The first time he asks about them, he is four, tired from the day's walk through the city but unwilling to admit it, curiosity peeking through the haze that invites sleep.
"Mama," he starts, and she smiles at him as she runs her fingers through his hair, his mind shuffling through the collection of marks on all the people they've passed - on hands, on shoulders, curled around the neck - "Quali erano tutti i segni piuttosto neri? Perché non ne hai uno?"
Her hand stills for a moment, surprise at the question, but she recovers quickly, and a kind of utter importance, a complete solemnity, enters her gaze when she begins to speak.
"Sono segni di anima, soulmarks." She assesses him for a moment (later, he will realize it is because he does not have one, because most are born with the mark, and the ones who don't are those who die too soon - a hero, he wonders if she thinks, a hero meant for a tragedy -) before continuing on, "Sono dati per dirti la persona di cui ti devi innamorare. La persona a cui il tuo cuore apparterrà per sempre, nel bene e nel male, nella malattia e nella salute - la tua anima gemella."
She takes off her ever present shawl, and he sees it, curled around her arm, black skull with the silhouette of three dogs embossed on its forehead, eyes glittering gems - one red, the other emerald. He traces the mark sleepily, although it feels no different to the surrounding skin.
"Ha fatto male?" he asks, as she rearranges his covers before covering up her mark once again.
"No."
He is asleep before she can answer his next question - his last, and Maria Di Angelo breathes a sigh of relief to match her son's even breaths.
"Perché papà non ne ha uno?"
No one will believe it, later - not with the way he slips into a New York accent like it's a part of him, not with how he can navigate his way through Brooklyn and Queens like it's second nature, not when he has the shrillest taxi cab whistle in the entire camp - but he grows up in Washington D.C., country's capital and all.
Naomi Solace works three jobs a week around Tysons Corner, and Will's childhood goes like this: barging from shop to shop when there's a lull in the customer rush, begging for stories like his world depends on it. He gets them, too, all it takes is a few careful glances toward marked areas of skin, and the stories of how shopkeepers, clerks, accountants, and interns alike met their match unfold like the fireworks that burst into the sky in July, eager and ready to explode.
(His own in on his right ankle, a glaring yellow interfering with pure black, a Caduceus, two gold yellow snakes wrapped around a dark sword, the sides of the hilt spreading out into wings of pale white. The symbol for healing, his mother tells him, if not for the black maring the picture - but Will thinks it looks a different kind of beautiful, like something traditioditionally evil turned and become something good - it'll take him years to see how right he is. He wears sandals every chance he gets, and never anything longer than ankle length-pants, wants his mate to be able to see their mark clear and obvious, in case they ever happen to pass by.)
No matter how much he asks, his mother's only response to his request for a story is a smile, kind and mysterious, but firm. She tells him stories of Greek Mythology instead, and he devours those eagerly as well. Her mark is on her right shoulder, a lyre a burning yellow except for the string tips, pointed like ends of arrows, all gold.
He's eight when he finds himself in a conference room on the lobby floor of a hotel in Washington D.C., gripping onto his sister's hand like it's a lifeline.
The man in front of them, a lawyer, is talking. Pulling out documents. A map.
Nico's memory is hazy in his attempt to remember something. Anything.
There's a longing, distant feeling of loneliness that's been there ever since the lawyer announced, "Your parents are dead," the monotone English ringing foreign to Nico's ears, washing out the surroundings from his line of sight.
There was a woman, he remembers. Kind, carrying warmth - he remembers it surrounding him, an echo of mi amor, mi soldatino, a kiss on the forehead. Remembers chocolate brown hair cascading around a face - remembers a mark, curled around her arm, black skull with a forehead of three dogs, eyes embossed with gemstone colors - They're soulmarks - remembers an encircling, ever present sort of warmth.
Mother, perhaps.
He remembers nothing else.
Bianca's grip on his hand is grounding, his only tether back to the present, and he comes back the moment she tightens her hold, blinking back to a room with the lawyer gone.
"Just us now," she says, and Nico nods, not missing the way her eyes glitter, half-filled with unshed tears.
The loneliness only seems to build in the silence, echoing round and round in his head until Nico can't stand it anymore, and that is how the words make it out of his mouth, a panicked, "You'll stay, right? You won't leave."
