The Curse of the King. Peter Lerangis

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      “A bowling ball?” Cass said.

      Aly smacked him. “What if it’s a Loculus? Think about it. The Seven Wonders were built to protect the Loculi. When we found the Colossus, he tried to kill us. What if the statue of Zeus came to life, too?”

      “So it went after somebody who tried to take its Loculus, stabbed him, then went back to being a statue?” Cass asked. “Who would try to take a Loculus? Who would even know what it was?”

      “Another Select, I guess,” I said with a shrug.

      “So Zeus the statue came to life and went after the thief,” Aly said. “He actually transformed into Zeus the god. And he chased the thief until he caught up to him. After killing the thief, Zeus turned back into a statue.”

      Cass gave her a dubious smile. “Okay, that’s one possibility. What about the other Wonders?”

      “Well, there’s the Lighthouse at Pharos,” she said, “but that’s in Alexandria, which is a big bustling city—too exposed. The Temple of Artemis is in a big tourist area—Ephesus, Turkey. We’ve been to the Pyramids, and we know the Massa cleared out of there. I think Zeus is our best shot. Look, the question is not Is this convincing? The question is Would the Massa think this is convincing? I’m betting yes. I’m betting they have this thing staked out.”

      Before she finished the sentence, I could hear footsteps on the stairs.

      We froze. Dad and Mrs. Black appeared in the doorway. Their faces were grim and drawn. Dad had his phone in his hand. I could practically read the no in their eyes.

      I decided to talk first.

      “January, August, April, July,” I said. “Those are the months Aly, Marco, Cass, and I turn fourteen. I know what you’re going to say, Dad. MGL is hard at work on a cure. But—”

      “We had a setback at McKinley Genetics Lab,” Dad said. “Our team was developing a shutoff mechanism. But it doesn’t work. The gene mutates, Jack. When you attach anything to its receptors, they change shape. It’s like a beast that grows a new heart after you kill it.”

      “That so totally sucks,” Cass said.

      “What does it mean?” I asked.

      Dad sighed. “It means we’ll need six months of new research, maybe a year …”

      I felt the blood drain from my face. “We don’t have that time.”

      Aly’s mom ran her fingers through her daughter’s hair. “No, you don’t.”

      Dad nodded. “We’re going back to the hotel. How long will it take you to be ready, Aly?”

      “Five minutes!” Aly shot back. “Maybe four.”

      Dad turned toward the door and said the words I hadn’t expected to hear. “Wheels up in one hour. Wherever you guys want to go.”

      LEAVING THE LOCULI at home was out of the question. Dad and I were both paranoid the Massa—or some snoop hired by Morty Reese—would break in and steal them. So we took them with us on Dad’s jet. For protection. We also packed flashlights and supplies in our packs and made sure our phones were charged.

      The ride was bumpy. We argued for six hours about how to proceed. Aly was still thin and quiet from being sick. But by the time we reached the Kalamata International Airport, we had a plan. Cass, Aly, and I would grab a taxi. Alone. Bringing Dad with us, we decided, would make the Massa suspicious. Plus, it would do us no good if he wound up captured along with us.

      So Dad and the Loculi stayed behind with the plane.

      I was a nervous wreck. The taxi had no air-conditioning and there was a hole in the front passenger floor. Rocks spat up into the car from the road as we sped noisily across Greece. Soon the mountains of the Peloponnese rose up in the distance to our right, and Cass had a revelation. “Whoa,” he cried out, looking up from his phone. “The meaning of Routhouni is ‘nostril’!”

      “Is geography!” our driver said. (Everything he said seemed to come with an exclamation point.) “Just north of Routhouni is long mountain with—how do you say? Ridge! To Ancient Greeks, this looks like straight nose! Greek nose! Strong! At bottom is two valleys—round valleys! Is like, you know … thio Routhounia … two nostrils!”

      “And thus,” Cass announced, “Routhouni picked its name.”

      “Cass, please …” Aly said.

      Cass began narrating like a TV host. “Our car develops a moist coating as it enters the rim of the Routhouni. It is said that the people here are a bit snotty, tough around the edges but soft at the core.”

      “Ha! Is funny boy!” the driver exclaimed.

      Cass gestured grandly out the window. “Exotic giant black hairs, waving upward from the ground and dotted with festive greenish globs, greet visiting tourists as they plunge upward into the—”

      “Ew, Cass—just ew!” Aly said. “Can we leave him by the side of the road?”

      On the outskirts of town, goats roamed in vast, sparse fields. Old men in ragged coats stared at us, their backs bent and their hands clinging to gnarled wooden canes. Black-clad old ladies sat knitting in front of rickety shacks, and a donkey ignored our driver’s horn, just staring at us in the middle of the street. I felt strangely paranoid. I clutched the backpack tightly.

      As we drove slowly through a flock of squawking chickens, I read the English section of a big, multilingual road sign:

      YOU ARE APROCHING ROUTHOUNI

      THE PRID OF THE PELOPONNESE!!!

      “Prid?” СКАЧАТЬ