Page 168 of The Mortal Trials

He returns frustrated an hour later, covered in sweat and cursing up a storm. After he found the address where the temple should be, he asked some locals for help. They’d never heard of it. “Maybe it’s some kind of joke.”

“Morrigan doesn’t possess a sense of humor, Niall.” She is as serious as she is steadfast.

He sets out again, convinced he must have erred, and searches for twice as long before giving up. The invitation lists a street that bleeds into the glistening sea, which implies that the provided address is among the waves. The fisherman at the shore said there is no temple in the vicinity.

We only have a couple of hours until the party begins.

I don my repaired prosthesis – which sounds and feels so much better – and my dusty uniform just before a courier arrives with a broad black box for each of us. Each is tied with a matching satin ribbon.

“I guess I have my answer about wardrobe,” Niall grumbles.

In his box lays a neatly folded, sleek black suit, shirt, socks and shoes, and underwear to match.

I carry my box into the bedroom and lay it on the mattress, unravel the knot, and toss the lid aside. When I see what Morrigan chose for me to wear, I consider what she might do if I disobey one of her orders for the first time.

Niall walks to my door, but doesn’t come in. “What did she send you?” He stands taller to see over the lip of the box. “Is that a dress?”

I love dresses. Always have. It would have been nice if the box contained something demure and sleek. Even a suit exactly like Niall’s would be preferable to this.

“No,” I answer.

His head tilts and his eyes narrow. “What is it, then?”

With a groan, I press a hand to my forehead.

He laughs. “That bad?”

It’s so much worse than bad.

Just then, a knock at the door draws Niall away. When he opens it, surprise washes over his features.

A sultry feminine voice with a beautiful Irish accent scolds him. “I don’t like to be kept waitin’. Which is why my lovely foot is tappin’. Move aside, boyo. I’m not here for you.”

“Who are you calling boyo?” he asks, offended.

The curvaceous woman pushes past him with a huge bag on her shoulder, long red curls whipping as her head sweeps the rooms until she finds me and starts my way. “I’m here for you.”

“Me?” I bristle.

She presses a hand to her ample chest. “I’m Aisling. The goddess Morrigan sent me to help you prepare for tonight.”

“Prepare how?”

“To dress, silly!” she laughs.

“I’ve been dressing myself since I was three.”

She clicks her tongue. “You act like you have no idea what you’re about to walk into.”

“That’s because I don’t,” I tell her honestly.

“Right,” she drawls, rolling her pretty eyes.

“I don’t. Morrigan told us to come here. We just received invitations to some party. Niall can’t even find the place where it’s being held.”

Aisling takes a frustrated breath and sits on the bed without asking if it’s okay. “Well, I guess I’ll start with that. The island isn’t here yet. But the gods’ll place it any minute now, I’d imagine.”

Aisling is in her early thirties with faint lines bracing full lips. Her brown eyes are as warm as her personality. She’s wearing a wool gown, its fabric far too hot for Olympus’s humid heat.