Page 13 of Wrath of the Triple Goddess

In the center of the room stood a line of stainless steel workstations that reminded me of morgue tables. Along the walls were enough white granite counters, mixing bowls, blenders, cutting boards, ovens, and range tops to keep an army of chefs busy. Displayed in glass-doored cabinets were hundreds of jars, vials, and beakers filled with colorful liquids. Gooey objects floated in some of them, and I really did not want to know what they were. On the nearest stove, several covered pots simmered and steamed.

Hecate spread her arms proudly. “I know what you are thinking: This looks like the set ofThe Great Witches’ Brew Off. And you’re right. We filmed all seven seasons here.”

“Oh!” Grover said. “Ilovedthe episode with the growth elixirs! When Alejandro turned into a Hyperborean giant—?”

“A classic,” Hecate agreed. “Season three, episode five.”

I glanced at Annabeth, who looked as mystified as I was. Maybe we could find the show on Hecate’s TV and binge it this week. She probably had a subscription to Olympus+ or whatever the gods were watching these days.

Grover sniffed the air. “What is that heavenly smell?”

He followed his nose—past the simmering pots that didnotsmell heavenly—to the farthest counter, where an old-fashioned ice cream maker rumbled away: a silver canister churning in a wooden bucket filled with crushed ice. I hadn’t seen one of those in years.

Whatever was inside smelled of fresh strawberries ripening in the summer sun, just like the fields at Camp Half-Blood. A drop of pink liquid trickled from the canister’s rim, and Grover was shaking as he tried to restrain himself. The aroma was so powerful evenIwanted to dip my finger in it and have a taste.

“You will touchnoneof my projects,” Hecate warned. “They must all be allowed to simmer on the stove just as they are until I return. I will make an exception, however, for this strawberry milkshake experiment.”

Grover’s eyes widened. “You will?”

“Tomorrow at precisely ten a.m., it will be the proper consistency. I will allow you to unplug the motor, take the canister out of the iceusing safety gloves, and transfer it to the freezer over there. That isallyou may do. Absolutelynotaste-testing, or there will be dire consequences. Do you understand?”

Grover looked like he was trying to swallow a golf-ball-size lump of disappointment. He nodded glumly.

“Good,” Hecate said. “Otherwise, you may use the kitchen to prepare food as you wish. Now, enough about your mortal needs. Let me show you how to properly care for my pets!”

Hecate liked rules.

She had rules about feeding the pets, rules about walking them, rules about grooming them, and rules about how to follow the rules about the rules.

“These are Hecuba’s vitamins,” she said, standing in front of a cabinet lined with mason jars, each filled with what looked like chicken nuggets in various colors—gray, gold, green, blue, and pink-and-white polka-dotted. “She gets two each morning out of each jar.”

“Each jar?” I asked.

It looked like too many vitamins, even for a hellhound-size stomach.

“Very important for her joints and fur,” Hecate insisted. “She doesn’t like them, but don’t let her refuse.”

Over in the corner of the den, Hecuba curled up on her doggie bed, which was the size of a bouncy house, put her face on her paws, and sighed heavily. I didn’t blame her. I was imagining how much time and work it would take every morning to coax her into eating forty Medicinal McNuggets.

“She can have two cups of kibble for breakfast and dinner,” Hecate continued. “No treats while I’m gone, or she’ll think she can take advantage of you.”

What she calledkibblelooked to me like a trash can full of rocks. The measuring scoop had been fashioned from a gallon milk jug. The kibble smoked like dry ice and gave off an odor like hot asphalt.

“Yum,” I said.

“She loves it,” Hecate insisted, then turned to her hellhound. “Don’t you, pwetty girl?”

Hecuba’s big bloodshot eyes seemed to send the messageI hate my life.

“That’s my pwetty girl,” Hecate cooed. “Now, she gets walks twice a day, morning and evening. In here, you’ll find her supplies.”

She opened a closet door, revealing a box of extra-hefty forty-gallon garden-waste bags that had been relabeledPOOP BAGS FOR HECUBA. Hanging on the wall was an assortment of gigantic leashes—one pink, one yellow, one with daisies, and one with Hello Kitty designs.

“Just don’t take her any farther than Pennsylvania,” Hecate advised.

“Pennsylvania?” Grover asked.

Hecate turned to Annabeth. “Are your friends a bit slow, or do they just have bad hearing?”

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