THE GÜ BOOK

The heat radiating off the dashboard smelled like scorched plastic and old tin cans. "We’re close," Grover said, his knuckles turning white on the steering wheel of the battered station wagon. He chewed nervously on a soda can top, his eyes darting toward the rearview mirror every few seconds. "Just past the next ridge. Once we hit the pine trees on the hill, the camp borders will shield us." Michael didn't answer. He couldn't. He just stared down at his hands resting on his knees. The silence in the backseat was louder than the rattle of the dying engine. His mother should have been back there, telling him everything was going to be alright, adjusting her worn scarf, or comforting him after another miserable week under his stepdad's roof. But the backseat was empty. Scattered glass and shredded upholstery were the only proof that two hours ago, his life had completely shattered. "Michael..." Grover’s voice softened, losing its sharp, anxious edge. "I’m sorry. I came as fast as I could. The smell of those things... they masked themselves until it was too late." "They had the heads of bulls," Michael said, his voice flat and dry like autumn leaves. "Scales like iron. Tails like dragons." "Chimera-drake hybrids," Grover muttered, shuddering. "They shouldn't even be hunting together. Nothing about the last three days makes sense. The wild is screaming, Michael. Every river, every wind—it’s all out of balance." Michael closed his eyes, but that only brought back the image of the collision. The station wagon swerving off Highway 27. The violent crunch of metal. His mother’s final scream—and then the heat. It hadn't felt like fire from the outside. It had felt like something tearing open deep inside his own bones. A dark, suffocating tide had rushed through his blood, forcing its way out through his skin. He remembered looking down at his arms as crimson sparks crackled violently against the pavement. His feet and hands had shifted, turning heavy and razor-sharp, like claws forged from obsidian. In his right hand, the strange, curved iron dagger he’d carried for as long as he could remember had lengthened, its steel twisting and reshaping into a brutal, double-edged blade. He hadn't thought; he had simply moved. He remembered weaving beneath a sweeping, scaly tail with impossible speed, ducking low, and striking with a feral, terrifying instinct before the three beasts dissolved into piles of golden dust. Then the red sparks had faded, leaving him shivering in the dirt beside the ruined car, holding a plain, worn dagger once more. "Look," Grover said, tapping the steering wheel and pulling Michael out of the memory. "Up ahead." The station wagon groaned as it crested the tall hill. But instead of a peaceful valley of strawberry fields and rustic cabins, the sight below made Michael’s chest tighten. It looked like an army encampment on high alert. Reinforced wooden palisades lined the perimeter. Centaurs in heavy armor paced the boundary line, bows drawn. Near the big farmhouse, a group of kids in orange T-shirts stood alongside teenagers clad in Roman leather armor, while a few figures in white linen robes held carved wooden wands. Near the woods, tall, imposing warriors in furs and iron chainmail leaned on battleaxes, their eyes fixed on the sky. "What is this?" Michael asked, leaning forward. "Who are those people?" "Everyone," Grover said grimly, pulling the car onto the grass shoulder and cutting the engine. "Greek demigods, Roman legionnaires, Egyptian magicians from the Brooklyn House, even warriors from Valhalla. Word traveled fast. Something shattered the balance of the whole world on December 7th. Your birthday." Michael stepped out of the wagon. The moment his shoes hit the grass, the air shifted. He didn't radiate the sunlight aura of a sun god's child, nor the heavy, freezing chill of an underworld spirit. But as he took a step forward, a faint, erratic crackle of blue and white light flickered across his shoulders, immediately answered by a low, dark red ember snapping at his fingertips. Every head at the border turned toward him. Swords were drawn. Wands were raised. "Stand down!" a thunderous voice echoed from the central pavilion. A man in a wheelchair—no, a centaur, his lower half that of a stallion—trotted forward, holding a ancient, glowing scroll. "He is the one the oracle spoke of." The crowd parted nervously as Michael walked toward the center of the camp. At the middle of the pavilion lay a massive stone table. Resting on it was a piece of parchment covered in shifting, glowing runes from four different ancient languages. "Read it, boy," the centaur said softly, his deep eyes filled with a mixture of awe and profound concern. Michael looked down at the glowing text. Though he had never studied ancient scripts, the words reassembled themselves in his mind: When broken tridents meet the missing helm, A forgotten bloodline claims the shattered realm. Born of the shadow, raised beneath the light, The hybrid awakens as the sky turns to night. To stop the ship and break the red spire's hold, He must unearth the truth the Gü Book has told. "Neptune's trident is broken," a Roman officer called out from the crowd. "Hades' Helm of Darkness is gone, Loki has fled, and the Egyptian scrolls of Chaos are missing! The Demon Days begin at sundown!" "He's a monster!" someone else shouted, pointing at the lingering red sparks still humming around Michael's boots. "Look at him! He's not one of ours!" Michael gripped the hilt of the dagger at his belt. The steel hummed beneath his palm, ready to shift, ready to fight. He didn't know who he was, or why his blood burned with two opposing powers, but as he looked around at the terrified faces of four different worlds, he knew one thing for certain. He was going to find the Gü Book, or die trying.