Jennifer Estep Bundle Page 6

  Chapter 3

  Myth-history was my last class of the day. As soon as the bell rang, I stuffed my textbook into my bag.

  “See ya, Gwen.”

  Carson Callahan called out a cheery good-bye and slid the plastic bag with the charm bracelet into one of the pockets on his designer khaki cargo pants. I nodded at him, shouldered my bag, and left.

  I walked down the crowded hallway, pushed through the first door I came to, and stepped outside. Five main buildings made up the heart of Mythos Academy—math-science, English-history, the gym, the dining hall, and the library—all grouped together in a loose cluster, like the five points of a star. Even though I’d been going here for two months now, the buildings all looked the same to me—dark gray stone covered with thick, heavy vines of glossy ivy. Large, creepy Gothic structures, with towers and parapets and balconies. Statues of various mythological monsters like gryphons and Gorgons perched on all the buildings, their mouths open in silent, angry snarls.

  An enormous open quad and a series of curving walkways connected the five buildings to each other before the ash gray cobblestones snaked down a hill and farther out to the student dorms and the other structures that made up the rest of the lush academy grounds. Green grass still rolled over the smooth lawns, despite the October chill. Here and there, tall maples and oaks spread their limbs wide, their leaves holding on to the last bright blazes of bloody crimson and pumpkin orange.

  I zipped up my hoodie, stuck my hands in my pockets, and headed across the quad, skirting around the groups of students who’d stopped to talk, pull out their cell phones, and check their messages. I’d made it about halfway when high, trilling laughter caught my ear.

  I turned my head and saw Jasmine Ashton holding court underneath the towering maple tree that stood in the center of the quad.

  Jasmine Ashton was the most popular girl in my class, which was made up of the seventeen-year-old, second-year students. Jasmine was also a Valkyrie with a mane of strawberry-blond hair, bright blue eyes, and the most expensive designer clothes that money could buy. She was the kind of girl who made everyone else look plain—even her thin, gorgeous, similarly dressed friends. Jasmine sat on an iron bench underneath the maple tree, looking at something on her laptop and giggling, along with Morgan McDougall, her best friend.

  With her black hair, hazel eyes, curvy body, and supershort skirts, Morgan was only slightly less beautiful and popular than Jasmine, which made her the number-two diva in our class. Morgan’s reputation for being a raging slut who’d sleep with almost anyone made her number one with the guys, though. Naturally.

  Two more girls sat on either side of Jasmine and Morgan, while Daphne Cruz perched on a fleece blanket on the grass in front of the bench. All the popular Valkyrie princesses tended to stick together.

  The girls weren’t alone. Samson Sorensen stood behind Jasmine, rubbing her shoulders with the rapt devotion of a slave. No wonder, since the Viking was Jasmine’s boyfriend and one of the cutest guys in school. Sandy brown hair, hazel eyes, dimples. Samson could have easily passed for a Calvin Klein model. He also happened to be the captain of the swim team. No football here. All the kids at Mythos did fancy, froufrou sports like swimming, tennis, archery, and fencing. Seriously, fencing. What was the point of that?

  Seeing Jasmine and Samson together was like staring at a life-size version of Ken and Barbie. They just looked that perfect together, like they’d been made for each other.

  The other students at Mythos might not pay much attention to me, but I was still able to hear plenty of juicy gossip on my own. Rumor had it that there was Big Trouble in paradise between the happy couple. Evidently, Samson was ready to go All the Way, since he and Jasmine had been dating since last year, but she wasn’t ready to cash in her V Card just yet—

  I was so busy staring at them that I slammed into a guy walking the opposite way across the quad. And, of course, my messenger bag slid off my shoulder and hit the ground, spilling my books everywhere. Because that’s just what happened to girls like me.

  “Sorry,” I muttered, falling to my knees and attempting to scoop everything back into my bag before anyone got a good look at anything, especially the now-empty tin of chocolate-chip cookies that Grandma Frost had baked for me and the comic books that had slid out. The colorful pages flapped and fluttered like dragonflies in the breeze.

