Prologue

The gates to Olympus never failed to impress.

Stefan Mihal assessed the iron and copper bars that made up the primary entry point to the realm of the gods. To either side, the long, curved wall of white marble extended away into the shadows. Only a few lonely torches lit the heavily carved surface.

Despite the scant illumination, the sculpted images of gods and monsters seemed to leap from the wall to assert their bygone dominance. They all were there, somewhere. Zeus, Hera, Poseidon, Athena, centaurs, nymphs, chimeras, Pegasus, and even the Sphinx. Gods high and low and the creatures that supported, adored and reflected them. They all converged on a wall that would've been one of the seven wonders of the ancient world…if anyone had ever known about it.

Nothing appeared to be moving beyond the bars. All Stefan could see was a thick, primeval forest choked with shadows and the weight of history. Everything seemed exactly as it should, exactly as it had for the past two hundred and fifty years he'd been making this trek to these hallowed gates.

But, as he knew more than most, appearances could be deceiving.

Olympus never slept.

Stefan lifted a hand as he approached, an unnecessary but familiar salute to honor the gate's welcome of his presence. Ordinary mortals couldn't set foot in Olympus without an invitation. Demigods could. They retained their all-access pass to the realm of the gods whether they committed themselves to the long-lived service to their patron deity, or chose to honor their heritage through a human life well lived.

The gates opened inward with barely a murmur, the murk of the forest beyond darkening as he passed through. He continued, unperturbed. He could see nothing in front of him but blackness, but he felt the pressure of the whispers, the excited murmuring. He carried no offering; he didn't need one. The gods were always starved for company.

The gates swung back into place with the softest click. At that moment, the space before him lit up, revealing the true nature of what lay just beyond the gates of Olympus: the receiving gallery of the gods.

Beneath him, a jewel-inlaid mosaic floor burst with an internal fire that extended to a semi-circle of carved, golden thrones mounted on white marble pedestals. More steps rose up behind the thrones, standing room for any of the minor gods or mythological creatures that might be interested in whoever breached the gates. Often, the gallery remained cloaked in shadow, leaving the mortal supplicant to state their business and be judged anonymously. Today, it was packed—but not solely with gods.

Sea nymphs in their legged form crowded the space behind the thrones, males and females of breathtaking beauty, their skin ranging from pale azure to translucent blue-green to deepest midnight. Their eyes were unusually large in their fine-boned faces, their lips full and lush. The hair of both genders tumbled in a thick tide over their shoulders, manes of blond, deep chestnut, or inky black. Though sea nymphs had no need of clothing in the depths of the ocean, they delighted in adornment, like all Olympians. For this audience, they were gowned in shimmering fabric caught up with tiny bits of shipwreck treasures—ancient amulets, golden clips—or with shells and dried coral clasps.

In the center of the gallery, Hermes sprawled on the throne usually reserved for Zeus…because of course he did. The messenger god feigned disinterest at Stefan's approach, staring at the ceiling with his legs draped over the armrests of Zeus's throne. But no one would be fooled into thinking that he wasn't already thoroughly enjoying himself.

Built tall, lean, and deceptively strong, Hermes was beautiful, of course—most gods were unless they intended to strike fear in a human—but his beauty seemed to be merely part of a game for him. His sunny blond locks spilled with surfer-boy ease to his shoulders, and his dark eyes snapped with fierce delight. A grin played at the edges of his sculpted lips, and the wings of his sandals fluttered with a restlessness that belied the god's permanent excitement.

As Stefan stopped in the middle of the mosaic floor, Hermes spun to face him, swinging his legs around to rest his feet on the floor. He leaned forward and flapped his hands when Stefan began to take a knee in honor of his patron deity.

"Stop-stop-stop! There's no need for that. Spill everything—all of it!" Hermes gestured expansively at the nymphs, who were clearly his invited guests. "And then I'll share what these beauties know. Poseidon never uses his army well enough, but we can be glad he isn't paying much attention to the world beyond our iron gates. He'd be pissed."

Stefan grimaced. It was a familiar refrain of Hermes, especially in the past century or so. "Earth wasn't made for the gods to live in, but for humans. It's not yours to rule."

"But you all are doing such a terrible job of it!" Hermes's sandal wings folded flat with irritation against his heels as he leaned forward again. "If you don't want to stir up Poseidon's attention, maybe try not to bleach all the coral in the sea or coat the entire ocean floor with plastic. It's rude. And so unnecessary. We can help."

Stefan's brows lifted, but he didn't pursue the topic. Hermes had all ten of his fingers on various pulses of humanity, though he contented himself with remaining behind the gates of Olympus, at least for now. If that ever changed, however…

Not Stefan's problem today. "Typhon's influence is growing," he informed the god. "We performed a thorough search of the yacht of a recent troublesome guest of the Crown and uncovered his connections to a syndicate of similarly wealthy business moguls spread throughout Europe, Africa, and Asia. The Americas are less swayed by the ancient gods."

"Heathens," muttered Hermes. He tented his hands. "But why Typhon? His pull wasn't strong even before Zeus dropped Mt. Etna on his sorry ass. Surely he has no power now."

