"Neil Schaffer: Concert Pianist" read the title on the program. Neil's hands weren't shaking anymore, since he'd worked his way from "fear and trembling" to "blank horror." Now he just stared. He couldn't think. What could he do if he couldn't think?
"Neil, they're about to start."
Mrs. Thomas wore an ill-fitting purple dress, wringing her hands. She, he noticed, was nearly as nervous as he was.
Neil rubbed the program with one thumb. It was like, nice paper. Inside it had a melodramatic version of his life—little orphan Neil who beat the odds! Come hear him play! He'd made the music agent take out the word "prodigy." Neil was good because he worked hard. He wasn't even that good. He thought about all the spectators out there, come to see the poor orphan play, like this was August Rush or something.
"Neil?"
"I heard you." He handed her the program and followed Mrs. Thomas from the dressing room, across the hall, to the wings of the stage. Mrs. T had been great though this whole thing. She made sure the music agent never made Neil do anything he didn't want to. She loved all the kids in the orphanage, and was unusually good at finding homes for them, adoptive and foster.
Of course, that only made Neil feel really unadoptable. He wasn't sure what it was. He'd interviewed with lots of families, been run through the foster system, the works…accidents kept happening. There was that time with the Adamses, who took in eight foster kids at a time, when he'd predicted that Mr. Adams would lose his job. Then that time when the nice couple, Chuck and Marco, decided to adopt him, and then Marco got mugged and was in a coma for two months, and Chuck apologetically rescinded their request.
"You're such a great kid, you won't have any trouble," Chuck promised. That had been six years ago.
More weird things happened. Years passed. No one said it, but everyone knew it. Nobody adopts teenagers.
Mrs. Thomas brushed some imaginary lint off his shoulders. "You're going to do just fine."
"Thanks, Mrs. Thomas."
"Hey." She looked up at him, in the eye. He'd been taller than her for years. She had those weird gray eyes that looked like almost clear. "This doesn't change who you are, right? Whatever happens, you're still you."
"That'd be a lot more helpful if I knew who I was, Mrs. T," he answered. For some reason, that seemed to worry her.
"…more potential than any young musician I've yet met," the agent was saying, "I present, for your listening pleasure, Neil Schaffer!"
"Good luck. Gods be with you."
"What?"
"Go!"
Don't trip, he commanded himself, and walked.
The stage was huge. The crowd was huge. He couldn't make out any faces, just rows and rows of vague expectant shapes. Oh man oh man oh man—
The piano. The piano was safety. It was a concert grand; Neil had practiced on it all week, and it was like playing butter. Music was what mattered. It was why he was here, after all.
Careful not to sit on his coat, which was somehow too long even for his lanky frame, he sat down. His fingers touched the ivory, and he took a slow deep breath. And played.
It was Suite Opus 14 by Bela Bartok, and he loved it. He'd practiced forever on it, so as his fingers spidered across the keys, he stopped thinking. He didn't do that often, but in the music, he just was.
He always thought this was what home must feel like.
So of course, it couldn't last.
A woman screamed in the audience, and Neil was startled out of his reverie. He looked up, more annoyed than anything, and was face to face with a—
Um?
It was definitely green. Its head dripped drool and had more teeth than anything should be allowed. Its head was between him and the audience, attached to a neck that curved around the piano, a body snaking from the wings of the stage. It opened its mouth with a low reptilian growl.
Neil sprang backward, knocking over the bench. The dragon followed him, its face six inches from his face, climbing over the piano. Its claws dug into the glossy black surface, and Neil cringed.
This didn't happen. Dragons didn't attack people in the middle of piano recitals. The audience was freaking out, while Neil stared, feet sticking to the floor, into the black eyes of the dragon.
"Neil, duck!"
Probably out of habit, Neil obeyed Mrs. Thomas' voice. He heard the thrum of something heavy over his head and a thwack. He looked up; Mrs. Thomas stood over the dragon with a club, but the thing just hissed.
The audience was standing and running now, screaming. Neil thought, Frikkin' dragon interrupted Bartok.
Then, I thought dragons would be bigger.
Then, RUN!
He stumbled backwards, aiming backstage the way he came, but he tripped over the piano bench. He scrambled back to his feet. Mrs. Thomas had hit the floor, and the dragon was climbing over her, going for Neil.
He ducked offstage, skidding around the corner that separated the inner workings of the theater with the rest of the building. He could hear the dragon behind him, snarling and hissing.
His brain went into overdrive. So apparently dragons were real. He'd have to process that later. Were other things real too? Jeez, that was alarming.
Not important! Survival! Survival was important. Could this dragon breathe fire? If not, it could certainly rip him apart with teeth or claws. If he found a weapon, would he even be able to defend himself?
All this ran through his head in the two seconds it took for the dragon to tear into the hallway behind him. He heard it inhaling and turned a corner just in time to feel the fabric of his pants burning into the back of his legs.
"Neil!"
He yelped. Standing in his path was Mrs. Thomas. She held out her hand. "Grab on."
He was frozen. How'd she get here so fast?
Behind him the dragon roared, and it was close. He took her hand, and suddenly, he was wind.
It was weird, because he was pretty sure he'd only been in the air fifteen minutes, but it felt like seven years or so.
Perhaps the worst thing was that he didn't see, or feel, or hear what was going on, but this head was still working and he had a sense of what parts of him were where. His head tumbled through his chest, his hand fluttered through his head, his legs tangled up his hands. Neil wanted to throw up, but he was pretty sure his mouth and stomach weren't attached anymore.
