Straightening his shoulders, like he needs to muster his strength, he asks, “So, what do we do first?”

“I don’t know,” I explain, giving the book a wary look. “I haven’t read it yet.”

“What are we waiting for?” He grabs the book from my hand, drops back onto my bed with his back against the wall, and sets the leather volume in his lap. “Let’s crack this baby open.”

He’s showing way more courage than he feels, I’m sure. But I’m thankful for every ounce of fake bravado. Maybe this is why I waited. Maybe I’m supposed to read the book with Troy, to follow the instructions and travel back through time with him at my side. All of a sudden, my fears and doubts and cowardliness evaporate. I’m ready.

I climb onto the bed next to him, scooting back to the wall for support. We each wrap one hand around the corner of the cover, and pull it open.

I’m not sure what I expected to happen. Thunderbolts, swarms of locusts, a Go Directly to Hades, Do Not Pass Go, Do Not Collect $200 card. But, in reality, opening this particular book is just like opening any other.

As the burgundy leather cover swings out of the way, there is a blank page followed by a title page, which reads:

The Art and Science of Chronoportation: How to Travel Through Time Without Getting Caught

“That’s promising,” Troy says.

“Not getting caught would be a definite advantage,” I agree.

Next is a table of contents, listing a preface, several chapters on the history of chronoportation, and—finally—the instructions. We look at each other and then Troy quickly flips to the last section. We don’t need a history lesson; we need directions.

“The power of chronoportation is not as simple as the other twelve dynamotheos powers,” Troy reads. “Time travel requires more than just mental skill and should never be undertaken without careful consideration of the consequences.”

“Blah blah,” I say. “Skip ahead to the good part.”

“Funny,” Troy says, giving me an ironic look. “I think this is the part you need to hear most.”

I throw him a scowl. “If you’re going to be dogging me about this the whole time, then you can leave now.”

He sighs, and turns back to the book.

“It says,” Troy explains, even though I’m reading over his shoulder, “we need to get the blessing of Chronos, the god of time.”

No wonder Olympus outlawed time travel. Chronos is one of the old gods—a primordial. They and their powers make the Olympic gods nervous. They’ve been around since before time began—literally, since Chronos is the god of time. They don’t abide by Olympic law and there have been more than a few . . . skirmishes about that throughout history.

“And to do that,” Troy reads ahead a bit, “we need to gather three offerings.”