Page 4 of Wrath of the Triple Goddess

Her body shimmered and stretched. Suddenly, I was looking at three distinct goddesses, all linked at the torso like gemstones on a single ring. On the left, a girl with milk-white skin and platinum-blond hair fixed me with a steely gaze that said,Pull my pigtails. I dare you.In the middle stood the Hecate I had been talking to—a middle-aged lady with the most disapproving mom-face I’d seen since my last brunch at Hera’s. On the right, a wizened old woman with ashen hair gave me a sour scowl. Honestly, I wasn’t sure which face scared me the most.

“I am the Maiden,” said Hecate in a chorus of three voices. “I am the Mother. I am the Crone. I am all phases of a woman’s life—all her power—and I will suffer no man to cross me.”

A tremor went through my body. My legs shook.

But she wasn’t done with me yet. She changed again. Her three faces became animal heads. On the left, a palomino horse whinnied angrily. In the middle, a lioness snarled and bared her fangs. On the right, a hound growled and slavered, its eyes ablaze.

“I am the horse that runs strong and fearless,” she said, her voices unchanged. “I am the lion that prowls stealthy and patient. I am the hound that stands guard, loyal and fierce. I am goddess of the crossroads, where all possibilities intersect. I devour those who waver before me.”

My body felt flushed—warm, damp, and unpleasant. My gut seemed to dissolve into my jeans.

Finally, the room cleared of darkness. Before me stood Hecate in a single form, the way she’d been at the beginning.

She gave me a tight smile, probably because she could see that she’d made her point.

“See you tonight, then,” she said. “Ciao.”

In a burst of green fire, she disappeared, leaving nothing behind but the smell of burning animal hair.

I stared at Dr. Samuels’s education degrees framed on the wall.

When I felt like my legs could move again, I wobbled out of the office. I needed to finish my school day. I needed to contact Annabeth and Grover. But first I needed to go to my gym locker and change my undershorts.

“Fun fact,” said Grover. “Obscure knowledge is calledtriviabecause of Hecate’s Roman name, Trivia!Three roads!”

“That may be a fact,” I said. “But it’s not fun.”

“Aw, c’mon! You got a quest. This is great news!”

Grover danced and skipped along the sidewalk in front of me. The cooler October weather always made him perky. As soon as I’d mentioned my encounter with Hecate, he’d gotten even more excited.

Today, his shaggy hindquarters were stuffed into cargo pants. His goat hooves were sort-of-not-really concealed in a modified pair of orange Crocs (because inconspicuous?). His horns peeked through his shaggy hair. His blue hoodie was emblazoned with the wordHUMAN.

I’d never understood satyr rules for blending into the mortal world. Usually, they tried to disguise themselves as people to some extent. Mostly they seemed to rely on the Mist, the veil that confused human vision, to do the job for them. But when Grover opted for Crocs and aHUMANhoodie, I had to wonder why he bothered at all. Maybe he was trying to explode mortal brains.

“You’re just excited about the pets,” I guessed.

Grover grinned from ear to ear, which made him look like he had extra AI-generated teeth. “If Hecate’s hellhound is anything like Mrs. O’Leary, I’ll love her!”

“I wouldn’t bet on that.”

“And polecats…” Grover paused. “Actually, I’m not sure I’ve ever met a polecat. But I’m willing to make friends. Come on!”

He trotted down Lexington Avenue.

We’d met at the 103rd Street subway station—our usual after-school rendezvous point. Now we were going to visit my mom at her favorite café, where she was trying to finish writing her new book. Normally I wouldn’t have interrupted her while she was working, but I figured I’d better tell her about Hecate’s quest as soon as possible, since we were supposed to start the pet-sitting gig that night. Also, Grover liked seeing my mom. Also, he liked the café’s pastries. It was a win-win.

New York is weird in the best kinds of ways. You can be strolling down the avenue, past banks and pharmacies and cell phone stores, feeling like you’re in the middle of cookie-cutter Anywhere Land. Then you turn left, and suddenly you’re on a side street where the old brownstone mansions have been converted into bohemian apartments, the trees are aglow with string lights year-round, and the storefronts are a mixture of holistic laundromats, tarot card salons, cryo-shock spas, and cafés.

The best café of all? The Cracked Teapot.

No hate to the folks who hang out at Starbucks writing their screenplays or whatever. But if you really want inspiration, find a local, one-of-a-kind place like the Cracked Teapot.

All the string lights on the street seemed to emanate from the café’s front porch, like the center of a festive electric web that nobody had bothered to clear away and now covered the whole neighborhood.

We walked down the steps to the garden level, through a bead-curtained doorway, and into a cozy maze of nooks and parlors. Soft, otherworldly music was playing—Celtic harp, maybe? Fairy-godmother dolls hung from the ceiling. On every available sunny windowsill, cats were napping, which may or may not have been against city health codes, but I wasn’t going to tell. All through the café, shelves were filled with—you guessed it—cracked teapots. Some were gold and porcelain, some copper, some rainbow ceramic. Stuffed animals popped out of many of them.

Behind the counter, a large bearded dude in a pink tutu was making coffee. The display case overflowed with muffins, cookies, cakes, and scones.

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