The actual ferry ride is nowhere near the peaceful boat trip I’m hoping for. Thank goodness my Dramamine kicks in because we aren’t on a slow boat to Serifos, we are on a hydrofoil—a super high-speed ferry that bounces me off the deck when it hits even the tiniest wave. It’s named Dolphin something-or-other, but it feels more like riding a really angry bull. One that can’t wait to shake every last human off its back.

Riding the bucking bull is bad enough, but one more second of watching goo-goo eyes and I’m going to lose the contents of my stomach over the side of the boat. Mom and Damian don’t seem to notice. They are busy standing close and batting their eyes at each other. Every so often he whispers something in her ear and she laughs like a little girl.

“I have to pee,” I announce, more crudely than normal. I fully intend on actually using the facility until I get in there and am about to unzip my jeans when the bull hits a ripple and sends me sidelong into the door. I can only imagine what will happen if I actually squat in hover position and we hit a real wave. Instead of tempting fate I decide I can hold it until we find land.

We get to Serifos and spend a few glorious steps on an unmoving surface while Damian leads us to the chauffeured—is a private boat driver a chauffeur?—private yacht—yes, yacht—that will take us the rest of the way to the stupid, ferry-less island.

Does that mean there’s no way off the island unless I have my own boat? Great, I’m going to be stuck on this stupid island until I get paroled. Or until I make friends with someone who has a boat.

Now there’s a plan.

When I step onto the boat I’m smiling at the thought of befriending someone with transport.

Damian leads Mom to a bench seat on one side of the rear deck and I head for the opposite bench. Hopefully this boat ride will be less earthquake-like than the last, and I don’t want my potential calm disturbed by disgusting baby talk or anything.

I think I’m out of hearing distance.

Not that Damian respects my isolation.

I rest my head against the back of the bench and start to close my eyes when he moves into the seat next to me. Prying one eye open to glare at him, I ask, “Yeah?”

Mom is sitting on the other side of him.

“Phoebe, there is something you need to know before we arrive at Serfopoula.” He folds his hands carefully in his lap. “Are you familiar with Plato’s Academy?”

The big philosophy school where a bunch of old Greek guys got together to talk about intense stuff like the origin of life and what kind of poison worked best? “Yeah.”

“Well,” Damian continues, “there is more to the Academy’s history than most textbooks contain. In the sixth century, the Roman emperor Justinian issued an edict demanding the Academy be closed and forbade formal philosophical education. The . . . ah-hem . . . benefactors of the school were not prepared to see it closed so they moved it here. To Serfopoula.”

I don’t know Damian real well, but I think it’s not typical for him to ah-hem in the middle of a sentence. He seems like a very formal guy who keeps his speech squeaky clean. Still, I think I should just ignore this observation and instead say, “Justinian must have been pissed when he found out they disobeyed his orders.”

“He never found out.” Damian swallows hard. “The . . . ah-hem . . . benefactors kept the knowledge from him.”

There is something strange in the way he says this. Something ominous.

It must have been hard to keep a Roman emperor and every tattletale who would rush to tell him from finding out. Maybe these benefactors murdered anyone who found out and buried them in the school basement. I get shivers at the thought and I have to ask, “How?”

“Well, Phoebe.” Damian looks over his shoulder at Mom, who nods in encouragement. “There is little the Greek gods cannot do when they choose to act.”

Chapter 2

MY FIRST THOUGHT IS, Damian is insane. Like crazy, nuts, messed-up-in-the-head insane. As if Greek gods really exist.

They are myth. Myth, as in the kind of stuff you read about in sophomore English with guys killing their dads and marrying their moms—ew, and I think my life is gross. As in, the kind of stuff you see Brad and Orlando duking it out over on the big screen—yum. Not the kind of stuff the man my mom married fully believes in.

I look at Mom, ready to express my sympathies and assure her I am ready to head back to America and that we can sort the divorce out once we get there. But she’s not freaking out.

She’s nodding.

Sympathetically.

At me.

As if I’m the one who just found out my new husband is delusional.

That’s when I first know I’m in trouble. Mom is professionally trained in the art of delusional psychopaths. She told me once she never goes along with their fantasies—it only makes things worse— and if she’s staying calm then that means she believes him. Which means she believes the Greek gods exist, too.

And while I might doubt her judgment when it comes to major life changes like marriage and moving out of the country, Mom is usually completely sane when it comes to discerning reality from fantasy.

As if she can sense my shock, she reaches out and places a hand on my knee. “I know this is difficult to digest—”

“Difficult?” I shout. “Difficult? Algebra is difficult. The Ironman is difficult. This is insane.”

“I thought so, too,” Mom says. “At first.”

“So you believe this?” What happened to rational Mom? “You believe him?”