Chapter 51
Demeter’s Lock
LYRA
“You have entered the Lock of Demeter.”
I stare at Demeter. Like Hestia, she is dressed in flowing traditional Grecian clothing, not white but deep blue, setting off the goldenness of her being—sun-dipped beige skin, coppery wheat-colored hair woven into a golden laurel crown.
I now know, from the Crucible and days after, that her eyes appear golden from a distance but have specks of green in them up close.
Goddess of agriculture, harvest, fertility, and earth—she truly is like the fields she blesses or curses on a whim.
Like her daughter, too, now that I think of it.
Although Persephone is more tones of pink and greens, like her flowers.
And it suddenly hits me that she’s up there waiting while I get to visit a version of her mother, who she hasn’t seen in technically a hundred and fifty years, but in reality for her, so much longer, thanks to the time resets.
After I open this Lock, will Persephone visit the spirit of her mother?
Will she seek comfort from her the way I want to with Hades’ copy?
When I say nothing, waiting for Demeter to get to the instruction parts of this game, the goddess tilts her head, eyes glinting. “You do not seem curious, human.”
I shrug. “This is the third Lock. I have a better idea of what to expect now.”
Demeter doesn’t glitch like Hestia’s copy would have. More like Hades’ lifelike replica, she gives a nod of understanding. Why was Hestia’s different? Because the real goddess is dead?
“In that case,” Demeter says, “I won’t delay. This Lock will test your genuine kindness.”
She pauses. Again, I wait. I’m pretty sure they just made up the reasons behind the tests as an excuse to cover for their bloodthirsty need to watch someone die in these Locks.
“Think of clothing that you can run in,” Demeter says, “and I’ll make sure that’s what you wear.”
Wait. What? I thought I was going to be harvesting grain down here. Grain that never ends. I’ve been practicing with a sickle. Why will I be running?
Demeter waves her hand, and the Lock’s magic rips everything that is goddess from my bones, from my flesh, and from my soul. “Damn, that doesn’t get easier,” I mutter through clenched teeth, then squeeze my eyes shut, try to picture running clothes, and ride it out until the sensation eases.
When I open my eyes, still tossing and turning, I’m once again on my knees—knees covered in soft, stretchy yoga pants that match with a sports bra, a close-fitting running shirt, and the running shoes on my feet, all in black.
Hopefully that’s good enough for whatever I need to be running through… or from.
From would be worse.
Slipping my piece of the butterfly in my pocket, I force myself to focus on the change in my surroundings. Instead of standing in the round rock room at the bottom of the Labyrinth, I am standing in a field of wheat.
Golden wheat.
The stalks, which are maybe four feet in height, wave in rolling patterns, following the blowing wind.
As they bend and shiver, their heads tip under the weight of the grains and a shooshing sound follows the flow.
The sun, happily bobbing in a perfect blue sky, is warm on my face even as there’s a slight nip in the air.
A perfect day.
Okay…this is what I was told to expect.
With another wave of Demeter’s hand, a simple wooden table appears before me, and on it is a cup formed of hardened clay and filled with a thick-looking purple-hued liquid.
“This,” Demeter says, “is my personal recipe for Kykeon.”
I vaguely remember the term, only because it’s known to still be used during the Eleusinian Mysteries, rites that initiates into the cult of Demeter go through.
Most of what happens during those mortal rites is secret.
All outsiders know is that something is recited, something is revealed, and acts are performed.
And Kykeon, a drink made of barley, honey, and sometimes wine, herbs, and even cheese, is a part of it.
For those rites, at least, the concoction is supposed to have hallucinogenic properties.
“To unseal my Lock, you must make it through three stages of a test. At the start of each stage, you must drink. When you drink, you will…” I’m not a fan of her smile. “See things.”
So, yes to the hallucinating. Great. Awesome. Love this.
“And the things you see, you must save.”
Save?
More things that need saving. I need saving, I want to yell. What about me?
“Right. Three stages. Save the things I hallucinate,” I say instead. “I think I’ve got it.”
Doesn’t sound terribly hard. Except for the running.
“In that case, drink and start your test,” Demeter offers.
Down the hatch. I chug the thick concoction, which has a consistency somewhere between porridge and a fruit smoothie and tastes of red wine and honey and beer all at the same time.
On my last swallow, Demeter smiles again. “Now to face your own hatred.”
I almost drop the cup. “Wait. What?” This time, I say it out loud.
“You usually can’t take it,” she says.
I stare at the goddess. Oh my gods. Like Hades’ copy in his Lock, this one also remembers.
Demeter points at the wheat fields. “Start walking that way.”
