Prologue
I scribbled at the drawing of my mother, adding her blonde hair and gray eyes—the eyes I inherited. Other than that, I looked nothing like her. I looked like my father, she always told me. But I would never know. He'd left a long time ago.
There was a knock at our apartment door. I glanced up, but my mother was already moving past my bedroom to the door. I heard her fumble with the latch, and then she gasped. "I don't normally feed on females, but you'll do," said a hissing voice. My blood ran cold. As if from a long way off, I heard my mother scream.
My instincts took over. I grabbed a metal baseball bat, courtesy of the one sport I was good at, from the corner and hefted it menacingly. Unfortunately, I was six years old, and very small for my age to the point where I looked like I was about four. I could not be very threatening.
I crept into the front room, makeshift weapon raised high. I looked quickly around the room. The door was still open; all the windows were shut tightly. And in the middle, on the floor, my mother lay, crumpled, a woman with fire for hair bending over her. The woman's back was to me, and I could see her legs—her horrible, mismatched legs. One was normal, except it was all tan and shiny, like my bat, except my bat was pink and sparkle-fied by yours truly. The other was furry, almost like the horses I'd seen once.
I had to get her away.
Without thinking, I dashed out of hiding and swung the bat as hard as my skinny arms would allow at the fiery hair of the wacko's head. The metal connected with a sickening yet satisfying crunch.
I got a good look at my mother then. Her blonde hair was matted with red liquid, and her wide, long-lashed gray eyes were a mirror of my own: shocked, terrified, and open. Open forever. Because somehow, I knew in my gut that my mother was dead.
Wacko stirred behind me, and I knew I had to run. She'd killed my mother. She would kill me.
I sprinted to the only place I knew how to get to. My breath came in short gasps, and I knew I wouldn't be able to go on for much longer. I didn't really know if Wacko was chasing me, but I really didn't want to stick around to find out. I knew I was running straight into the dead end of Long Island, but I couldn't worry about that.
"Hey!" I jumped a foot, startled. An old man was leaning against his truck. "C'mere." Warily, I came. "That lady chasin' you?"
I nodded when I saw Wacko.
The man spat on the ground. "Good-for-nothings, the lot of them, empousai. Get in, godling. I'll take you to a safe place."
On normal terms, I would never have gotten in a stranger's car. My mother had drilled that into my head five zillion times. I thought about it.
Yeah, these were not normal terms.
I got to ride up front, which was a bit exhilarating. The man had on a country station, and whistled through his teeth cheerfully. "You put that dent in her?" he asked after about ten minutes of zero conversation. I nodded. "You don't talk much, do you," he said rhetorically. "Well, you're a fighter, godling. I have a feeling about you."
I didn't really feel like his faith should be in me, a short six-year-old with no parents, no money, and no place to go.
For the rest of the drive, the old man had a very one-sided conversation, as he put it, but for a while it was almost peaceful. Almost.
It was night by the time the man pulled up in what seemed like the middle of nowhere.
"Go straight on through the trees, godling. Tell 'em Hermes sent you; they'll know me." I wanted to ask who knew Hermes, but I was setting an Isi Mai record for Not Talking, so I just nodded and ran into the forest.
I tried to move in a straight line, but I was tired, hungry, and mentally exhausted. I actually felt like I was going to faint, but I kept moving.
I have a theory on how I got to camp. I think that the entrance finds you, if you're one of us. It'll make sure you're safe. Looking back, I might actually be dead now if I hadn't found the arch.
I stumbled and fell to my knees once I was through. I heard people chattering, vaguely saw them swarming around me, and soon the face of a kindly man swam into view.
"Hermes sent me," I said blearily.
"Hermes?"
"Really? He's being mature?"
"You can't insult a god, Derek."
"Yeah, shut up."
"You can't talk!"
"You're such an ilithios."
The whole situation was so overwhelming that I didn't ask why someone had just insulted someone else in Ancient Greek. I just blacked out.
"Hey!"
That voice was very much cheerful. I groaned. "Hay is for horses."
The speaker, a girl about my age with light brown hair and vivid green eyes, propped her hands on her hips. "Well aren't we sarcastic? I'm Andi. You feeling up to coming to the campfire and stuffing your face with marshmallows?"
I really, really liked marshmallows, and said so, looking around as I did. I was in a long room with a ton of bunk beds on it, all empty. There were even a few sleeping bags on the floor. "I gave you my bed," Andi said. I protested, but she cut me off. "I have a feeling I might not be there for very long," she said cryptically. I shrugged it off and came with Andi to the campfire. We sat up close, where the blaze was burning hot, and roasted marshmallows on twigs. A couple teenagers sang silly songs, and my tentative new friend sang loudly with them. I noticed her eyes started turning blue as she did so, but decided not to comment.
Then, Andi started to glow. She obviously realized this, because she looked up hurriedly. I followed her gaze and saw what looked like an old-fashioned harp hovering over her head.
"Hail Andromeda Saint Mare, daughter of Apollo, god of the sun, music, healing, and poetry," said a dry voice. Andi and I turned, and a guy came trotting up to us. And I say trotting, because his lower half was that of a white horse. He knelt before the bemused girl, all the other kids following suit. I didn't want to be left out, so I knelt too.
The horse guy straightened, then looked at me. "We should also welcome our newest camper, Isalee Mai."
Everyone looked at me. I blushed. "Uh, just Isi, please."
"Then welcome, Isi, to Camp Half-Blood."
Word count: 1,160
Whew! Okay, that took a while. A few announcements...
I don't own Percy Jackson and the Olympians. That belongs to Uncle Rick.
I also don't own Andi St. Mare, she is an OC my friend made.
Just to warn you lovely muffins, I have absolutely no update schedule. A few people reading this are people I know personally, so... if I don't update, I'm dead.
Love and muffins, as per usual.
-Destiny