And then it was over, and he was looking down on his wobbling feet and stumbling. It was still night, and he was outside, and his mouth and stomach still didn't feel connected, but he thought they were going to make an attempt. And…trees? Mrs. Thomas was suddenly in front of him, steadying his shoulders.
"Sorry about that. Are you all right?"
"Dragon," he blurted.
"Drakon, actually, but that's not important right at the moment. I hoped it wouldn't come to this, but things are moving, and I'm taking you to a safe place."
"Safe…" This wasn't making any sense. "Where are we?"
"New York. Long Island."
They'd just been in Texas. Literally just in Austin. "Mrs. T, how did you do that?"
"I'll answer all your questions, I promise, but we need to get inside the boundary." She started walking. "Do you want to ask me questions while we go?"
"Um. Hang on."
That was what was great about Mrs. Thomas. She got that sometimes he just needed time to think.
He followed her for a bit. They were in thick, dark woods, and he was wearing the wrong shoes. He could already feel pine needles poking into his feet.
Drakon. It sounded fake, like something a paperback fantasy writer made up. he remembered the thing's face close to his, hot nasty breath in his eyes.
"Why did it come after me?" He remembered it climbing right over the prone Mrs. T.
She hesitated. "You know you're different, right? You feel different from the kids at school?"
Neil looked up. There were so many stars out here…Of course he felt different. There was nothing normal about him.
"It's like this," Mrs. T continued, "you know those Greek myths? They're real. It's all real. You're a part of it, a small part, so I was hoping to keep you out of it. But now Gaia's moving against everyone, especially demigods, and her minions are going after everyone with a scent. It's getting dangerous for all of us now, and—good grief, this is like explaining Pokémon to your grandma, isn't it?"
"Greek myths are real?"
"Yes. I'm glad you're following me."
"And I'm a part of it."
"Yes. Your parents—well, one of them—either your dad or your mom is a god."
She looked over her shoulder to see his reaction. He avoided her gaze. What are you supposed to say to that? It was the orphan's dream, to have a long lost parent who was rich/famous/still alive/not a deadbeat, a parent who would come back to save them from being an orphan. It wasn't a thing that happened except in stories. Neil never really believed it, not for himself, but the younger kids tended to treat it like a religion. The older kids got angry about it, yelled at the little kids. It was hard, Neil thought, to see people have hope when you have none.
"That's not possible," is what he said.
"It happens more often than you think."
"Which god, then?"
"I don't know. I have a few suspects. It's harder because we don't know about your human parent."
Neil rubbed his head. "Oh my—gods?"
"That's the spirit."
The night was muggy. Neil could feel sweat soaking through his shirt and the lining of his jacket. It was a rental suit. Oh dear.
"There are other people who are like me?" He didn't say, unadoptable, unlucky, unloved.
"Yes, lots, especially where we're going."
"Where are we going?"
"A camp. Like a summer camp. You'll be safe there."
"You know how crazy this sounds, right?"
"As crazy as being attacked by a drakon in the middle of a piano recital?"
"Well, when you say it like that." He paused, stepping over some roots. "Are you like me?"
"A demigod? No, I'm a bit different."
"Who goes there?"
A sharp voice called out at them from just ahead. Neil could see the beam of a flashlight, searching through the trees.
"Strata Thomas, and a demigod," Mrs. T called back. She motioned Neil toward the light, which moved to shine on them. Aw, right in the eyes—Neil winced.
"Strata Thomas? Am I supposed to know that name?" The voice wasn't just sharp, it was downright confrontational. She—Neil was sure it was a girl—was coming closer now.
"I'm a certified protector," said Mrs. T. "Chiron knows me, and so do Ambrose Green and Gleeson Hedge."
"I've never heard of a certified protector who wasn't a satyr," said the voice.
"I'm special certification, admitted since Grover Underwood joined the council. And I've heard of you. Clarisse La Rue, I presume? Daughter of Ares?"
The voice was silent for a moment. Neil felt awkward, awkwardly tall, awkwardly ignorant, awkwardly standing around with a flashlight shining in his eyes.
"Fine. Come with me. Nyssa?"
Finally, the awful flashlight was pointing downward. As his eyes adjusted, Neil picked out two girls, one with a long spear that said snap like it was alive, and the other with something that looked like a rocket launcher. They moved behind him. Mrs. T patted his shoulder and kept walking. Conscious of the weapons at his back, he followed.
They crested a hill. Neil saw lights in the little valley beyond, but not electric lights; it was a weird assortment of torches and lanterns in a bunch of colors.
"Here it is," Mrs. Thomas whispered. "Camp Half-Blood."
Neil was led into a big farm house and told to sit on a couch in a room that smelled like grapes. It was dark, and no one bothered turning on the lights. Mrs. Thomas said she had to go, but she'd check in with him soon.
"Wait here. Someone will talk to you in a bit." She shot a pointed glance at Clarisse. The big girl rolled her eyes, and the other one, Nyssa, stroked her rocket launcher and glared at Neil. As they left, Clarisse made sure Neil heard her tell Nyssa to stand watch.
Neil sat still, trying to process the day, but the grape smell and the dark and a faint purring sound made him feel the weight of the day press him into the couch.
He slept.
Neil woke disoriented.
What time was it? Pretty late—the sun was flooding the room—he'd be late for school!
No. No, it was summer.
Whose couch was this? It was a terrifying Hawaiian print. It had a puddle of drool where Neil's cheek had been. He rubbed the hot itchy place on his face.
Suit? Why was he wearing a suit?
