My hope had slowly dwindled as I opened box after box and didn't find what I was searching for, until now there was only one box left I hadn't been through. I pulled it over to an old, gray velvet loveseat in the corner, opened the top, and started going through the items inside. Clothes, a worn-out slipper, some dried-up markers, a few books, a roll of quarters my mom had forgotten to take to the bank. It was an odd mix of items.
One by one, I touched everything in the box, wrapping my fingers around the items and reaching for my pyschometry magic, straining to see everything I possibly could with my Gypsy gift. All I got were a few weak flashes of my mom buying the clothes in the store or shaking the markers and grumbling because they were out of ink. Pretty standard stuff. Most of the time, I didn't get much of a vibe off common, everyday objects that had a specific purpose or function or ones that tons of people used every day like pens, computers, or paper clips. I only got the big, high-def flashes, the major whammies of memories and feelings, when I touched something a person had a deep, emotional connection to, something she'd imprinted a piece of herself on, like a treasured family heirloom ring or a favorite Christmas ornament someone had made when he was a kid.
Still, one by one, I went through the items in the box, looking into the pockets on the clothes and shaking the books in case something had been slipped between the pages. Nothing. I pulled out the final sweater in the box and set it aside, ready to give up, when I noticed there was something underneath it-an old shoebox. I grabbed it and popped off the top, expecting to find a pair of winter boots my mom hadn't worn in ten years.
Instead, a small, leather-bound diary nestled in tissue paper lay inside the box.
Curious, I reached down and pulled out the diary. From the tissue paper, I got a small flicker of my mom packing away the book, but that was all. The diary's gray leather cover was worn and faded, and the edges of the pages looked wavy and crinkled, as though someone had spilled water on them. Bits of silver glinted dully on the cover, swirled into the curlicue shapes of vines and leaves that ran onto the spine and then flowed over the back of the diary.
I'd never known my mom had kept a diary, but now that I'd found it, I couldn't wait to see what memories it held-and what secrets my mom might have left behind. So I drew in a breath, pushed the tissue paper aside, stroked my fingers over the soft leather cover, and closed my eyes.
My psychometry magic immediately kicked in, and images of my mom flooded my mind. Mostly, the memories showed her sitting at a desk in a dorm room, doodling and scribbling in the diary. She was young then, about my age, seventeen or so, her brown hair pulled back into a loose ponytail, and I realized that she must have kept the diary when she was attending the academy. One by one, the images of my mom flashed before my eyes, showing her writing in the diary in various places on campus-on the grassy upper quad, in the upscale dining hall, even while she was sitting on the steps outside the Library of Antiquities.
I concentrated on that last image, grabbing hold of and really focusing on it, pulling everything into sharp detail, hoping to see something that would tell me where the Helheim Dagger was. But the memory just showed her sitting on the main library steps in between the two stone gryphons that guarded the entrance. My mom turned her head and stared at the gryphon on the right side of the steps, then abruptly looked away. Nothing weird there. The statues always creeped me out, too. Apparently, the image hadn't been as important as it had seemed.
I let go of that memory and surfed through the others attached to the diary, but there was nothing out of the ordinary. Just my mom writing and doodling.
After a few minutes, the images and feelings started to fade, telling me that I'd learned all I could from the diary-at least by using my Gypsy gift. I opened my eyes and flipped through the first couple of pages, my fingers skimming over my mom's beautiful, flowing handwriting. Even if there wasn't a clue in the diary about where my mom had hidden the dagger, it was still a piece of her, and I wanted to read it. I wanted to know what she'd done when she'd been at Mythos, how she had felt about the school, who her friends and enemies had been, the cute guys she'd crushed on, and mostly especially how she'd found the courage to be Nike's Champion and fight Reapers. I wanted to know, well, everything-all her secrets.
Since there was nothing else in the box, I packed all the clothes and other odd items back inside. Well, except for the quarters. I'd spend those.
Cradling the diary in the crook of my arm, I turned out the light and walked down the attic stairs to my room on the second floor. Daphne was already asleep, and I lifted the covers and crawled into bed next to her. The Valkyrie murmured something in her sleep, then rolled away from me. A few pink sparks crackled on her fingertips at the motion before winking out. I lay still, and Daphne let out a quiet sigh and sank deeper into sleep. I put my mom's diary on the nightstand within easy reach. Then I snuggled deeper under the covers, determined to go to sleep so I wouldn't be totally exhausted tomorrow.
Slowly, my body relaxed, my mind started to drift, and the comforting blackness began to rise, drowning out the horrors of the day. I was almost asleep ... when a low, angry growl sounded outside my window.
My eyes snapped open.
I'd heard growls like that before, and they usually meant one thing-that something was about to try and eat me.
I lay there in bed, covers pulled up to my chin, straining my eyes and ears, scarcely daring to breathe, but all I heard was Daphne. The Valkyrie snored like she had a chainsaw stuck in her throat, which was super, super annoying. I was beginning to think I'd just dreamed the growl and was starting to sink back into sleep ...
When I heard it again.
This time, I couldn't pretend I'd just imagined it. I slipped out of bed, reached down, and grabbed my scabbard. I slid Vic out of the leather with a whisper and crept over to the window.
"What's going on?" Vic mumbled, his half of a mouth stretching into a wide, jaw-cracking yawn.
"I think there's something outside," I muttered.
The sword blinked his one eye, which glowed like a purple moon in the darkness of my room. "You think? You don't know? Gypsy, how many times have I told you? Only wake me up when there's trouble-or Reapers lurking around that I can kill."
Vic snapped his eye shut and went back to sleep. I glared at the sword, tempted to shake him awake, but I'd learned there was nothing I could do to get Vic to behave. He might be a mostly inanimate object, but he definitely had a mind of his own.
I made sure I had a good grip on the sword, then pulled the curtain back and peered outside.