"I would've said the same thing until recent events forced me to look into it more deeply. Mt. Etna has been particularly active of late, emitting vortex rings that have galvanized Typhon's followers and drawn new recruits. And he is a monster god. You may not have been keeping up with popular culture recently?—"

"Please. Monitoring world media is literally the only thing we can do from this side of these infernal gates."

Stefan smiled. "Then you know the current popular fascination with monsters. Who better to feed this than…"

"The literal god of monsters." Hermes sat back in his borrowed throne. "I like it. If Typhon wasn't such an unmitigated ass, I'd applaud him. Alas."

He pinned Stefan with a gaze. "That's not the only news out of O?ros these days. How goes the queen's attempt to infuse her castle with romance?"

Stefan narrowed his eyes on his god. "That's not uppermost in her mind."

"Please," Hermes scoffed. "Have you not been paying attention? Queen Catherine has had to do something to keep her mind off her lost son, and what she's chosen couldn't please Eros more. The new Crown Prince Kristos has a bride, and that insufferable by-blow of Zeus has his hands full with—what's her name?"

"Lauren Grant," Stefan said repressively. "But Queen Catherine?—"

"Has now ordered you to go to Turkey, of all the godsforsaken places, and I'll bet she's asked you to bring another of the Americans along. Am I right? I know I'm right." He sighed expressively, sagging back in the throne again and crossing his legs. "I'm going to lose you to Windsurfing Barbie, aren't I?"

"No." Stefan could feel his pulse jumping in his jaw. "The American provides a credible cover for an exploratory mission. We go in, we look around, we get out. If you—any of you—have any information you could share to help guide our search, we'd appreciate it."

He'd pitched his voice louder to include the sea nymphs in the gallery, and they responded with the chirruping whistles of their native tongue. Hermes straightened, the grin back on his face.

"They know nothing of Ari, like always—it's as if the boy was spirited away by another god, if you ask me, and dropped into the middle of nowhere. He's not dead—I would have known. But he's caught up in some darkness I can't penetrate from here."

Stefan nodded. One of Hermes's many roles was as a psychopomp, guiding souls across the River Styx and into the Underworld at the end of their lives. It had been the only reason why Stefan had held out hope for Ari to still be alive after all these months, despite the decision by the Crown to move forward with installing Kristos as crown prince in place of his missing brother. The people of O?ros needed the assurance that the royal family was stable.

However, Stefan hadn't missed the fact that Ari's wristwatch had turned up within a bare week of Kristos's accession ball. Not all the gods were ready for the royal family to move on, it seemed.

"What do they know that they can share?" he prompted, favoring the nymphs with a smile. As usual, the nearest ones to him giggled and preened, male and female alike. Nymphs liked attention almost as much as the gods.

"There's been a lot of activity in Ala?ati in the past several days. Particularly south of the city. The port has been full of international traffic for some sporting event, but the event has happened before with less activity. There's something going on beyond entertainment."

"Any sign of Typhon?"

"No," Hermes confirmed the chirruping dissent of the nymphs. Like any demigod of Hermes, Stefan could easily translate any language—even the native tongue of these ancient creatures—but he allowed his patron to continue. "That doesn't mean he's not involved, just that he hasn't shown his hand. And they think he is involved. There've been deliveries to the Port Ala?at? Marinathat are problematic. Live animals and maybe creatures who are not exactly animals. They're sent into the city and never seen again."

"How long has this been going on?"

Hermes spread his hands at the chorus of dismayed and defensive chirruping. "For months. And stop scowling. The nymphs were looking for a golden prince, not a cargo of the damned."

Stefan worked to school his face. "How could any of those creatures escape Olympus?"

"Same way as always," Hermes shrugged. "The gates to Olympus are barred, but the Underworld? That's Hades's realm. If he lets a few nasty bits slip out on occasion, we don't raise a fuss. They can't survive in the modern world for longer than a few weeks at a go. The air is poison to them. But if your goal was to use them for sport, they're dead anyway."

"As you say." Stefan didn't like any of this, but he couldn't ignore it. "And there's been a new delivery since Ari's watch was recovered?"

Another wave of murmurs and chirps. "Several, it would seem. Again, no clue of what, exactly, but—it's alive. I will say, I'm looking forward to hearing of your adventure. You'll be back with a full report, I expect?"

"Of course," Stefan said, recognizing the dismissal in his patron's words. He bowed his head in respect, but when he lifted it again, he was surprised to find Hermes staring at him, his dark eyes curiously intent.

"Have a care with Windsurfing Barbie," Hermes said, already growing more diffuse as his focus waned. "She strays too close to the veil at her peril, and Hades has always had a soft spot for any fire that burns so bright."

Stefan bristled. "What's that supposed to mean?" Acting on instinct, he reached out to keep the mercurial god from disappearing, but it was already too late. The forest hissed, darkness swirled around him, and his grasping, outstretched hand banged into the unforgiving iron bars of the gates of Olympus—now once more shut tight.

He turned on his heel and strode back into the night.