Before leaving, Krystal had ordered him to limit the teleportation of the ambrosia stock to no more than three at a time. “Please say you’ll restrain yourself,” she’d said. “Keep it to three bottles or three loaves. Or any combination of them, as long as your count remains a maximum of three. You must conserve your energy in case you-know-who shows up.”

By ‘you-know-who’ Krystal had meant the Olympian elders, the Promethean bastards, or Derek. Derek? He longed to see him again, to hold him in his arms. All his cousins thought the gorgeous detective was too dangerous, a risk to all their family. He’d not asked Krystal to clarify her ‘you-know-who’ but had agreed with her to limit himself. But he was concerned how slow this was taking him, and his power didn’t seem to have gone down much at all during the process.