  Instead of walking around me like I’d expected him to, the guy I’d hit decided to crouch down next to me instead. My eyes flicked up to his face. It took me a second to recognize him, but when I did, I froze. Because Logan Quinn was the guy I’d just rammed into.

  Uh-oh.

  Even among the rich warrior kids at Mythos, Logan Quinn was the kind of guy who scared everyone. He did whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted to. And a lot of what he liked to do involved hurting people.

  Everything about Logan screamed bad boy, from his thick, silky, ink-black hair to his intense ice blue eyes to the black leather jacket that highlighted his broad shoulders. Oh yeah, he was sexy, in a rough, rumpled, I-just-climbed-out-of-some-girl’s-bed kind of way. Apparently, Logan lived up to the hype and was well on his way to sleeping with most, if not all, of the hottest girls at Mythos. Supposedly, he signed the mattresses of the girls that he scored with just to keep track of all of them. Something that the other guys had taken to doing, although not with as much success as Logan. Except maybe in Morgan McDougall’s room.

  Logan Quinn was also descended from a long line of Spartans. Yeah, those Spartans, the warriors who held off thousands of bad guys before most of them kicked it at the ancient battle of Thermopylae. All of which had been brought to life by Gerard Butler and his chiseled man abs in 300. Professor Metis had let us watch the movie in class three weeks ago, before she proceeded to lecture us about the historical importance of the battle. But Gerard’s abs had been impressive enough for me to daydream about them and tune out Metis.

  There were only a handful of Spartans here at Mythos, but all the other students tread carefully around them. Even the richest, snobbiest kid knew better than to piss off a Spartan. At least, to his face anyway. That’s because Spartans were hands-down the best fighters at the academy. Spartans were born warriors. That’s all they knew how to do, and that’s all they ever did.

  Unlike the other kids, Logan Quinn didn’t carry a weapon with him. Neither did the rest of the Spartans I’d seen. They didn’t need to. One of the things that Spartans were known for was their ability to pick up any weapon—or any thing—and automatically know how to use and even kill someone with it. Seriously. Logan Quinn was the kind of guy who could stab me in the eye with a freaking Twizzler.

  Sometimes, I didn’t know if I really believed all the crazy stuff around me. Like Spartans and Valkyries and Reapers. Sometimes, I wondered if I was stuck in an insane asylum somewhere, just dreaming all this. Like Buffy. But if that was the case, you’d think that I would be having a better time, that I’d at least imagine myself to be one of the popular Valkyrie princesses or something—

  Logan reached for one of the Wonder Woman comics that had been in my bag. The motion snapped me out of my daze.

  “Give me that!”

  I snatched the comic book up off the grass. I didn’t want Logan Quinn contaminating my things with his scary, Spartan, psycho-killer vibes, which could happen if he touched them. That’s how objects got emotions attached to them in the first place—by people touching and handling and using them over time. I stuffed the Wonder Woman issue deep into my bag, along with all the others and the empty cookie tin, which was shaped like the chocolate-chip treats it had once held.

  Logan raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything at my obvious freak-out.

  “Sorry I ran into you,” I muttered again, getting to my feet. “Don’t kill me, okay?”

  Logan also stood, and this time his mouth lifted up into something that almost looked like a smile. “I don’t know,” he murmured. “Gypsy girls make for awful easy killing. Wouldn’t take bu
t just a second.”

  His voice was deeper than I’d thought it would be, with a rich, throaty timbre. Startled, I looked up and stared into his face—and spotted the amusement sparkling in his icy gaze.

  My own eyes narrowed. I didn’t like being made fun of, not even by a dangerous bad boy like Logan Quinn. “Yeah, well, this Gypsy girl happens to have a grandma who can curse you so bad that your dick will turn black and fall off, so watch your step, Spartan.”

  That wasn’t true, of course. My Grandma Frost saw the future. She didn’t curse people—at least, not that I knew of. It was hard to tell with Grandma sometimes. But there was no reason for Logan Quinn to know that I was bluffing.

  Instead of being intimidated, his mouth made that smiling motion again. “I think I’d rather watch you walk away, Gypsy girl.”

