“I did.” He pulls his hands out of his pockets and holds out his palms, revealing the golden feather and the silver seashell. “Are you sure you don’t want to take a few days to think about—”

“No,” I interrupt as I snatch the objects from his hands. “I’m not wasting any more time.”

I am so not in the mood for a think-about-what-you’re-doing lecture. He has no idea what it’s like to live with this kind of guilt for so long. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t hate myself for what my younger self did.

It’s time to make things right and get that burden off my shoulders.

It’s time to call Chronos.

“We need to talk about this,” Griffin says.

I frown at him as he steps closer. “What’s to talk about?”

“I should be the one to go back in time.” His golden eyes burn beneath his dark, scowling brow. “I’m the one who fed ambrosia to the baby. I’m the one who should fix things.”

“No.”

I place the ruby seeds in my palm alongside the feather and the seashell.

“No?” Griffin jerks back. “Just like that—no—and we don’t get to talk about it?”

“No,” I repeat. “We don’t get to talk about it.”

“Nic—”

“Do you know what the next step is?” I ask, getting bored with this argument. I know he wants to be the one to save his parents. I know how he feels—better than anyone—but I also know why it’s not possible. “After calling Chronos, do you know what you’d have to do next?”

His eyes darken. “No, I—”

“You have to call your ancestor,” I explain. “You have to call your god and ask them for a golden coin.”

Griffin jerks back. Clearly he sees my point. His whole body softens a little and he leans back, away from me. Away from the argument.

Phoebe, on the other hand, doesn’t get it.

“What?” she asks, coming to Griffin’s side. “What’s wrong with that? Griffin can call Hercules and—”

“No,” Griffin says, his voice low and hard. “I can’t.”

“Hercules is a demigod,” Troy explains. “He doesn’t qualify.”

“So. Then he can call . . .” Phoebe begins, but trails off before she can argue. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Oh.”

On the best days, inviting the god of war over for a visit is a dangerous proposition. Ares is too volatile, too unpredictable, too . . . likely to wind up inciting a battle or two while he’s here.

On a day when we’re looking to break one of the unbreakable rules, messing with the space-time continuum and changing everything that’s happened in the last ten years, the god of war is the last person we want to ask for help.

“I’m going,” I say, fingering the objects in my hand. “Because Persephone is the safer bet.”