Sons of Zeus (The Warrior Trilogy #1)

Aristotle knew his teacher was sincere, and he continued with excitement.

“As I study the tomes of our history, a recurring thought always comes to my mind — what if something happened that wasn’t supposed to happen? Or what if something didn’t happen that should have? Is it permanent? Is history permanent? Or can we . . . change it?”

“Change history?” Plato asked. “So much said in so few words. I think you’ve breasted a topic that in truth frightens me, my pupil. Not in a bad way, mind you. But my foundation trembles.”

“No great mind has ever existed without a touch of madness,” Aristotle said. “And I do believe that the things I’ve pondered about our past and future walk the edge of that madness. But by the same token, it may be the most important notion I’ve ever had.”

Plato nodded slowly, considering. “What is at the crux of this . . . notion?”

“Progress,” Aristotle replied. “Technology. On a scale that is beyond even the furthest reaches of our understanding. What if some day our race advances enough that we could actually manipulate time and —”

A rapid flurry of knocks at the door interrupted his words. Plato, his beard seeming a shade darker somehow, reluctantly ordered whomever it was to step onto the balcony. A young boy — his name was Python of Aenus — popped his head in and apologized.

“I’m sorry, master,” Python said. “But there is a message from King Philip, sent by horse. I thought you would want to see it.”

Plato sighed. “What would Socrates say at a time like this?”

“Be kind,” Aristotle provided, “for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.”

“Don’t put up airs, pupil.” But Plato had the scantest glint of mirth in his eyes — a rarity these days. “Bring it, boy, and then get back to your studies. Tomorrow we will begin the Theory of Forms.”

Python quickly handed over the small scroll to his master, then scurried back inside from the balcony, shutting the door behind him. Plato unrolled the parchment and read through its contents, his expression never changing. Aristotle knew better than to pry.

Finally, the scholarch of the Academy of Plato — and its namesake — looked up, eyeing his student. “Looks like our discussion on the madness of the mind and the ability to change history will have to wait until a later time, my friend.”

“Oh?” Aristotle hoped it wasn’t bad news.

Plato stood, then glanced at the scroll as he spoke. “You’ve been summoned by Philip to tutor his son Alexander the Third. The future king of Macedonia.” Plato looked up once more, a sense of pride behind that beard and those ancient eyes.

Aristotle swallowed, not sure what to think of such a life change. “Alexander the Third? He’s still a boy, still teachable. This might be a wonderful thing.”

“Yes, indeed.” Plato leaned on the railing and watched the dying glow of the sunset. “There are those who say the boy is destined to have . . . greatness. It is my sincere hope that you can make sure this is so.”

“Yes, teacher,” Aristotle replied, excited by the prospect. “I will do my best.”





“THIS IS the only thing I’ve ever put my foot down about,” Dak said, folding his arms and trying his all-around best to look like a dude who meant what he said and said what he meant. “We’re already here. No changing your minds.”

He faced his best friend — Sera Froste — and his slowly-but-surely-becoming second best friend, Riq Jones. They stood in a dusty, dry alley behind Ford’s Theatre in Washington, DC. The year was 1865, the day April 15, just a few hours from what Dak now considered the darkest moment in all of history. Because his hero of heroes was about to be shot in the head.

He had read all about it in a history book he’d pilfered from 1945. Dak knew Abraham Lincoln as a congressman and lawyer who had spoken out against slavery — and been silenced by the SQ as a result. But when the time travelers had fixed a Break in 1850, they had, in a roundabout way, ensured that the great man would go on to do great things. Dak read all about them.

And he couldn’t bear the thought of what came next.

“Have you not learned a thing since we started all this?” Riq asked him. The older boy wasn’t being a jerk — even Dak had to admit that the concerns over his plan were pretty valid. But this was Abraham Lincoln. President Abraham Lincoln. A once-in-a-lifetime chance lay before them.

Sera had been nodding since the first word popped out of Riq’s mouth. “He’s right, Dak. You mean a lot to me, and I know this means a lot to you. That’s why I let you talk me into coming here. But now . . . we just can’t do this. We can’t. I’m sorry.”

“Yes. We can.” It took all of Dak’s effort to stay still. Resolute. He wanted to save President Lincoln and that was that.