Where was he?
Oh.
Oh.
Neil straightened the cricks in his long spine and looked around. The room smelled like grapes because it was covered in grapevines—carnival masks, too. There was also a leopard head on the wall and—was it breathing?
One thing at a time. Or he was really going to flip.
Demigod.
It was still weird, but somehow it didn't seem impossible. Or maybe he was a bigger believer in the long-lost parent cult than he realized.
He stood up. He was sore from sleeping funny, and he felt gross in the suit. It was really good to stretch. He wondered if Nyssa was still outside. He peeked through the door.
There was no one there. He went for a short wander.
The house seemed pretty normal for a place where demigods lived. There were a couple bedrooms stacked with random junk: a trident, a box labeled "old VHS," a replica of the Parthenon made of popsicle sticks. There was an office stacked high with boxes with a tiny, ancient computer that was turned off. He also found a staircase, but Neil didn't feel comfortable going upstairs yet.
He took a second look at the office. He thought he saw…yes.
Against the wall was a familiar shape, covered in three flags, sheaves of paperwork, and a small stack of javelins tied with a polka-dot ribbon. Careful to make note of where things were, so he could put it all back, he excavated the piano.
It was a vertical upright, and it looked like a legit antique. He ran a hand along its dusty surface. Gorgeous.
Would he get in trouble if he played it?
Who cared? He was entitled to a few moments of peace after the night he'd just had. he moved a box labeled "Strawberry Sales" off a chair and sat down, opening the piano's lid. What to play?
He never did get to finish the Bartok piece…
And he was gone again. No dragons or drakons or whatever. No secret life of Mrs. T. No demigods. Just music. He finished the second movement, and was brought back to the real world with the sound of polite clapping. He looked up.
A man in a wheelchair with a full gray beard was sitting in the doorway.
"Forgive me," the old man said. "I realize you're not supposed to clap between movements. But that was truly extraordinary."
Neil looked away. Another adult convinced of his nonexistent genius. "I practice a lot."
"Good, but that's not what I mean. This piano's been broken for at least eight years."
Neil looked at the piano, then at his hands. "I…"
"You have a gift, Neil."
"I fix pianos?" Was there a god of musical instrument repair?
The old man laughed and wheeled forward. "My name is Chiron." He stuck out his hand.
Neil shook it. "I guess you already know my name."
"Mrs. Thomas told us a little about you, yes. We've actually been keeping an eye on you for quite some time."
Neil shifted his weight. "Um. Why?"
"Mrs. Thomas started to tell you who you are?"
"Started, yeah."
"Well, for many demigods, it is possible to live a normal life without ever knowing the truth. As you saw yesterday, there are many dangerous monsters in the world, all of which are attracted to power. If you're not a particularly powerful demigod, you may never meet one. It is such demigods that Mrs. Thomas looks after."
I'm not even normal for a demigod, Neil thought.
"Now, theoretically," Chiron continued, "your godly parent ought to have claimed you by now. But gods have never been good at keeping promises, which of course is not good, though demigods who don't know they're demigods are considerably safer. It's all a bit of a quandary, you see."
Neil frowned. "If I'm supposed to be safer not knowing, why'd I get attacked by that thing?"
"Ah. I'm afraid that's a bit complicated. We have an enemy, an enemy who would see us all destroyed, especially demigods. She's been offering rewards for dead demigods. Likely your drakon was sent by one of her servants, which is a very bad thing if this person realizes that Mrs. Thomas takes care of other demigods besides you."
"Wait—Adam and Tabitha and Jeff and them—they're demigods too?"
"Not all of them, but Mrs. Thomas takes in many—"
"And she never told us?"
Chiron stopped. He seemed to be considering. Neil was considering, too. He knew Mrs. Thomas was aware of the cult of the long-lost parent. She'd heard them fight over, cry about, and long for the idea. Even if Neil didn't consume all this time with it, he'd still thought about it, hoped against hope for it, felt stupid about it, been bitter about it. And she knew, all this time, and she hadn't said anything.
"I know it's not fair," Chiron said quietly. "But many demigods end up wishing they'd never found out. Your life just got considerably harder, Neil. Mrs. Thomas only wants you to be safe."
Neil stood up. "It's too late for that now, isn't it?"
Chiron sighed. "Indeed. You'll be wanting new clothes, I expect. I left some on the couch in the other room. After you're done changing I'll have someone show you around camp."
Being introduced to a bunch of new people and places when he already had too much to think about did not sound like a good time to Neil, but he was stifling in this suit. "All right."
In ten minutes, he was wearing an orange t-shirt that said "Camp Half-Blood" and a pair of jeans that were, like most of his clothes at this point, a little too short. There'd been a pair of flip-flops too, mercifully. He was sick of these stupid dress shoes.
He walked out of the front door into a big wraparound porch that he only vaguely remembered walking onto last night. Rolling out in front of him was—well—he'd never been to camp, but he figured this is exactly what one was supposed to look like. Green hills bubbled from the ground, with kids everywhere, about ten years old to maybe college-age, playing basketball and practicing archery and crowding around a climbing wall that seemed to be on fire. There were a series of mismatched cabins arranged in an omega, where he guessed people lived, since there seemed to be too many kids to live in the farmhouse. There was an amphitheater and a coliseum-like structure and a racetrack, too.
"Hey, you're Neil?"
Neil turned to find a guy who was shorter than him, although he was considerably better built, and covered in acne. He held out a granola bar. "You missed breakfast. You must be hungry."
Neil took it. "Uh, thanks."