A tear slips down the side of her cheek, and then his sister has bent down to his height, taking his right hand as well his left, holding both tight - "Always. I promise."
And then her arms are encircling his, and the familiarity of it dulls the loneliness, lets him return the hug.
It's just them, now. No one else.
Maybe that's enough.
He's seven the day the monsters come.
It's December and he's been skating, round and round the rink until his fingers felt numb from the cold, so he enters the side door of Talbots, begins to stop shivering at the blast of heated warmth.
There's a customer, paying, so Will does his best to sink into the shadows until she's done.
He watches the fall as if in slow motion, the customer's feet tripping on air, head knocking against the counter, the way she falls to the floor, near lifeless.
He's by her side in an instant, even before his mom comes out from behind the counter to kneel beside him - it's her head that's the problem, he knows instinctively.
The song comes to him like a dream, and he sings the words as if he's known them forever, focusing all his energy - this gold-yellow light, he can suddenly see, emitting off his hands in waves - to the woman's cranium.
The moment the song ends the bright light is gone, dark spots replacing it, and the last thing Will sees before he loses consciousness is the woman beginning to get up as he sinks down to the floor, sudden exhaustion enveloping him.
It's only seconds later that his eyes flutter open again, and now the woman is gone, a girl replacing her - Will blinks, then immediately scrambles back until he hits a piece of furniture.
Where her eyes should be are pits of fire, mouth curled into a smile showcasing rows of pointed teeth, skin an ashen color of gray. There are wings of blood red sprouting from her shoulders, and her fingers are gnarled, stick-like, and black.
She comes closer, almost bearing down on him, and Will flinches back, only to catch sight of the mark on the underside of her left wing, a torch of flame surrounded by a halo of flower petals, except there is no color, only a single shade of pitch black.
"Vampires have soulmarks too?" he asks, and to his surprise she stops her approach, stops hovering, touches back down to the ground. (Her shoes are gone, he notices now, replaced by gnarled feet like her hands, and as she stands, she balances on what he assumes are toes.)
"You see my mark?" she asks, and he nods, once, curiosity overcoming him as he follows up his previous question with another,
"Why is it all black?"
The fire pit eyes seem to stare into his soul in the moments before she speaks again, but she does, taking a step away from him as she speaks.
"Because she is dead, demigod. May her soul rest in Tartarus until we are again united." She pauses, and he thinks of his own mark, the vibrant gold, yellow, and white - hopes it never fades to a complete black that matches hers.
"I suppose it is only fair I let you go, son of Apollo. For those who see our true form are rare, and those who attempt to heal us, even rarer."
The fire of her eyes begins to turn into a real flame, starting to encompass her entire form, and by some instinct Will knows better than to look, uses his arm to shield his eyes, squeezing them shut all the while.
"And lest you insult another of my kind - we are Empousa, servants of Hecate."
By the time he dares to open his eyes, remove the hand shielding his face, she is well and truly gone, the shop empty except for himself and his mom beside of him.
She pulls him into a hug, and he returns it, not quite comprehending the events of the past few minutes.
The front door chimes to announce the entrance of a new customer, and she kisses his forehead before letting him go, a sure sign she has to return to her shift.
"That was real?" he asks, remembering the gold-yellow light seeping out from his hands, flipping them over and over but only detecting their absence of light.
"Yes," she says, and the fear in her voice as she continues makes him realize this may be a story he does not want to hear. "Tonight - I promise to explain everything."
Nico's favourite thing about DC is walking around with Bianca from the end of school to when the sun sets, getting lost between buildings and alleyways.
Bianca's favorite place is the National Mall, the way the city stretches out across grass from the Lincoln and Washington memorials, Potomac River flowing in the distance. They'll wind their way through the Smithsonian museums sometimes, too, East Building of the National Gallery of Art standing newer than all the rest.
Nico likes the area around Union Station better, bank of water still visible from Tiber Creek, the sense of familiarity that comes with the way laundry is strung outside to dry, the oddity of meeting an escaped sheep while standing on paved out streets, falling apart houses with a backdrop of a pristine Roman Catholic Church. He still hasn't quite figured out what it is, but the language around here is familiar, feels comfortable on his tongue in the way English can't, and the people there always smile when he and Bianca come - the only ones who never start to recoil when they realize the too-pale whiteness of their skin.
