Phoebe makes a sound that is halfway between laughing and choking.

“Persephone?” she gasps. “She’s your top secret ancestor?”

It’s not like I don’t get why she thinks this is hilarious. The descendants of the underworld queen are known for being insipid, idiotic, and totally spineless. I pride myself on being original, street-smart, and borderline mutinous. We’re not exactly cut from the same mold.

Which is why I distance myself from the clan and keep my ancestry as secret as possible. Until now, only Troy and Griffin—and now Xander—knew the truth.

I cut her a hard glare, but she can’t stop laughing. Only Phoebe could get away with that—anyone else and I’d turn their tongue into snakes.

“I’m sorry,” Phoebe says, clearly not actually apologizing, “but that’s just . . .” She finally looks at me and must see the steam shooting from my ears. “Not who I expected,” she finishes quietly.

“No one ever does,” I reply.

As Phoebe bites her lips to keep from laughing, I hold out the objects in my palm. I open my mouth, ready to call the god of time and get this time-travel ball rolling, but Stella autoports to my side and slaps her hand over my mouth before I can say a word.

“Not here,” she admonishes.

I shove her away, wiping the feel of her hand off my lips.

Ignoring my glare—does no one respect my anger anymore?—she says, “If you’re going to call an ancient one, you need to be in the pantheon temple.”

“She’s right,” Troy says, exchanging a grateful look with the queen B.

“Fine,” I say, shoving the objects into my pocket as I autoport to the temple.

Shutting the temple doors behind me, I leave my friends standing on the steps outside and I tighten my grip on the three objects in my fist. I have worked so hard to get them, and now it’s time to put them to use.

This is, without a doubt, the scariest—and possibly the dumbest—thing I have ever done.

What I’m about to do makes all my past infractions look like little rebellions. Not that I thought Headmaster Petrolas would dismiss the incident with the baby oil in the boys’ bathroom very lightly. But time travel? That’s a whole other level of trouble.

“Stop stalling,” I whisper to myself.

When have I ever been afraid of trouble? Even when it comes in the form of a primordial deity? With every last drop of courage I possess, I close my eyes and shout, “Chronos. God of time, I call you to my presence.”

I open my eyes, expecting to see him standing before me.

Nothing. Empty space.

“You cannot be serious,” I grumble. “Stupid, selfish, obstinate gods. Chronos!” I shout again. “I call you, Chronos. I need you.”

“No need to yell, child of gods,” a deep, rumbling voice says. “I am here.”