It's been eight months since Percy Jackson successfully defeated the Lord of Time, who's in no shape to be returning anytime soon. But as the demigods prosper, what's happening to the survivors of Kronos's army, who are scattered far and wide across New York? They are not as weak as Percy and Co. might think. The gods' enemies are now calling for blood--Camp Half-Blood, to be exact.

Disclaimer: Don't own PJO or anything else, for that matter. Not that lucky

Ch. 1

Two A.M. on a Thursday morning. I sigh as I pad down the silent northern Manhattan streets. It isn't really silent, of course--the city never sleeps, as they say. But, it is quieter in the odd hours of the morning than any other time, and you sure won't catch me complaining.

Don't get me wrong; jumping off a rooftop into a crowded sidewalk and terrifying some tourists witless? Best fun there is (and also a great way to make news headlines). But that's off topic.I'm on a mission this morning, more or less. You see, for the last eight months, since the untimely downfall of my Lord Kronos, I have been living on the New York City streets. This means that my meal choices have been reduced to a) tipping garbage cans, b) breaking into buildings and raiding cupboards (not recommended), and c) eating people's house pets (not recommended either).

Breaking into houses and hunting pet hamsters used to work pretty well, but after one too many close calls with the dog catcher, I was forced to put an end to those kinds of stunts. This means that I get the--uh. . . unlimited pleasure of dumpster-diving. Oh, the joy, huh?

I head downtown, careful to avoid busy areas. In daylight I usually don't risk going anywhere other than the familiar spiraling network of alleys, nearly deserted and hidden from public view. But at night, I allow myself a bit more freedom. The darkness provides an effective cover-up for my startling shape.

Ten minutes later, I'm buried up to my tail in a dumpster located behind a deserted drug store, the only light coming from a single working streetlamp and the soft glow of the millions of city lights in the distance, making the atmosphere appear brighter than it really should be. Just as I'm checking out a sorrowfully empty Cup 'O Noodles, someone raps their knuckles on the side of my dumpster.

The noise echoes loudly in the muffled silence, surprising me and sending me toppling sideways into the trash. A rather unpleasant chuckle drifts to me as I flail about, struggling to stand up amid the filth. I drag myself into a standing position, balancing my front paws on the edge of the dumpster. My back paws sink deep into the garbage I am festooned in. I warily raise my nose to the air, scenting for the intruder.

"Christine Savage," someone murmurs, "what has the world done to you?"

I glare at the speaker, a tall black haired boy about my age, dressed in jeans, a white T-shirt, and a black leather jacket, a sword hanging at his side. His eyes--one brown, the other pure silver--glitter at me from the gloomy darkness.

"Hawkeye," I growl distastefully. "What do you want?" I've learned from experience that this kid only drops in for a visit if he needs a favor.

He chuckles again, flashing his way-too-white teeth, which I have a sudden, unexplainable urge to knock out. "So is that how you greet an old friend?" he asks, his voice barely a whisper. "Where's my hello?"

I bare my own yellowed fangs. "You can take your hello and stick it up your--"

He holds up his hands, cutting me off. "You can keep your hello," he decides, still smiling ever so slightly.

"What do you want, moron?" I demand again, fighting to keep my balance in the trash that shifts under my feet.

"So suspicious," he drawls quietly. "I don't need a favor, Christine. Not one of my own, anyway."

I give a barking laugh. "That'll be the day," I snarl. "I don't have the energy or the motivation to go around pulling crazy stunts anytime soon, as you can see," I tell him. "So if you don't have anything important to--" I stop abruptly as Hawkeye steps swiftly forward and plucks a wrapper of some sort off the top of my head, which I had not noticed. He holds it between two fingers and dangles it in front of my nose. "Oh, yes," he says softly. "I do see."

I barely restrain from snapping off his entire hand, wrapper and all.

"Get outta my life, Hawkeye," I snarl. "You don't need to keep in touch with me, now that Lord Kronos is finished." I begin to turn back to my trash, but Hawkeye stops me.

"Wait," he says, "Get out of that thing and listen to me. Please. I just can't take you seriously when you're sitting in a freaking dumpster and look like a dog."

"Wolf!" I exclaim, highly offended. Very large wolf. Five feet three inches at the shoulder when I'm on all fours, in fact.

"Wolf," Hawkeye corrects himself generously. "Now, will you please get out here?"

I glare at him. I can throw this kid further than I trust him. After a moment though, I haul my very large, very bony carcass over the edge of the dumpster, landing in an awkward heap at Hawkeye's feet with a thump and a soft grunt. The second I hit the concrete, I can feel myself begin to morph: the shape of my spine changes; my nose shrinks; my paws shift into hands and feet, the claws and fur absorbing into my skin. Several painful seconds later I have changed from extra-bony wolf to sixteen-year-old girl. Hawkeye takes a large step back, and I don't blame him. I know I'm disgusting.