"No problem. I'm Mitchell. Chiron wanted me to show you around. Welcome to Camp Half-Blood." Mitchell shot him a winning smile, which was really white. It sort of caught the sun. "Let me show you around."
Mitchell took him to the common area in the middle of the cabins first. Neil ate the granola bar while Mitchell told him about each cabin being dedicated to a god or goddess and how there were more cabins than there used to be, because of a promise forced out of the gods by Percy Jackson.
"Man, that guy was awesome," Mitchell said. "It was because of him that a lot of us got claimed, including me,"
"Who's your—um—god?"
"Aphrodite's my mom."
Neil paused. "The love goddess?"
Mitchell threw up his hands. "I know! Can't believe it, right? It's the acne! I can't get rid of it! I've tried everything! Drew keeps saying it's a curse from mom for breaking it off with Angie, but even I could see Angie had a thing for Pablo! You can't step in the way of love, not even if Angie's really hot!"
Neil didn't know what to say. "Um…sorry?"
Mitchell seemed to remember he was there. "Hm? Oh, it's all right. Angie and Pablo work really well together. I just want to get rid of this acne." He pointed to a well-kept cabin with flowers in the window boxes. "Anyway, that's my cabin. If you're lucky, you'll be claimed tonight, but if not, you'll stay in the Hermes cabin." He pointed again, this time to a ramshackle little building that looked well-loved if not well-kept. "He's the god of travelers and hospitality."
"So there's no way to know until I'm claimed?"
"We can guess. Do you have any skills or anything?"
Neil shrugged. "Apparently I fix pianos."
"Huh. Weird."
"Yeah."
"Well, hey—you know, I don't have anything to do right now. We could look around, see if you have any special skills."
"Nunchaku skills, bow-hunting skills," Neil mumbled.
"Computer hacking skills?" Mitchell broke in.
Neil smiled. "Yeah."
Mitchell laughed. "I love that movie. Actually, weapons are a good place to start. That can tell us a lot about you."
They left the ring of cabins and made their way toward an arena.
"So what about you?" Neil asked.
"My skills?"
"Yeah."
Mitchell grinned. "Watch this."
They passed by a garden. A girl was weeding there in between rows of cabbage or lettuce or something. Mitchell called to her, "Hey, Miranda!"
She looked up. Mitchell gave her a look. He wasn't sure why, but Neil wanted to describe it as the smolder.
Miranda's jaw dropped. She stared for a count of two before snapping out of it, blushing furiously. "Mitchell Amador, you stop that!"
Mitchell grinned at her and walked away, but his grin fell as soon as they were out of earshot. "Eros curse this acne!"
"But…"
"Oh, I can usually make them faint. Look, we're here!"
They were at the arena. Ducking inside, they found about thirty demigods. Most were paired up, sparring, but about five were lined up practicing forms or something under the direction of a tall guy with curly brown hair.
Mitchell waved, and the guy waved back and jogged over.
"The new guy, huh?" he said.
"Neil, meet Connor Stoll," Mitchell said. "Son of Hermes, and the swordmaster right now."
"Filling in for Percy Jackson," Connor explained.
"Neil here wants to find himself a weapon."
"Good, we'll need everyone we can get against the Romans."
Neil looked to Mitchell. "The Romans?"
"Didn't anyone tell you? We're under siege," said Connor, calmly, as if talking about what was for dinner. "The Romans came all the way from California to say hi."
"They're demigods who were born when the gods were feeling more Roman than Greek," Mitchell explained.
Neil was a bit alarmed. "Is that a thing they do?"
Connor laughed. "Yeah, bro. And their Roman kids are a bunch of cutthroat conquerors who'll take you over if you give 'em an inch. Shake your hand and beat in your head."
Mitchell shifted his feet, suddenly uncomfortable. "C'mon Connor, they're probably not all bad."
Connor shrugged. "Anyway, we're all just kind of impressed you got past them. From what Grover's been saying, they're keeping any noobs from coming in, even though it's getting more dangerous out there."
"Are you serious?" Mitchell looked genuinely troubled.
"That's what Grover told me."
"Di immortales." Mitchell shook his head.
Neil stood like an awkward scarecrow amongst a bumper crop of things he didn't understand. He was beginning to feel seriously overwhelmed.
"Anyway," said Mitchell, coming out of his funk, "Neil needs a weapon."
Connor gave Neil a once-over and got a weird gleam in his eye. "Sure, sure. Let's see."
Connor dismissed his students and called over a guy named Travis who looked like his twin. They exchanged grins that made Neil nervous and made a quick trip to the armory.
They came back overloaded with weapons of all kinds, looking like dangerous porcupines. They dumped everything on the ground in a big pile and said in eerie synchrony, "Choose your weapon."
Nothing stuck out to Neil—at least, figuratively, because literally everything was sticking out at Neil. He picked up a spear, about two yards long.
"Good choice!" said Connor, who drew his sword and attacked.
Neil managed to knock away one blow, but got whacked by the flat of Connor's blade with the next two.
"Oops," said Connor, grinning.
"Dude, what's your problem?" Neil shouted, rubbing his thigh where Connor whacked him.
"Only way to learn!" said Travis. "Here, try this!" He traded the spear in Neil's hands for a shorter version, and jumped out of the way just in time for Connor to come at him again, this time knocking the spear out of his hands and whacking his shoulder.
Neil cried out and stepped back. Other kids were gathering to watch at a safe distance.
