At Phoebe’s, we only have to worry about her mom—not really a concern, because she doesn’t know enough about this world to freak out; her stepdad—a major problem, because Headmaster Petrolas knows everything about this world, but luckily he’s in Athens on business; and her stepsister—another major know-it-all problem, but Stella tends to make herself scarce when we’re around. Besides, she’s busy getting ready to leave for Oxford in a few weeks.

Phoebe and I are counting the days.

“I found a site that says the Romans believed the entrance to Hades was through Lake Avernus in Italy.” Phoebe looks away from the computer screen and smiles at us. “Road trip?”

I shake my head.

“Can’t trust anything the Romans say,” Troy says without looking up from the atlas he’s reading.

Griffin looks up from the prehistoric-looking book on mythology he found in the nonsecret collection at the library. “They got everything wrong.”

I flip through another useless book, filled with all the standard mythological stories about Hades. Kidnapping Persephone, Odysseus’s odyssey, Orpheus trying to bring Eurydice back from the dead. Nothing helpful.

“Here’s something,” Griffin says. He reads from his book. “Supposedly, there is an entrance to Hades in Abyssos, the realm of monsters.”

“Realm of monsters?” I ask. That doesn’t sound fun.

“I’ve heard of that,” Troy says. “It’s where all the gods banished monsterkind after Medusa’s murder.”

“Murder?” Phoebe asks.

“It’s a long story,” I explain. “But how would we get to Abyssos?”

“It says there’s a door . . .” Griffin reads ahead, and then his face falls. “Oh. It says the door has been lost for millennia.”

“Great,” I mutter.

Square one.

“You know,” Troy says, “Hades isn’t the only god with access to the underworld. You could always call—”

“Shut it,” I growl before he says too much.

He should know that what he’s suggesting is not an option. Not. An. Option.

“Are you sure your girlfriend can’t help us out?” I ask, just to torment him.

Phoebe sits up straighter. “Troy has a girlfriend?”

“A secret one,” I tease.

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” he says, turning his attention back to the atlas.

I smirk. Score one for Nicole.

Everyone returns to their searching. I’m about to read the story of how Hades kidnapped Persephone, how the biggest idiot in all of mythology cursed herself into spending three-quarters of eternity trapped in the underworld with her kidnapper—Stockholm syndrome much?—when Phoebe’s bedroom door swings open.

“Phoebe, did you take my—”

We all freeze at the intrusion of Phoebe’s stepsister into our lair.

Stella stops midsentence when she sees us scattered around the room, guiltily trying to hide the evidence of our research. She scans her steely gray eyes over the crowd and when her glare gets to me, it narrows.

I growl. We don’t have the best history.