Walking around behind the pedestal that holds the vase, I lift up on my tiptoes—no easy feat in steel-toed combat boots—and reach for the top lip of the vase. Only I’m not as nimble as I used to be, and instead of carefully reaching inside, I knock the rim and send the vase flying.

I dive for it, launching myself full-body across the marble floor, arms outstretched and reaching desperately for the fragile vase. I won’t make it. Hematheos instinct kicks in and I try to neofacture a huge feather pillow before the vase hits the floor. But no pillow materializes in the powers-free Mount Olympus. I watch helplessly as the vase falls to the floor. Then, two inches from impact, it bounces like it hit something soft and then rolls across the air. I lay there, frozen, my heart pounding.

Yet another supernatural protection—the gods must really love their art.

I’m lucky. If this thing had shattered into a million pieces, there’s no way I get out of here without being detected.

“Nice move,” I mutter to myself.

Jumping back to my feet, I dust off my bruised ego and then reach for the vase. As I lift it off the invisible cushion, something rattles around in the base.

I grin.

I turn the vase upside down and almost laugh when a shiny golden egg rolls out onto the invisible cushion. I set the vase back on its perch, careful to make sure it’s facing the same way—the gods are notoriously anal about their objects—and then snatch the egg off the air.

It’s a little tarnished after a decade in a vase, but it’s still a pretty thing.

The egg goes a little blurry and, as I squint to clear the vision, I realize it’s not the egg. It’s my eyes. A renegade sheen of tears is blurring my sight.

No way. Shoving the unwelcome emotion aside, I jam the egg into my pocket and take a deep breath. Just like the egg, Griffin and I used to be shiny. We used to have all the promise of a bright future, but the gods took that away from us.

I refuse to let things stay as they are. All the egg needs is a little polish. All Griffin and I need is to undo that moment in the past. And I’m going to make that happen for both of us.

Hurrying down the hall, I find myself on autopilot to Zeus’s chamber. Three right turns and one to the left. Last door at the end.

I break into a jog—come on, like I’m gonna sprint? I still hate running—and quietly push open the door without stopping to think. But as I slip inside, I know I should have held back a little on the impulse.