“Are you sure?” She leans forward. “Oliver’s my brother. He’s about six foot tall, hazel eyes, and auburn hair like mine, but darker and perpetually messy from running his hands through it. Thad is older, with salt and pepper hair, and he’s probably wearing a band t-shirt under a blazer.”
Circe shakes her head slowly. “No one has washed up on my shores these past few weeks, and if two men were wandering my island, my animals would have found them and made their presence known.”
Evie’s face crumbles, her whole body folding inward. Then she swallows, presses her lips together, and drags herself upright with visible effort.
“Maybe they’re on a different island,” she says, sounding smaller now. “The Lost Islands are vast. There are so many places they could be.”
“Perhaps.” Circe’s tone is gentle, but offers no false hope. “I can’t speak to what exists beyond my shores.”
No. I can’t do this. I can’t keep watching Evie’s hope like it’s a living thing. Every question she asks is a knife twisting deeper into the lie I’m maintaining, and if I stand here much longer, the truth is going to claw its way out of my throat whether I want it to or not.
I need to say something—anything—to change the subject.
“How do we get back to the mortal realm?” I ask, the words coming out too fast, too desperate.
Kieran’s eyes flick to me, one eyebrow raised.
Circe hums as she considers the question. “There are three paths from the Lost Islands to the mortal realm. The first is through the Underworld. However, the dead don’t appreciate living visitors, and Hades’s domain has grown temperamental in recent centuries.”
“Hard pass on visiting Hell,” I mutter. “What else?”
“The Cosmic Tides.” Circe’s expression darkens further. “They hold the currents that flow between worlds. I don’t recommend that path unless you wish to become one with every universe in existence, while also existing nowhere at all.”
I shudder, liking how that sounds less than Hell. “Also a no. Great options so far.”
“Relatively speaking, the third path is the safest.” Circe moves to a window that looks out over her gardens, gazing out at the flowers and trees. “The Pillars of Hercules stand at the edge of the Lost Islands, where the sea meets the mortal realm. Pass through them, and you’ll emerge in the Strait of Gibraltar.”
Evie straightens. “That’s the passage between Spain and Morocco.”
“Correct.” Circe turns back to face us. “However, be warned that the Pillars have a guardian. Geryon.”
Evie inhales sharply. “The three-bodied giant from Greek mythology. Hercules killed him during his tenth labor.”
“Myths are often simplified.” Circe’s golden eyes hold a warning. “The Geryon of your stories—the cattle herder defeated by a demigod’s arrows—is not the creature that guards the Pillars. That version is a children’s tale compared to the truth.”
Kieran lifts his dagger from where it rests on his knees, examines the blade, and places it down again. “What is he?”
“Geryon is the three aspects of judgment. Past, present, and future. Origins, Essence, and Consequence. He sees what was, what is, and what will be. He cannot be fought, tricked, or bribed. He simply judges. Your reaction to his judgmentdetermines whether you pass through the Pillars or remain in the Lost Islands forever.”
I stare at her like she’s lost her mind. Because unless I misheard—which I definitely didn’t—she just told us that an ancient three-headed fortune teller will decide if we’re worthy of going home.
What could possibly go wrong?
Evie returns her notebook to her bag and sticks the pencil she was using into her messy bun. “Before we leave, would it be possible for us to search the island, so we can be certain that Oliver and Thad aren’t here?”
“Be my guest.” Circe gestures at the corridor we came through. “My animals will guide you, but you won’t find what you’re looking for.”
Evie stands and glances longingly at the exit. “I have to try.”
“Of course you do.” There’s no judgment in Circe’s tone—only ancient, weary understanding. “Hope is a stubborn thing.”
Kieran rises, moving to stand beside Evie.
Then Evie turns to me. “Are you coming?”
The wordyesis right there on my tongue. A good friend would help search. They’d hold onto hope and believe there’s a chance.
But by this point, I’m far from a good friend.