  I frowned. Was he—was he actually flirting with me? I couldn’t tell, and I didn’t want to stick around to find out. Keeping one eye on Logan Quinn, I carefully skirted around him and hurried on my way.

  But for some reason, his soft laughter followed me all the way across the quad.

  I left the smooth, grassy quad behind, strolled by the dorms and other smaller outbuildings, and walked to the edge of campus, where a twelve-foot-high stone wall separated Mythos Academy from the outside world. Two sphinxes perched on top of the wall on either side of the entrance, staring down at the black iron gate that lay between them.

  Supposedly, the wall and the gate were enchanted, imbued with spells and other magic mumbo jumbo so that only people who were supposed to be at the academy—students, teachers, and the like—could pass through. When I’d come to Mythos, at the beginning of the fall semester, Professor Metis had made me stand in the entrance right between the two sphinxes while she’d said a few words in a low voice. The statues hadn’t moved, hadn’t blinked, hadn’t done anything but sit on their high perches, but I’d still felt like there was something inside the stone figures—some old, ancient, violent force that would rip me to pieces if I so much as breathed wrong. That had been the first creepy thing that I’d experienced at Mythos. Too bad it hadn’t been the last.

  After Metis had finished her chant, spell, or whatever it had been, she’d told me that I was now free to enter the academy grounds, like I’d been given the password to the supersecret Fearless Five superhero lair or something. I didn’t know exactly what would happen if someone who wasn’t supposed to be at the academy—like, say, a Reaper bad guy—tried to slip through the gate or climb the wall, but surely those sphinxes and their long, curved claws weren’t just for decoration.

  I wondered about a lot of things that I would have been better off forgetting about entirely.

  Metis had also told me that the sphinxes were only designed to keep people out—not trap students inside—and that I shouldn’t be afraid of them. It was kind of hard to be afraid of something that you didn’t really believe in. At least, that’s what I kept telling myself every time I snuck off campus.

  I glanced around to make sure no one else was in sight, then jogged up to the gate, turned sideways, sucked in my stomach, and slipped through one of the gaps in the bars. I didn’t look up at the sphinxes, but I could almost feel their watchful eyes on me. They’re just statues, I told myself. Just statues. Ugly ones at that. They can’t hurt me. Not really.

  A second later, I slid free of the bars to the other side. I let out a breath and kept walking. I didn’t turn around and look back at the statues to see if they were really watching me or not. Whether I believed in the sphinxes’ magic or not, I knew better than to tempt fate.

  Students weren’t supposed to leave the academy during weekdays, which was why the gate was shut. Professor Metis and the other Powers That Were at the school liked all the warrior whiz kids to stay close by so they could keep an eye on them, at least during school nights.

  But I’d been sneaking out ever since I’d gotten here two months ago, and I’d seen other kids do the same, usually on beer or cigarette runs. What was the worst they could do to me? Kick me out? After all the freaky stuff that I’d seen here, I’d be thrilled to go back to public high school. I wouldn’t even complain about the crappy cafeteria food—much.

  Mythos might be its own little world, but what lay beyond the wall was surprisingly normal, since Cypress Mountain was a charming little suburb in its own right. A two-lane road curved around in front of the school, and a variety of shops clustered on the other side, directly across from the imposing spiked iron gate. A bookstore, some coffee shops, several high-end clothing and jewelry boutiques, even a car lot full of Aston Martins and Cadillac Escalades. And, of course, a couple of upscale wine stores that helped the academy kids party hard, despite the supposed campus ban on alcohol.

  The shops were all located here to take advantage of the limitless credit cards and enormous trust funds of the Mythos students. Apparently, the gods and goddesses had all rewarded their mythological warriors with sacks full of gold, silver, and jewels back in the day and the various descendants of those warriors had kept the gravy train of wealth going, adding to their bank balances over the years, which was why all the kids at the academy were so loaded today.

  I waited for a lull in the traffic, crossed the street, and walked down to the bus stop at the end of the block. I only had to wait five minutes before the bus rumbled by on its midafternoon route, taking tourists and everyone else who wanted to ride from Cypress Mountain down into the city. Twenty minutes and several miles later, I got off in a neighborhood that was a couple of streets removed from the artsy downtown Asheville shops and restaurants.