"Not a spear man, huh? Try this!" Travis handed him a sword with a leaf-shaped blade that Neil could barely hold. The tip hovered near the ground as Neil failed to find a way to hold it with both hands. Connor hit it out of his hands and Neil spun out of the way of the next blow.
"Oh, he's learning!" chirped Connor.
"He's certainly got the reflexes!" Travis danced in with another sword and danced out. At least this one Neil could lift—he caught a blow and missed another, getting a whack in the stomach that doubled him over. The sword fell out of his hands uselessly.
"Guys, cut it out," said Mitchell's voice, coming from outside Neil's little world of pain.
"Chill out, lover-boy," said Travis, slipping a long dagger into Neil's hand, patting him on the back, and disappearing again. Neil drew in a breath and straightened, just in time to see Connor swinging his sword toward Neil's head. Neil ducked and staggered back again. Now he was mad. What kind of crap was this? Not thinking as much as he probably should've, he lashed out with the dagger, catching Connor off guard as he recovered from his last swing.
"Woah!" Connor said, jumping back. Neil swung again and again. Connor caught the third swing on his blade and twisted the dagger out of Neil's hands.
This time Travis didn't give him a different weapon. Connor sheathed his sword. "Well, we can say with some amount of certainty that you're not a son of Ares. I was starting to wonder when you'd fight back."
Neil looked at his stinging hands. It hurt to move. It hurt to breathe. "Why—why'd—"
"Just to get an idea of what kind of combat you'll be doing. It looks like you could probably get good with any of those weapons, if you practiced, but you're not, like, really gifted in any one of them." Connor stuck out his hand. "No hard feelings?"
Neil just stared, stepping backwards. "What? No!" He bumped into something solid. Travis.
"Look, man," Travis said when Neil whirled away, "you're a demigod. You're gonna run into a whole lot worse than my ugly brother in your life. Get used to it."
Neil felt like crying or fighting. He wavered between the two while the crowd of kids, sensing the show was over, began to drift away.
"What in Hades is wrong with you guys?" Mitchell demanded from somewhere behind Neil. "C'mon, man, let's get out of here."
Neil turned to follow Mitchell, simultaneously grateful for the out and furiously angry, still aching to fight. When he glanced over his shoulder, the Stolls were staring at him.
"Look, I'm sorry about that. I didn't know they were gonna pull that crap on you."
The impulse to fight was gone, and now Neil felt too drained to cry. He just wanted to be alone for a while. He didn't answer.
"They mean well," Mitchell added.
"Can I expect to get the crap beaten out of me every day?" Neil grumbled. Gods, it'd be just like middle school.
Mitchell hesitated. "Not by the Stolls. But they're right, you know."
"They're right to beat me up."
Mitchell stopped abruptly, faced Neil, and tugged down his shirt collar with one finger. A thick, purplish scar appeared just below his collar, curving under his clavicle before diving farther down his chest.
"I'm a son of Aphrodite," Mitchell said. "I'm not the only one, or the most powerful one. I mean, Mom didn't even think I was important enough to claim until Percy Jackson made her. I'm okay with a spear, but mostly I just make girls faint. Heck, I'm not even really good at that right now. I'm harmless." He let go of his shirt collar. "I still nearly got killed. I may get killed still. It's dangerous being a demigod. Dangerous and terrifying." He shrugged. "The Stolls are jerks, but they're right. They're not the worst thing that could happen to you."
He looked as though he wanted to say something else, but he didn't exactly know what to say. He looked away. "It's about lunch time. Do you want to eat?"
Neil wanted to sequester himself away to think for about ten years, but he suddenly realized how hungry he was. "Yeah. Okay."
Mitchell turned toward a hill, at the top of which was a pavilion of columns and tables, where demigods were already gathering.
"Look, I'm sorry, but you're gonna have to sit at the Hermes table until you're claimed. It's a stupid rule, but we can't change it."
"Great."
Mitchell pointed out the table when they'd trudged to the top of the hill, and then sat at the opposite side of the pavilion with some seriously good-looking people.
Neil sat carefully at one end. The kids at the table were chatting until he joined them. They quieted and tried not to look at him. Neil recognized a couple of them from the crowd that'd watched him get beat up. Neil was grateful for the silence.
He started sorting through his thoughts, putting them in an order he could understand. He lost track of time until a plate of food was placed in front of him.
He looked up. The girl who'd put down the plate was green. Not sick-green; forest green. Neil put that in a newly formed "weird stuff to ask Mitchell about" box.
"Thanks," he told the green girl. She winked at him and walked away.
The food smelled fantastic. It was a roast beef sandwich with grapes and a handful of chips. He took a bite and was not disappointed. Perfection in a sandwich.
As he chewed, he noticed that he was one of the only ones left at the table. The kids were all getting into a line and tossing some of their food into a fire in a big bronze brazier in the middle of the pavilion. Since Neil had already been thinking Greek, what came to mind was Socrates pouring out a libation to the gods. He guessed it was something like that, and it looked to be required. He got up and got in line.
He ended up behind Nyssa. The line moved quickly, and as Neil waited he noticed several kids moving their lips or whispering.
Sometimes he just knew. He wasn't sure how. But there were moments when he knew what was going on in other peoples…worlds? Yes, that was a good way to put it. Not always—in fact, it only happened every once in a while. But now, he could hear what the other demigods were saying as if the kids had been shouting.
"Bring Percy and Annabeth home safely."
"Keep Piper safe."
"Help Jason, please."
"Don't let Gaia kill us."
"Protect us from the Romans."
"Kill all the Romans." This from Clarisse.
"Don't kill my brother." This is harmony from both the Stolls.
