I spin around.

Standing ten feet away, just inside the temple doors, is the god of time. When I first look, he appears to be a gray-bearded old man who resembles the god-kings. Then, right before my eyes, his image wavers into that of a three-headed serpent. One head is that of a young man, one is a lion, and the third is a bull.

As I stare, the image continues to flicker back and forth between the two.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to make the images settle on just one appearance, but when I look again it’s still the flickering cycle.

Guess I’ll have to deal with it.

Focusing my gaze on his eyes—first those of the old man, then the human head on the serpent—I hold out my hand.

“I want to travel back in time,” I say, weaker than intended.

The image freezes on the old man for a minute as he laughs, the rough sound echoing off the stone walls of the temple. “It has been too long since any hematheos sought the power of chronoportation.”

I shift my weight to my other foot. “It’s not strictly legal.”

“No,” he says, the image going back to the flickering cycle, “it is not.”

The primordials and the Olympians have never been the best of friends. They have disagreed about how to run the world since, oh, before the world was around. Unfortunately for the primordials, the Olympians are currently in charge. Which means their rules rule. They say no time travel, so no time travel.

Hardly seems fair to the god of time.

“But it is possible,” I argue, shoving my hand out farther. “And I brought the offering.”

“Yes,” he says, slithering forward as the image locks on the serpent. The lion’s head leans close over my palm, inspecting the objects held there.

In a flash, the image of the old man snatches the objects from my palm, shoves them into his mouth, and swallows them.

I feel my eyes widen as the image flickers twice more and then settles on a new one—the young man from the three-headed serpent, but with a man’s body to match. He smiles, his sky-blue eyes sparkling with energy.

“Thank you,” he says, rolling his shoulders like he’s been sitting in a cramped airplane seat for twelve hours. “I needed that.”

This third image, the young man with a gleaming smile, curly blond hair, and a body to rival Adonis himself, is a surprise. I always pictured the god of time more like the first image—a frail old man, stooped with age. Who’d have thought Chronos could be such a hottie?

“Few see my true image,” he explains. “Many choose to view time as an hourglass, with youth and vitality draining away as the sands fall.” He gestures at his body. “But time and age are merely constructs of perception.”

“Um, okay . . .”