But Poseidon doesn’t spout any more of his crazy talk. He holds the seashell back within my reach.

I snatch it before he can yank it away again.

“Thanks,” I say, clutching the seashell in my fist.

I turn and swim for the door as fast as my mediocre swimming skills will take me. It’s not until I’m out of the palace, through the canyon, and kicking to the surface that I let out a sigh of relief. I did it. I actually got the silver seashell.

As I break through into the salty air, I don’t hesitate. I autoport back to Serfopoula, back to my friends, with the edges of the shell digging into my palm.

7

It’s late when I get back and the beach is deserted, so I go ahead and autoport back to my room. After placing the seashell in the desk drawer next to the feather, I grab my phone and send the gang a quick text to let them know I’m back safe.

A phone beeps from the vicinity of my always-messy bed.

Scowling, I cross the room and yank the comforter away. There’s Troy, sprawled across my sheets, sleeping like a little baby.

“Hey,” he says, rolling over and squinting into the light. “You’re back.”

I don’t bother confirming the obvious. “How did you get in here?”

I swear I reset my protections after last time.

He sits up, rubs his eyes with one hand, and waves at the window with the other.

“I’m on the third floor,” I argue while he stifles a yawn.

“I know.” He gives me a lopsided grin. “I neofactured a ladder.”

I give up. With a resigned shake of my head, I drop into the chair at my desk. “Clearly I need to up my security.”

Troy ignores my grumble. “Did you get it?”

I yank the drawer back open and hold up the seashell.

“How?” he asks. “Was it hard?”

“Not really,” I answer.

All it took was a bizarro mental movie of Poseidon’s daughter. I have no idea what that was all about, and part of me wants to share that with Troy. Not that he would understand any more than I do, but it’s making me a little crazy to keep it inside.

What would I say? Poseidon touched me and I saw—what? The future? The past? I don’t even know.

It had to be something supernatural. I’ve never seen this daughter of Poseidon before, but according to him I described her—and her boyfriend—perfectly. And whatever I saw, it was enough to appease the sea god.

Still, it’s . . . weird. To say the least.

Instead of telling Troy something I can’t explain, I tell him the rest of the story—from the moment I left the beach until I autoported home.