The only odd thing that ever happens occurs when they're passing by around Union Station in early summer, decide to take a short cut down an alleyway they've never been to before - and then two guys pop out from nowhere and grab them, one of them attempting to bite down on Nico's arm, before he somehow manages to kick his attacker as Bianca does the same, and they're both off and running until they hear the engine of a bus behind them, the attackers no longer insight - and Nico swears the driver has horns, although Bianca refuses to believe it.
By the lawyer's fifth visit, they know the city well enough to give other people directions, much less to avoid getting lost themselves.
He comes in August, the day after the streets start to die down from mayhem - people waving flags in crazily on streets, large banners held up, swarms of people in front of the White House. Nico understands it, a little. The war is over, and they won't have to worry about bombs falling on their city, now, won't have to hide under desks to prepare for the worst, now, and people will glare less when Bianca gestures to the both of them and says Italian. They joined them, for a while, the people dancing on the streets to whatever tune the musicians picked up.
There is still music going when the lawyer comes, tells them to pack up their things, (Nico doing so only after a glance and a nod from Bianca), so they do, follow him into the backseat a grey car, manage to arrive in Las Vegas before the sun has set.
They enter the Lotus Casino Hotel to a cacophony of music and what look like games of every kind, a passerby in uniform handing two cards to the lawyer. The lawyer, in turn, gives one each to Bianca and Nico, explaining, "These are for your use. The money on them will last indefinitely."
They share a look with each other, Bianca in confusion and Nico in awe, before simultaneously breaking into speech,
"You mean until school starts back, right?"
"We get to stay here?"
The lawyer's answer, eyeing them both somewhat disapprovingly, is a curt, "Yes. As your parents wishes state."
"Now, I must be going soon. Your room number is 613. Enjoy your stay."
A woman in a green uniform replaces him, guides them onto an elevator before leaving them alone.
It's Nico who breaks the silence first, still awestruck, "Did you see everything? I wonder what it all does. Were they all games? Do you think they'll let us play them?"
Bianca's reply is hesitant, like she's afraid to put her thought into words. "I think we should be careful, Nico."
"But mom and dad wanted us here," he shoots back, "and there's so many things to explore!"
The elevator dings, announcing their arrival, and they step out to face a hallway of rooms, much like the hotel in DC. Room 613 is to the right and down five doors, the very end of the hall.
"I know. But there's something off about this place, even if I don't know what. And, look, how are we supposed to open the door without a key?"
The shape of the door handle is odd, covered with a block sticking out beneath the door handle, but no key hole.
"The only thing they've given us are these cards…"
Her voice falters off as Nico swipes his card through the gap in the block, and the door swings open.
"How did you know to do that?"
He shrugs. "Lucky guess. He would've given us keys if we needed them, he did in DC."
He dumps the backpack he was carrying by the side of the door, and Bianca somewhat reluctantly follows suit.
"Can I go explore? We're always careful, and our parents were the ones that put us here - they wouldn't have done that if they thought it was dangerous."
She sighs, then nods, following him back down the six floors in the elevator.
A guy with the nametag of 'Rob' behind a bar counter waves him over, and he goes over to him curiously, offering a wave to Bianca as parting. Rob hands him a deck of cards, the word Mythomagic written across the front, and the words Africanus Extreme in smaller font under it, offers, "Hey, kid, got this as part of the new stock last night. You wanna learn how to play?"
The night after it happens, his mom hugs him before deflecting his question, offering a, "Tomorrow, I promise," followed shortly by, "And pack a backpack. A change of clothes, anything you think you'll want - we're going to New York."
"Why?" he asks, but she doesn't answer, just shakes her head and gives him a sad smile.
On December 22nd, 2004, Will's mom has two Amtrak tickets to Penn Station, arrives at Union Station with some time to spare, and ensures no one else is listening to their conversation before she begins to speak, tone of voice low, almost a whisper.
"I'm not sure how to say this, but the Greek Gods are real."
"Like the stories you read? Like Artemis and Athena and Apollo?"
"Yes."
It's been less than 12 hours, and Will hasn't forgotten the empousa's words, the strange phrases that didn't make any sense at the time -
"Your soulmate is Apollo. The god."
