But as the laughter dies, my thoughts circle back to the reason I found out the truth, the reason I’m seeking out my ancestor god—gods—in the first place. The humor fades and the anger remains.

“What time is it?” I demand.

Troy checks his watch. “Just after two.”

“I still have time.” I start walking for the front door.

Troy hurries to catch up. “Are you sure? Don’t you want to take a day to process or something?”

“I’ve been waiting ten years,” I say, though the truth is I’ve apparently been waiting my whole life to meet my real parents; I just didn’t know it. “I’m not going to waste another day.”

When I enter the temple this time, I let my anger seep through every pore of my body. I want these witches to know what they’re getting into when they show up. I channel the anger—over so many things—as I call for them.

“Moraie!” I shout at the empty temple. “I call on you, Fates. I demand your appearance!”

I spin in circles waiting for them to pop in, sneaking up on me like Chronos and Persephone did.

“Fates!” I scream at the top of my lungs. “You are my ancestors. You have to come.”

A thought tickles at the back of my mind, like a memory of something I never knew. Something that tells me what I need to say to call them here.

I clench my jaw, snort out a sharp breath, and say, “I call on you . . . Mothers.”

In a flash, three women stand before me. They are varying ages—one is young and beautiful, not more than a few years older than me, another is middle-aged, and the third is so ancient she is gnarled and hunched like a hideous gargoyle. They have no eyes except for the one cupped in the palm of the ancient one.

She holds out her hand, surveying me with the creepy eyeball.

“I want to see,” the young one says, reaching for the eye.

The ancient one holds it out of her reach. “She is pretty,” she says. She holds the eye up near the side of my head. “But her hair is odd.”

I fight the urge to knock her hand away.

“My hair is fine,” I growl.

Short, spiky blond might not have been normal back in the ancient day, but it’s acceptable now. Even if it’s not, I don’t care.

The young one steps closer and grabs the eyeball, studying me just like the old one did.

“Oooh, she has my nose,” the young one says. She lifts her empty hand to her own nose. “At least, I think she does.”