"Help me to be a good leader. And don't let anyone find out about Leila." That one from Mitchell.
"Don't let Leo die. We can't afford another counselor dying." That one was from Nyssa, just ahead of him.
Then it was his turn. What to say?
He tore off a chunk of his sandwich. Would it be selfish to ask to be claimed? Probably, especially given what he was hearing from the other kids. He addressed his request to his parent, who he currently called Not-Ares-Probably-Not-Aphrodite-Please-Not-Hermes: "Keep the demigods at the orphanage safe." He tossed in the sandwich, and it was consumed. Nothing else happened, but nothing was happening to anyone else either, so he figured it was normal. He sat down and finished eating. The Stolls were at the other end of the table. Neil ignored them and enjoyed the silence.
In a few minutes, Chiron's voice broke into his thoughts.
"Good afternoon, demigods." He was standing at the head of the table. What—standing, he—horse legs?
Chiron was a centaur. Right. Neil put in the "ask Mitchell" box.
"As you all know, we have a new demigod among us, Neil Schaffer—hello, Neil—who is yet unclaimed. Welcome him warmly." Chiron shot a glare at the Stoll brothers. "Also, Clarisse would like me to mention that we're increasing patrol teams from two to three as the Romans draw nearer. The new rotation is posted at the Big House."
"Any word on the questers?" called someone from Nyssa's table.
"I'm afraid not." Chiron cantered in place. "As always, all we can do is keep up courage here. Have a pleasant day. Connor, Travis, may I speak with you a moment?" Chiron picked up an apple and left the dining pavilion, munching morosely. The Stoll brothers exchanged glances and slid out of their seats, following the centaur.
Neil watched as all the Hermes kids watched them go. Then they all turned to him.
Oh no.
One of them, a pretty black girl with an upturned nose, stuck out her hand. "I'm June."
Neil reluctantly shook it. "Neil, but I guess you already knew that."
"Look, we, as a cabin, want to apologize," said June, gesturing in a circle so he knew she meant everyone.
"Yeah, man," said a dude with Jesus hair who had the same nose as June. "I saw the whole thing. It was totally not cool."
"We're gonna tell you something about Connor and Travis," said June. "It's not supposed to be an excuse, because they still acted like jerks, but maybe it'll help you understand."
Neil shrugged. "Okay?"
"Do you ever have bad dreams? Like, really bad dreams?" She stared at him like she already knew the answer.
It made him shudder. "Yes," he muttered.
"All demigods do," she said, nodding. "And for the last week, every child of Hermes has been dreaming about the same thing." To Neil's surprise, her voice broke. "Gods—I'm sorry. I can't…" She rubbed her eyes with her fists. "Sorry."
"I got you," said the guy with Jesus hair. "We've all been dreaming about one of the Stolls…dead. Like, for sure dead." He shook his head. "Man, it's awful—blood everywhere…and we can't tell which one. Even they can't tell which one. It's been driving us all crazy."
"And they're our brothers, you know?" June gulped. "They're the first family I ever had."
"You see why they acted crazy?" asked a very young redheaded girl at the end of the table. She had the nose too.
It was the Stolls' nose. Hermes' nose. For the first time, it hit Neil. Their dad was a god. A god was their dad.
And the same was true of him.
"So we're sorry," said June. "And don't tell anyone. We weren't supposed to, but we figured you deserved to know."
Neil exhaled slowly. He didn't know what it was like to have a brother, but nobody deserved that. "Thank you."
"No worries, man," said Jesus-hair. "Hey, I'm Milton."
"I'm Abby," said the redhead.
"I'm Chris," said a big guy.
"I'm Charlie," said a willowy blond girl.
"Matt."
"Keisha."
"Avery."
"Megan."
"Lucy."
"Gabe."
Neil was never going to remember all these names, but he smiled anyway.
"Well, hey, it's been a while since we had someone unclaimed," said Milton. "Maybe we can help. What would you do if like, you had lots of time and no responsibilities?"
That was a question. "I don't know."
"C'mon, there's gotta be something," Milton said. "Like, dude, I'd travel all the time. Go everywhere." A lot of kids agreed, and there was a brief discussion of the first/best/worst places to travel, which ended with June claiming that anyone who didn't want to go to Japan was obviously an idiot and a hater and anyone who disagreed could fight her.
"You know what I'd do," said Abby. "I'd just run forever."
"That sounds like work, not fun," said Charlie. She rubbed her hands together. "I'd pull the biggest heist this world has ever seen."
Neil was taken aback, but a bunch of the kids laughed and high fived and started talking lockpicking and alarm systems.
June rolled her eyes. "Our dad's the god of thieves," she explained under the ambient conversation. "So, what about you?"
"I guess…music," he said.
"Oh. Music. Apollo." June elbowed Milton. "He's into music. Apollo?"
"Yeah, that's a great idea," he said.
June stood up. "You done eating? You oughta meet Will. You can leave your plate."
Neil was done, so he stood up and followed June to a table two over.
Neil was generally a non-judgmental person, but what came to mind was something his history teacher, Mr. Buckley, said at least once a week in reference to non-traditional anything: "Buncha gol-dern hippies and granolas." The Apollo cabin seemed to be made up entirely of tall athletic kids wearing chacos and shorts and beads. Two or three of them were messing around with guitars and—lyres?
Cool.
One guy with an Ace bandage wrapped around his wrist for no apparent reason was saying with his mouth full, "No, that's stupid. Bad poetry isn't gonna scare a force of nature."