With that final instruction, she fades away.
“I can’t take it? Really?” I call into the skies. “That’s information that would have been handy before I drank.”
“You didn’t have a choice.” Her words float to me on the breeze.
Hands on my hips, I glare around me. But in the back of my head, Cronos’ voice overrides everything. Focus is what he’d be telling me if he were here with me.
So I take a deep breath and look around. My vision isn’t doing anything wonky. I’m not swaying or dizzy. Has the hallucinogen kicked in or not? I’ve been drunk before, so I know how that feels. But I’ve never taken a drug that would alter my perception, so I’m not entirely sure what to expect.
I feel…fine. Normal.
And nothing shows up in front of me.
“I guess I start walking.” So I move my feet.
The instant I step into the field itself, the wheat shoots up all around me, well over my head, so I can’t see the pathway out.
This reminds me a lot of the fields I had to run through for Artemis’ Labor.
Not a pleasant memory. With every step, I expect a hand to reach out and grab flags I no longer carry, to cause me pain or confusion or worse.
Or maybe a dragon to set it all on fire. That would definitely make me run.
A shiver that I swear sounds like a whisper of words cascades through the fields, and I spin to look behind me. But nothing is there. Just me and the wheat and the wind. Damn, these fields are creepy.
My fingers brush against something long and hard strapped to my leg, and I look down and gasp.
My axe!
She didn’t take it away? “That’s probably bad,” I mutter.
But I keep going. What I don’t do is let myself hum. Maybe I’m finally getting a handle on that habit.
“Take her,” a voice whispers across the wheat, blending into the winds and the shoosh of the stalks.
I jerk to a halt, looking around me. I am positive I heard that this time, but there’s nothing here. So I tilt my head back to shout at the sky and the goddess controlling this Lock. “If voices are all you’ve got, what am I supposed to save?”
Out of nowhere, a hand strikes me, flat-palmed, across the face.
The impact is hard enough that I go sprawling, flattening the wheat, and the bent spikes of it dig into my side and stomach. Holding a hand to my now-stinging face, I sit up only to stare into the cold eyes of my mother.
This Labyrinth of Locks seems determined to shove that woman in my face.
“Don’t disrespect this man,” she says to me. Or more like whisper-hisses at me like she’s trying to keep this fight between the two of us and not let someone overhear. “He’s going to be your mentor.”
Man? What man? I realize that there’s a vague feel of others being with us, too. Felix, my mind supplies. And my father. Except neither of them is visible…but they are here at the same time. I can feel them.
I remember them.
Oh gods…I remember this.
The familiarity of the moment is hazy but still impossible to deny—a memory I can’t quite recall the details of. More like impressions. I was only three when it happened. But it doesn’t take a genius to know that I’m now reliving the day my parents “donated” my services to the Order of Thieves.
The day they gave me away.
My parents, who never loved me, even when I wasn’t cursed, according to Cronos.
I forgot that my mother had slapped me that day, that she seemed so angry with me for crying. Even when I saw my parents’ faces on TV while I was in the Crucible, my father boasting how they loved me—even then, I didn’t remember that she’d been just as hateful to me as he had.
My mother.
That’s who I have to save.
“My mother again? Really?” I’m talking to Demeter, who I assume is watching all this. “You goddesses are an unimaginative group so far.”
“What are you doing?” Mom claps her hand over my mouth, looking all around us as though my words will bring the skies down on our heads. “Do not anger the gods.”
She’s truly afraid, so much that she’s trembling visibly.
Then, removing her hand, she leans over me.
I know she’s a hallucination—my logical mind knows that is true—but her hand felt real enough, the same way the replica of Hades’ kiss did, and now I get a whiff of her perfume.
Cheap, flowery. I’d forgotten that scent until this moment.
Her expression is stiff. It’s not hate, but I don’t think it’s guilt, either. Just…impatience. “You’ll like it here.”
I squint at her, trying to remember exactly what happened that day. Is this true? For a mother to be this uncaring, curse or not, makes her a monster in my eyes. Worse than the kraken. Worse than sirens or the minotaur.
The more the burn of anger stokes inside me, the smaller I feel, as if I’m shrinking, becoming the three-year-old girl they abandoned all over again.
“This isn’t real,” I say to myself.
But my voice comes out high and wavering, like I’m crying.
A darkly animalistic growl rumbles out of the fields to my right, and my neck prickles as fear-fed adrenaline spikes my blood. That was definitely not part of the day she gave me away. There’s something in these fields with us. Something hunting us.
Another growl—closer this time—and instinct kicks in hard.
I grab my mother’s hand and run.