Sons of Zeus (The Warrior Trilogy #1)

“It was fun, huh?” Sera finally said.

Dak looked at her. His best friend. “Yeah, it was. Not that I’d want to do it again.”

“Me, neither. But I’ll never forget what we did.”

“Save the world?” Dak asked.

“Yep, save the world. And I’m glad it was with you.”

She smiled then, and Dak decided not to say anything back. Sometimes words just weren’t enough.





TILDA SAT, crouched, withered, dying, in the filthy corner of the alley. All of majestic Athens rose up around her, but no one cared about the sad little woman with the hair that once shone like flames. Now it was dull and lifeless and limp, like the last dying embers of a once mighty fire.

She huddled, cold despite the heat. Hungry despite the rat she’d just eaten. Shivering, she leaned against the wall and wept. Every day she’d cried, hopeless and hating the world. Hating the Hystorians. Hating that boy. That girl. That other boy.

They’d done this to her. They’d ruined her. They’d ruined her future.

Oh, how she hated them.

But it didn’t matter. It was over. Though not gracious in defeat, she at least knew she’d been beaten. The SQ was no more.

And so, she’d wait.

She’d wait for death.



The next day, it still hadn’t come.

That evening, a light flashed nearby, accompanied by the crackling sounds of thunder and sparks. Wind rushed through the alley, picking up leaves and trash, pelting her body. Then a sudden darkness blossomed, making her feel as if she’d been cast into a dungeon. Scared, she shifted, trying to shrink farther into the corner.

The shadow of a man stood before her. It took a while, but her eyes adjusted, and she could finally see him, standing there, silent and watchful. He was bald, and hideous scars marked his face. He wore a robe, its hood pulled down around his shoulders. And there was something terribly wrong with one of his eyes, though she couldn’t quite see well enough to know for sure.

“Who are you?” she asked in a rasp, her throat dry as decayed bones.

The man sank toward the ground and knelt before her. That eye. She could see it now. Bloodshot and puffy, like it was riddled with disease.

“My name doesn’t matter,” he answered, his voice deep. “I’m a descendant of Ilsa, the only name we speak.”

“Ilsa?” Tilda repeated.

“Yes. I have something to show you.”

The man pulled out a metallic object, shining golden even in the scant light. Tilda recognized the shape — the sign for infinity. Her heart leapt back to life, consumed with so much joy she worried of dying, right there in the alley, the victim of too much emotion at once.

“What . . . how?” she sputtered, confusion threatening to destroy her elation at seeing the device.

The man spoke with soothing tones. “Ilsa commanded her posterity to study the sciences, find a way to travel through time. And we’ve done it. And you, Tilda, you are our first mission. I was sent here to get you.” He reached out and gently helped her stand up, his touch bringing a warmth she hadn’t felt in a long time.

“Thank you,” she said, too dazed to find any other words.

“Come,” he said, holding out the golden device for her to grasp. “We need you to show us the way.”