatever happened to her might be because of me. Because I visited her here.”

“You don’t know that.”

I stalk over to the table and pull it upright. “I owe her my help.”

Nick doesn’t say a word, but he moves to help me pull the table into the middle of the room.

“Besides,” I say, bending down to pick up some candles, “we need her. She’s the only one left who can help us find the Gorgons.”

To his credit, Nick just nods. He must sense how important this is to me—or how important her help is to us. While I gather candles from the floor, he returns the chairs to the table.

I’m setting the candles on the shelves when he picks up the broken chair.

“Hey, Gretch,” he says, sounding odd, “look at this.”

Shoving my armful of candles onto a nearby shelf, I hurry to his side. He holds out the seat of the chair, facedown.

I take the seat and study the bottom. There in the middle, held in place by pieces of masking tape that look decades old, is a square of yellowed paper that looks older still. I peel the paper off and set the seat on the table. As I unfold the square, the aged paper crackles like it might break in pieces.

“What does it say?” Nick asks.

The paper is covered in strange symbols. Just like the sign on the door written in ancient Greek.

I hold the paper toward him. “Can you read Greek?”

“Not a word.”

“Great,” I mutter.

I’ll have to find a translator. The note might have nothing to do with my situation. It looks as if it’s been there since before I was even born. But just in case, I fold the paper and stuff it into my back pocket. Maybe there’s another clue—one in a language I can understand—somewhere in the room.

“Search the rest of this room.” I walk toward a door leading into another room. “I’m going to check back here.”

The other room turns out to be a hall that leads to a back door and a back alley. There’s a door off to the right that opens onto a tiny bathroom. A brand-new bar of soap sits next to the faucet on the pedestal sink. There is a dark red hand towel on a small bar next to it and an antique-looking mirror, cloudy and oxidized, hanging above.

Nothing out of the ordinary for a bathroom.

As I turn to head into the hall, I flip off the light and a strange glint on the mirror catches my eye. I turn back and, leaving the light off, I shine my flashlight across the surface of the mirror. In the sideways light, an otherwise invisible message appears.

FIND THE LOST.

“Seriously?” The woman does not know how to leave a comprehensible clue. As if she could say anything more vague. There are so many lost things right now: the Gorgons, the oracle, my sanity.

But the clue does give me hope that there is something more for me to find here in the bathroom.

I turn the light back on and check around the base of the sink and in and around the toilet tank. Nothing. I stand on the toilet seat and use one of my daggers to unscrew the vent cover in the ceiling. All I find there is a century’s worth of dust and grime.

I wipe my hand off on my cargos and replace the vent cover.

As I hop down, I study the room critically. Analytically. Something’s not right, doesn’t fit, and I can’t quite put my finger on it....

I scan the tiny space, my eyes drawn again and again to the bar of soap. Why?

“It’s new.” I think it through out loud. “It’s new and clean and completely out of place in this filthy room.”

It must be another clue.

There isn’t a handy pipe wrench hanging around, so I drop to my knees in front of the sink, grab the U-shaped pipe underneath with both hands, and twist hard in opposite directions. The pieces give. When the connectors are unthreaded, I pull the pipe out and examine it. Black gunk. So thick I can’t see how water gets through.

I suppress my gag reflex and hold the pipe out over the sink. Banging it against the porcelain, I try to dislodge some of the crud. The sludge is lodged in place, and as I bang the pipe as hard as I can, the sound of metal on porcelain echoes out into the hall.

“What are you doing in here?” Nick asks, appearing in the doorway.