My tangled, stained red hair hangs over my dirt-streaked face. I'm dressed in the same clothes I was in last time I took human form, eight months ago: bleached jeans and a ratty tank top covered by a grey hooded sweatshirt. All my clothes are frayed and coming apart at the seams, and there is a wide gash that goes through both the sweater and the tank top, through which many of my ribs are visible. My skin is painted with bruises and dried blood, and my teeth and nails are chipped.

All things considered, I look--and probably smell--pretty awful.

I stand up to my full height, staring Hawkeye in his mismatched eyes and silently daring him to belittle my appearance. He stays wisely silent, sensing that is he makes me mad in any way, I'm not sticking around to listen to him. But it isn't him I'm mad at. Not really. It's the gods.

See, when my mother was young, that slut Apollo fell in love with her. In a panic, my mother turned to Artemis for help, accepting the oath and becoming a Hunter, thus saving herself from Apollo. A couple years later, my mom fell in love with a mortal man, and wound up pregnant. When Artemis found out, she banished my mother from the Hunt and cursed her unborn child (ME, just FYI) so that it would have to spend half it's life in the form of a wolf. When Apollo got tipped off that my mother had been banished from the Hunt, he added insult to injury by using his wretched prophecies to predict her early death. Sure enough, when I was four weeks old, my mother dropped dead for seemingly no reason at all, and I was dumped in an orphanage (Apollo had snuffed out my dad too).

It there's one thing you should understand about those of us in Kronos's army, it's that we all have a reason for doing what we do.

I cast away these distracting thoughts and stretch, trying to get used to being human again. "Happy now?" I ask Hawkeye scathingly, shooting him a glare. "So what did you hunt me down at two in the morning for anyway?"

Hawkeye nods, recovering from my less-than-stellar appearance. "I have an offer to make you," he whispers.

"I'm listening."

Hawkeye begins to walk slowly down the dark street, and I follow, limping slightly. "Well," he starts, "after Lord Kronos fell, most of the army ran for it, and are strewn around New York. Some of the more powerful ones went other places, but most of us stayed here."

I shoot him my best no-freaking-duh look.

Instead of ignoring it, he stopps walking and turns to look at me. "One of those that stayed," he says quietly, "is Zane."

He has my attention now, and he knows it. Zane was Kronos's army director, after Luke Castellan gave his body up to Lord Kronos and no longer fit the job description. He was a huge, African American demigod gone bad, son of Ares, in his mid-thirties. Zane had proven, time and time again, that he was more than worthy of the unequaled respect the army, and Kronos, gave him.

"What does Zane have to do with it?" I ask Hawkeye.

"About a month ago, Zane came to me for help. He wants to rebuild the army as much as possible. Christine, there's hundreds of survivors that are more than willing to join the cause. We have over three hundred already."

I scowl. "And what, exactly, is the cause?"

"We're gonna take a bite out of the demigods' victory."

"That's insane," I snap. "You know how powerful they are. They'd smoke us in ten minutes flat."

Hawkeye shakes his head patiently. "It wouldn't be an all-out attack," he explains. "It'd be hit 'n run stuff, you know, guerilla warfare. Pick off a few every time we attack, harass them a bit. We'd start by making sure no new demigods get into the camp. Kill 'em before they get through the border."

I think about this. Believe it or not, Hawkeye is actually talking sense for once. "Why do you need me then?" I ask.

Hawkeye rolls his eyes. "Christine Savage, you were one of the best free lance fighters Kronos had. You're the Greek version of a werewolf. You were one of the nine survivors of the bombing of the Princess Andromeda. You took a bite out of Nico di Angelo's shoulder and lived to tell about it. Why wouldn't we want you?"

I don't look at him. "What are out chances?" I ask.

He stares at me. "We have fifty hellhounds, thirty or so demigods, some telekhines, and Hyperborean giants. A handful of dracaenae and Laistrygonian giants. The Sphinx on Seventy-second street too. Plus a bunch of miscellaneous creatures and mutants, like you. What do you think out chances are Christine?"

It sounded pretty good to me, but I was still hesitant. Hawkeye could tell.

"Also," he said quietly, "Zane reckons he knows where Jackson's Achilles spot is."

I whirl on him. "You're kidding. How in Hades' name did he figure that out?"

Hawkeye smirks. "Remember ol' Ethan Nakamura?"

I nod. I used to steal stuff from him before he betrayed Kronos and got himself killed.

"Ethan almost nailed it that day at the Williamsburg Bridge, but Jackson's girlfriend took the hit for him. But anyway, Zane thinks it's on his lower back somewhere."

"Smart," I tell Hawkeye.

"So we do have a chance," he whispers. "Are you in?"

I turn to look at him. "So is this a volunteer project, or do I get free room service?"

Hawkeye's pure silver eye glitters mischievously. "Well for a start, we can probably get you a shower."

How could I resist that? "I'm sold," I say. "Where's headquarters?" Hawkeye actually grins. "Abandoned back lot out by Central Park. The Mist makes it look like a tent city."

"I know where that is."

"Lead the way, then."

He didn't need to tell me twice.