The kid at the head of the table looked absolutely crestfallen. He was standing, as though he just finished presenting. "It wasn't supposed to be bad. It was supposed to be terrifying."
There was an awkward silence as the first guy swallowed. "Right, yeah. That's what I meant. Maybe it would work on the Romans?"
The guy at the end brightened. June tapped Ace bandage guy on the shoulder. "Hey, Will, can we talk to you?"
Will looked up. "Oh, hey, the new guy. Sure, hang on. Kayla, will you be the judge for a bit?"
A long-limbed brunette glared at him as he walked away from the table. June snorted. "You so owe me."
"How is it our dad is the god of poetry and none of us can write it worth a drachma?" he grumbled. "Is he the god of poetry appreciation? I don't get it."
June laughed. "What's the contest today?"
"Poems against Gaia. It was Austin's idea. It keeps them distracted." He shook his head. "Anyway, hi! Neil, right?"
"Yeah. Um. You're Will?"
He nodded. "Will Solace, counselor for the Apollo cabin."
"We're thinking Neil might be one of yours," June said. "He says he's into music."
"Oh, sweet. Do you play?"
"I play piano." He didn't plan on saying it, but it came out anyway: "Um. Apparently I can fix them just by touching them."
Will's eyebrows jumped up. "Really? Never heard of that before. Can you show me? The piano in the Big House has been broken forever."
"I uh, already fixed it."
Will looked excited. "This I have to see. Kayla, come with us! Austin, judge your own freaking contest!"
The kid from the head of the table looked up. "But I'm a contestant!"
"You weren't going to win anyway!"
June grinned at Neil and waved. "See you around!"
"Thanks, June," Neil said, before following after Will.
Neil sat down at the piano. "Uh, what do you want me to play?"
"Oh! Do you know 'Rhapsody in Blue'?" Kayla said. "That's like, my favorite piece of all time."
"Parts of it, sure." Neil stretched his fingers. "Did you have any particular part in mind?"
Kayla pointed into the air. "What about the part that's like, babababaaa bababa baaaaaaaaa…" She conducted with her finger.
"Sure." Neil took a deep breath, and his fingers let fly. Ah, home. He felt the aches of the beating he took earlier melting away as his muscles relaxed.
After about a minute or so, Will called, "Okay, hang on, hang on." Neil stopped. Will turned to Kayla. "What do you think?"
"I can't believe it," she declared. "It's even tuned!" She gently pushed a Bb key. "This one didn't even work before! Can I try?"
"Yeah, sure." Neil got up and let her sit. She played the opening of the Moonlight Sonata.
"Oh my gods, I can't believe it." She stood up. "That's crazy! We have a piano!"
"BTDubs, you're really good," said Will. "You must practice all the time."
Neil smiled. "I pretty much do."
"Well, hey, can we further test your abilities?"
"I guess." Neil sat. "What's next?"
Will pulled a knife out of a sheath on his belt and opened the front of the piano. "Okay. Right. This is gonna suck. Forgive me, dad." Gingerly, he cut three strings of the piano with an uncomfortable twang. Kayla winced; Neil gritted his teeth.
"Sorry," Will said, putting his knife away. "I hope this works. Go ahead and play something, Neil."
Neil started to play the third movement of Bartok. Kayla and Will peered intently at the piano's insides, and their jaws dropped.
"Gods," Will said. Neil stopped to look.
The strings Will cut were now made of the same shiny bronze as the knife.
"See, when you said you fix pianos, I thought you could be a son of Hephaestus or Hecate or something," Will said breathlessly. "But this is more than fixing. This is like, healing."
"There's one way to know for sure if Apollo's your dad," said Kayla. "How do you feel about archery?"
As they passed the dining pavilion on the way to the archery range, the sound of shouting reached them. An argument had broken out at the Apollo table. Will groaned. "I better go break that up. Robby's already down there." He jogged up the hill.
"You'll like Robby," said Kayla. "He's a really good teacher."
The archery range faced the woods, a series of human-shaped targets that looked a bit like scarecrows. Kids were lined up shooting bows with wildly varying levels of skill. He saw Clarisse going rapid-fire and hitting the target every time, though in several places that didn't seem lethal. He saw one of the kids from the Apollo table chatting, firing three arrows at once mid-laugh and hitting the target's chest.
He also saw a lanky dude, taller than Neil with straight brown hair that covered his eyes completely, talking to a boy of about twelve.
"Naw, mon ami, yih gotta put yo hand heah an' heah an' theah yih go."
"I can't hold it this way," the kid complained, his arms trembling.
"Yih can too, son o' Athena. If yah sistah can go halfway 'round de worl' to bring peace an' keel Gaia, den you can fiyah a blamin' arrow de righ' way! Let 'er fly, mon ami!"
The kid stuck his tongue out and frowned at the target. His back hand released the arrow, and it landed in the target's stomach.
The tall guy slapped the kid on the back, nearly knocking him down. "What I tell yih! Yih practice yah ackeracy heah and then ten feet closah. And do some pushups tonight. You gonna be fine."
"Thanks, Robby," croaked the kid.
"Ain't nothin', podna." Robby sat down in a lawn chair and took out a harmonica, watching the archers and playing "La Vie en Rose."
"See?" said Kayla, beaming. She walked over to the lawn chair and nudged him on the shoulder. "Hey, Robby."
Robby jumped up and grabbed her in a hug. "Cher! How mah sistah today?"
"Pretty good!" Kayla laughed as he released her. "Neil and I came to see you about some arrows."
Robby turned to Neil, arms open. "Nouveau boug!"
