Where You Go ― Jason Grace

x. a trip down (fake) memory lane

OPHELIA DIDN'T LET herself relax until Quebec City was far behind them. 

"You were amazing, Piper," Jason complimented. 

Piper murmured something in French that Ophelia didn't understand.

"What'd you say?" Jason asked. 

"I said I only talked to Boreas," Piper said. "It wasn't so amazing." 

Ophelia poked Piper's arm lightly. "Hey, you saved us back there. Don't sell yourself short." 

Leo passed them some sandwiches from his pack. He'd been quiet ever since they'd told him what happened in the throne room. "I still can't believe Khione," he said after a moment. "She looked so nice." 

"Trust me, man," Jason said. "Snow might look pretty, but up close it's cold and nasty. We'll find you a better prom date." 

Ophelia smiled, but Leo didn't look pleased. He hadn't said much about his own experience at the palace, or why the Boreads had singled him out for smelling like fire. Ophelia got the feeling he was hiding something, and his mood seemed to be affecting Festus. The dragon grumbled and steamed as he tried to keep himself warm in the cold Canadian air.

Happy the Dragon was not so happy. 

Nobody talked. Whatever they might find in Chicago, they all knew Boreas had only let them go because he figured they were already on a suicide mission. Ophelia was still reeling from the way Boreas had changed into Aquilon. What did that mean? Where had she and Jason come from? 

You will tear each other apart. 

But why?

The moon rose and stars twinkled to life overhead. Piper laid back against Ophelia and fell asleep not long after they all finished eating, and Ophelia's own eyelids started to grow heavy. She figured sleep wasn't a guarantee on a world-saving quest to rescue the queen of the gods, so she should probably get some while she had the chance. 

❖

She dreamed of the ruins again. 

Lupa loomed over her, but that wasn't what dream-Ophelia was focused on. Actually, she wasn't focused on anything. Her head felt like it was splitting open, her ears ringing with a hundred different voices, some pleading, some yelling, some cursing. She heard English, but there were other languages, too, languages dream-Ophelia—and real-Ophelia—couldn't understand. 

She covered her ears with her hands, but the voices didn't get any quieter. She couldn't block them out—it was like the voices pierced her skull and echoed in her mind. 

Lupa nudged dream-Ophelia's face with her snout—not an explicitly kind gesture, but she didn't knock the little girl over, either, so it seemed like a kindness coming from the giant she-wolf. Don't cower away, Lupa growled. Or you will end up like your mother. 

Dream-Ophelia shook her head defiantly. "No!" she yelled, her voice high-pitched. She was young, maybe around ten or eleven. She tensed against the mention of her mother—a mother real-Ophelia couldn't even remember, but who filled dream-Ophelia with equal parts sorrow and rage. 

She sprinted through the crowd of spirits, shivering at the cold that flooded her body every time she ran through a translucent form. She pushed her body faster than the wind, trying to outrun the ghosts, but they remained, following her as she ran.