Free Keepers of the Labyrinth by Erin E. Moulton

rounds,” Sydney said, shaking her head. “We need to get back to our rooms. Now.”
    â€œSydney’s right,” Charlie said. “They already saw our book.” She gulped, raising a palm to her forehead. “I can’t believe I left it. But they won’t know it was us.”
    â€œNot if we get back undetected,” Lil said, leading them to the door and down the stairs. Into the dark hallways they went without light, and slipped quickly into their rooms.

9
    T he revivalists have been trying to get this location opened up to them for spiritual rituals for the past ten years,” Felice said.
    Horatio laughed. The modern-day pagans were a joke. They didn’t know the true history. But Horatio and Felice had known the truth of Zeus for a long time. They had studied the writings since they were children. Horatio could still see the old farmhouse, and the way Ares would come on Sunday evenings and read to them from the ancient scripts. There was no doubt in Horatio’s mind that what his uncle had told him was absolutely true. The historical evidence was irrefutable. And now he, his brother and his sister would be the messengers of the Zephylites to the new world. They would seek the legendary Icarus Folio. They would be unrivaled.
    Byron’s voice cropped up from the shadows in the backseat. “Do you think they’ll have any food at this meeting? I’m starving.”
    â€œQuit complaining,” Felice said. “It’s not every day you get sent on a holy quest.”
    Horatio smiled. Felice had always gotten it. Byron, not as much, but he tried to be good. Just as their mother had said. Byron was always trying to be a good boy, despite himself.
    â€œWell, who goes on a quest without food?” Byron said.
    â€œThey’ll have the traditional fare,” Horatio said as he steered the car beneath the skeletons of old Venetian windmills. He squinted into the darkness, eyeing the tourist signs leading to the Dikteon Cave. Spotting a blue sign, he turned left and headed straight up a hill. Even without the sign, Horatio thought, he would have been able to find his way. The vibrations had changed. There was a great, ancient power here. He could feel it. That was why Horatio was the chosen messenger.
    He pulled into the parking lot and eased the car into the shadows of the chestnut trees. There were only a few cars there, thankfully. Many of the others had arrived as tourists earlier in the day. Others would have walked over the western hill, and some would have carpooled. Horatio scanned the area for Giorgos: head groundskeeper, fellow Zephylite and gatekeeper to holy sanctuaries.
    â€œWell, where the hell is he?” he huffed, sucking the life out of his cigarette and depositing it out the window.
    â€œHe’s at your twenty,” Felice said, pointing to the depths of the shadows.
    Horatio smirked. Felice worked with a sixth sense of her own. Nothing but perhaps the silver side of a pocket pen was peeking from the darkness at them, but she had discerned it from the slivers of moonshine that escaped through the foliage. The shadow moved and morphed, and a moment later Giorgos was there beside them. Horatio rolled down his window. He hadn’t seen the old man since he was a child, and he searched his face, now wrinkled with age.
    â€œGeorge? Is that you?”
    â€œSorry, we’re closed,” Giorgos said.
    Of course. Horatio pulled the necklace from beneath his shirt, showing off the lightning bolt extended between the gold circle. He recited the blessing in ancient Greek. “
Athanate Dia, chaire. Chairet
e athanata tekna tou
Dios. . .
” He kissed the necklace and raised it high, translating the words in his head.
To Zeus im
mortal, blessings. T
o his immortal kin,
blessings.
    Giorgos’ face broke into a smile. “Young Horatio, you have changed with age, child.”
    â€œSo have you,” Byron piped up from the