  If Cypress Mountain was some whacked-out version of Mount Olympus with its population of rich warrior whiz kids, then Asheville was definitely where the poor mere mortals lived. Older, well-worn homes lined either side of the street, mostly two- and three-story houses that had been cut up into apartments. I knew the area well. My Grandma Frost had lived in the same house all her life, and my mom and I had only been a few miles away in one of Asheville’s modest middle-class subdivisions. At least when I’d started going to Mythos I hadn’t had to move across the country or anything. I don’t think I could have survived being that far away from Grandma Frost. She was the only family I had left now that my mom was gone. My dad, Tyr, had died from cancer when I was two, and the only memories I had of him were the faded photos my mom had shown me.

  I walked to the end of the block and skipped up the gray concrete steps of a three-story house painted a soft shade of lavender. A small sign beside the front door read: Psychic Readings Here.

  I opened the screen door, then used my key to let myself inside. A heavy black lacquered door off to my right was closed, although the murmur of soft voices drifted out from behind it. Grandma Frost must be giving one of her readings. Grandma used her Gypsy gift to make extra cash, just like I did.

  I walked through the hallway that ran through the middle of the house and veered left, going into the kitchen. Unlike the rest of the house, which featured dark paneling and somber gray carpet, the kitchen had a bright white tile floor and sky blue walls. I slung my messenger bag onto the table and dug the hundred that Carson Callahan had given me out of my jeans pocket. I stuffed the money into a jar that looked like a giant chocolate-chip cookie. It matched the empty tin in my messenger bag.

  Ever since I’d started going to Mythos, I always gave half of whatever money I made to Grandma Frost. Yeah, my grandma had plenty of money of her own, more than enough to take care of us both. But I liked helping out, especially since my mom was gone. Besides, giving Grandma the money made me feel like I was doing something useful with my Gypsy gift, besides just finding some girl’s lost bra that she should have known better than to take off in the first place.

  My eyes flicked over the other bills inside the cookie jar. Grandma had had a good week giving her readings. I spotted two more hundreds in there, along with a couple of fifties and a few twenties.

  The voices kept murmuring in the other room, so I rai
ded the fridge. I fixed myself a tomato sandwich sprinkled with salt, pepper, and just a dash of dill weed. A thick slice of sharp cheddar cheese and a layer of creamy mayonnaise completed the sandwich, along with my favorite, yeasty sourdough bread. For dessert, I sliced off a piece of the sweet, spongy pumpkin roll that Grandma had stashed in the fridge. I licked a stray bit of cream cheese frosting off the knife. Yum. So good.

  In addition to our Gypsy gifts, all of the Frost women had raging sweet tooths. Seriously, if it had sugar or chocolate (or preferably both) in it, Grandma and I would totally eat it. My mom had been the same way, too. Grandma also happened to be an awesome cook and an even better baker, so there was always something gooey and sinful in her kitchen, usually fresh out of the oven.

  I ate my dinner, scraping every last one of the pumpkin roll crumbs up off my plate with a fork, then cleaned up. Once that was done, I pulled out one of my Wonder Woman comic books and settled myself at the kitchen table, waiting for Grandma Frost to finish with her client.

  Yeah, maybe liking superheroes made me even more of a geek than I already was, but I enjoyed reading comics. The art was cool, the characters were interesting, and the heroine always won in the end, no matter what bad stuff happened along the way. I only wished real life was like that—and that my mom had somehow walked away from her car accident the way that I’d read about so many heroes doing over the years.

  The old, familiar pain pricked my heart, but I pushed away my sad thoughts and dove into the story, losing myself in the adventure until I almost forgot about how much my own life sucked—almost.

  I’d just finished reading the last page when my grandma stepped into the kitchen.

  Geraldine Frost wore a gauzy silk purple blouse, along with a pair of loose black pants and slippers with curled pointed toes that made her look like a genie. Not that you could really see what Grandma was wearing, since scarves covered her from head to toe. Purple, gray, emerald green. All those colors and more flowed through the thin layers of fabric, while fake silver coins jingled together on the long, fringed edges.