The arrow tipped lyre makes sense now too, the signs of the god of archery and music combined together in one.
"Yes." For a second, there's a fond smile on her face like remembrance, but then it is gone, and she is back to explaining. "But what it means for you, is that you are a demigod. Half mortal, half god. You have powers. Healing, like yesterday. Music and archery as well, probably. And a scent that attracts monsters, makes them try to hunt you down and kill you."
"Like the empousa."
His mom winces at the name, but nods. "Yes, like her."
"But she didn't try to kill me. Or, well, she did, but she stopped."
"Their purpose, Will, is to make men fall in love with them until they can be bitten. To shapeshift into whatever their prey desires. I'm not sure how, but you weren't fooled by it. You only ever saw her in her true form, and it probably saved your life."
"Oh," he remarks, not quite sure what else to say for a while .
"So how did you meet Apollo, then?"
They pull into Penn Station after about an hour, and Will follows his mom in mostly silence as they switch to two other trains, ending up somewhere around Long Island.
When they exit out to the pavement, she tells him to whistle as loud as he can, and a taxi cab comes to stop in front of him as he does.
It's only then that he notices her covering her ears with her hands, and hastens to open the door for her as she recovers.
"You said to whistle loud!" he complains, and she rolls her eyes at him as she gets in, retorting, "I did not tell you to blow out my ear drums."
She hands an address to the driver, and not fifteen minutes later the car rolls to a near halt.
There isn't much to see but pavement, with the exception of something that looks mildly like a field of some sort to the right, although Will doesn't figure that'll do anyone any good in winter.
"You're sure you want to get off here?" the driver asks, and his mom nods, tells him to wait five minutes, and Will is following his mother out the car.
It takes a second or two before he sees it, an archway proclaiming "Camp Halfblood", with facilities beyond it, somehow not snowing although it continues to fall on the two of them standing outside the archway.
"This is a camp," she explains, her words slower than they were on the train, far more hesitant, "for people like you. So the monsters don't find you. So you can learn to stay alive."
There's something wrong about this, Will knows, the way she's standing a step behind him and won't move further forward, the deliberateness of her words, the plea to the taxi driver to wait five minutes.
"You're not coming with me."
"No. I can't. No mortals allowed."
He hugs her. Wraps his arms around her torso, and she hugs him back, but eventually she lets go.
"I wanna stay with you, mom."
Gently, she pries his arms from around her to hold his hands in hers. Kisses each of them on the knuckles, lets them fall out of her grasp.
"I know, Will. But I need you to be safe. And here, they'll teach you that. Better than I could ever hope to."
"I love you."
"I love you too."
By the time he reaches the first building, some 15 steps from the arch, she is no longer visible.
Will knocks at the first door he comes to, the door of a big, white, wooden house, takes a very large step back when he is greeted by none other than a centaur, with two very, very, obvious sets of horse legs.
"Okay, then, Greek stuff is real. Very real. I was pretty sure before, but I believe it now. Oh, and hi. I'm Will Solace. My mom," and his voice falters on the word, just a little, "brought me here."
"A pleasure to meet you, Will Solace. Apologies for startling you with my form, but alas, I had no prior warnings. My name is Chiron."
"The one who trained Jason? And the Argonauts?"
His smile is sad, and Will wonders if his mark is turned black like the empousa's, his other half never to return.
"Yes," he answers, "Just so. Now, let me walk you down to the mess hall to meet the other campers, dinner should be in just a few minutes. And tell me, do you know your parentage?"
"Yes. It's —"
"No, child, do not tell me now. I do believe we will have a claiming to look forward to tonight."
Italian Translations: (please let me know if any are incorrect)
Quali erano tutti i segni piuttosto neri? Perché non ne hai uno? -
What were all the pretty black marks? Why don't you have one?
Sono segni di anima. -
They are soul signs.
Sono dati per dirti la persona di cui ti devi innamorare. La persona a cui il tuo cuore apparterrà per sempre, nel bene e nel male, nella malattia e nella salute - la tua anima gemella. -
They're given to tell you the person you're meant to fall in love with. The person whom your heart will belong to forever, for good or for worse, in sickness and in health - your soulmate.
Ha fatto male? -
Did it hurt?
Perché papà non ne ha uno? -
Why doesn't Papa have one?