“James?” Eliza said, doing her best to break into his reverie. Not on purpose had he blanked out, but he had just found him-self thinking on the fact that for almost a month straight, this goddess of Death had killed consistently. And now, all of sudden a week had gone by without any mention in the media of any murders which fit the bill. Had she stopped, being that she—whoever the elusive she happened to be—had now been exposed to them? Was it all just a message to be delivered which said that Clurife and his tools could get to any of them at any time? No. That James knew for sure. Besides, he found himself aching for the opportunity to face this supposed goddess of Death and show her a real fight. Killing unarmed, untrained innocents was easy, but throw someone like himself into the mix and then you had a real test on your hands. He hadn’t had the chance though, because it seemed that finding the last few descendants of Poseidon which contained the god

James sat wearily to the bed that would be his in the room. He was trying his best not to relive the past 12 hours, because they weren’t exactly the best of his life. Not but an hour after they had gotten on the road, Romero had called Blakeney and had given him the bad news: Landen Miller and his entire family had been killed sometime around midnight. A piece of his heart had felt as if it had been ripped out because not only had they failed to get there in time to prevent the deaths of innocents, but they had lost yet another prospect for the last element. The task or mission—or whatever you would call it—was starting to shape up to be impossible. It was as if no matter when they left or how hard they tried, they were always a step behind the enemy. He didn’t know what else they could do different, but he did know that if he continued to obsess over the possibilities, he would probably have a mental breakdown. He would have to be patient and when the opportunity came, they would str

“Good morning, class,” intoned Blakeney as he strode regally through the door. “Morning, Mr. Blakeney,” the class replied in almost perfect uni-son. The older man deposited an expensive-looking briefcase on a large, glistening wooden desk and turned his full attention on them. “You have all chosen to take International Political Studies this year and as it is a career specific course, it’s important that you always do your very best. Throughout this year we will be looking at the various political decisions of the past 250 years which have helped shape our world into the model we see today. Though there will be tests and several written assignments,” he said before pressing on reassuringly, seeing the panicked faces, “the bulk of your grade will come from the discussions we will often partake in. Do not fret because it is not the shape of your opinion that matters, but your involvement. As is always the case with the nature of our topics, the arguments will sometimes be hea

Before she could formulate a response, Blakeney took hold of a pair of scissors from the nearby shelving and cut the wrapping free. The depth and seriousness of the injuries caused everyone in the room to gasp with fright. The intake of breath ascended into a palpable silence which seemed to invade every molecule of the atmosphere in the room. “My . . . god,” muttered Blakeney like he was afraid to break the stillness. The stitched gashes were the exact opposite of healing: the jag-ged openings were purple, red, and yellow—completely inflamed; the stitch-work looked to be tearing at the seams; the veins in the immediate vicinity were the color of the inkiest black. Eliza’s sobs shattered the silence into a thousand shards of bro-ken glass. “But . . . b-but . . . how?” She barely managed to get the words out through her rasping, labored breaths. “Robert, this is far worse than any blood poisoning I have ever seen?” Dr. Gomez commented softly. He swallowed n

Eliza’s mouth dropped open from shock. Her eyes went wide and she barely blinked. You know it’s funny, being an intelligent person, Eliza should naturally have been spectacle, but there was something ingrained deep within—or maybe hard-wired in her brain—that told her the being before her was divine. “I can see it in the changes of your eyes, Eliza, that you believe me. Good. I would have to have to waste valuable time in demonstrations of truth. And in case you were wondering how it is you . . . feel who I am,” Apollo continued on, “it is my blood in your veins which recognizes me.” She closed her mouth and nodded. “W-wh . . .why?” Eliza asked, then gulped. “How?” Apollo grinned crookedly. “My father sent me. In his nature he is just and because of that, he is still doing his best to not get involved personally. Believe me, many of us are anxious to get in the fight in lieu of Hades’ actions. But nevertheless, we are restrained and restricted to small and indirect interv