I’ve heard about chronoportation all my life. The mysterious, dangerous, and highly illegal power of time travel. But it’s just a joke, an urban legend like Bigfoot, Atlantis, and the Seven Cities of Gold. Hematheos conspiracy kooks have spent centuries trying to unravel its secrets, to find the key to unlocking the fourth dimension. It’s an unending quest because it doesn’t exist.

The book is real, though.

I’ve rubbed my fingertips over the edges enough to make sure of that. The leather is worn so smooth I know it must be centuries old, and the heavy coating of dust on the top edge suggests it hasn’t been touched in almost as long. Which also makes me believe it might be legitimate. Why would Olympus and Mrs. Philipoulos go to all the bother of hiding the book in the super-restricted archives if the thirteenth power was pure fiction?

There’s only one way to find out.

Sucking in a deep breath, I lean forward to my desk, where the book sits. Waiting. It’s not that I’m afraid to flip open the cover. Okay, I’m a little afraid. Who knows what will happen to me when I take a peek? If Olympus really wanted the contents of the book hands-off, they might have installed supernatural protection. There might be a hideous or painful curse sealed into the pages.

Which is why the book has been sitting under the hamper in my closet. Every morning I take it out and put it on my desk, with every intention of finally reading it. I don’t know what’s holding me back. Let’s just say fear is a completely foreign emotion to me, so I’m not dealing with it particularly well.

“Oh for the love of Zeus,” I snap at myself. “Stop being ridiculous.”

How can I fix things if I’m too scared to even read a stupid book?

I reach for the leather cover.

My hand freezes, hovering over the gilt lettering of the title, almost like an invisible force is keeping me from making contact. I know the only force at work here is fear. Fear of the unknown.

“Not knowing is worse,” I whisper. Worse than any punishment Olympus could throw at me.

Without allowing myself another weakhearted thought, I dip my fingers beneath the cover and fling the burgundy leather to the side.

Knock, knock, knock.

“Aaarck!”

I leap back, away from the book, sending myself and my chair sprawling across the linoleum tile floor. My heart races, prepared for swarms of locusts or fire-breathing monsters. Or both.

I check my skin for boils.

Knock, knock, knock.

It takes a few seconds for my brain to register the fact that someone is knocking on my door. Probably someone mostly human—I hope—since minions of Olympus don’t usually bother much with courtesy.