Not a hug not a hug not a hug—aw, gods, the guy hugged like a grizzly.
"Glad you heah, podna! I heah yih might be a brothah of ours." He let Neil go and mussed his hair. "Le's see if yih can shoot, eh?"
Neil felt like he'd been mauled by affection. "Um."
"Heah, try this'un." Robby handed him a bow from a rack by the lawn chair, already strung. "Eh, cher! You got a spare arrow?"
Clarisse looked up mid-draw, rolled her eyes, and brought her quiver to Robby. "I was done anyway." She eyed Neil up and down, made a sound like tfuh, and put her bow back on the rack.
"She loves me," Robby said, elbowing Neil. "Now we gonna get yih shooting. Take this'n an' draw. That's the fust test."
Okay. Neil took the bow and the proffered arrow. They felt good—more like they belonged there than any of the weapons Travis Stoll put in his hands that morning. In fact…yeah, he knew how these fit together. He nocked the arrow and tried to draw.
Um.
The bow was too strong. He looked, embarrassed, at Robby, who regarded him thoughtfully.
"S'awright, podna." Robby traded Neil's bow for another. "Try this."
The bow Robby gave him was too strong, and the next one was too. Finally Robby called the kid who was the son of Athena over and borrowed his bow. This one Neil could draw, but as he aimed for a target, he suspected his arms were shaking more than the kid's had been. He knew where to aim, but his elbows gave out and the arrow landed at the dummy's feet.
Kayla sighed. "Sorry, Neil. I really thought you could be a son of Apollo."
"Hold up, cher. I ain't shore he isn't." Robby took the bow from Neil. "Look, you got muscles like a peeshwank, but yih know what you doin'. I see yah hands movin'. Yih gotta build them muscles, but meantime, we gonna try sum' else." Robby gave the bow back to the kid and dug around in a backpack under the lawnchair. "Know it's heah somewheah…yeah, gotcha." He drew out a long strip of leather and a leather bag of what sounded like marbles. He brought them to Neil. "This heah is a sling. Not always our cuppa tea as chillen of Apollo, but we good at most projectiles. Try it."
Neil took the sling. Let's see. He'd put one of these—they were marbles in the bag, big green marbles—into the pouch in the center. This loop probably went around his finger so he could grab the other end—or no, pinch it. Then he could release it better.
"I just…swing it?" Neil asked.
"You tell me, mon ami."
Neil nodded and took a slow breath. He swung it above his head. Each time it passed the target, he could feel it, like a heartbeat: now was when to let it go, now and and now and and NOW he released it.
It knocked the head off his dummy. Neil, for the first time in he didn't know how long, grinned.
Robby grinned too. "You may have othah talents, podna, but yih shoot like a brothah of mine."
"Di immortales," muttered the kid, who was still watching. "What a shot! You've never picked up a sling before?"
"Well, I did have a slingshot I was pretty good with as a kid," Neil said.
Robby threw up his hands. "Eh, a slingshot is pract'ly a bow!"
"Really?" The kid frowned.
"Not at all, but they alike in sev'ral ways. Eh, mem'selles and monsieurs, anybody got a slingshot?"
The kids along the range, most of whom had noticed Neil's headshot, looked at each other. One of the Hermes girls—Avery, maybe?—raised her hand. "I do."
"You wanna let Neil heah borrow it?"
She ran off to get it. While she was gone, Robby had Neil aim at farther targets, hit things harder or softer. He missed once. He hit six times.
By the time Avery came back, a crowd had gathered to watch, but Neil wasn't really bothered. He accepted the slingshot with a thank you. Man, he hadn't held one of these forever. He grabbed for marbles.
Hit.
Hit.
Miss, but he still hit the target.
Hit.
"Gods!" gasped Kayla. The other kids murmured agreement. Neil was about to let fly another marble, but he paused.
"Can borrow your bow again?" he asked the Athena kid.
"Yeah." The kid handed him the bow and an arrow from Clarisse's quiver.
Neil took a deep breath, nocked an arrow, and drew. Ignoring his straining arms, he exhaled and released it.
The arrow landed just where he wanted it to: in the dummy's wooden stick of a neck.
Robby clapped him on the back. "Theah he is! I knew you could do it, mon ami."
Then everything went gold.
Everyone looked away, blinded at light that was coming from—from Neil. He looked at his hands, and had a feeling the only reason he wasn't blind was that he felt heat and light pouring out of his eyes. "What the…"
"Eh! Errybody! Listen heah!" Robby knelt and other kids followed suit. "All hail Neil Schaffer, son of Apollo of the Oracle, god of music, art an' poetry, the Healah, the Sun."
The next few hours were a blur. Dozens of people congratulated him, patting him on the back and promising to listen to him play sometime. People started bringing him instruments to see if he could fix them, and it turned out his ability worked on guitars, lyres, a trumpet, two djembes, a pennywhistle, and a glockenspiel—anything he could get a note out of. (He promised Austin he'd try again on the oboe.) Mitchell found him and said something like, "Gods, why didn't I think of that! Apollo!" Mitchell promised to save him a seat at the bonfire tonight.
Neil ate dinner with the Apollo cabin, who got the nymphs, the green girls, to bake him a cake shaped like a sunshine, which they shared with anyone who passed by to congratulate him—all the Hermes kids, the Athena kid, Nyssa, Clarisse—briefly, to tell him he was joining the patrol rotation on Monday.
And then it was time for the bonfire, and Mitchell was as good as his word, and saved him a seat next to some very attractive daughters of Aphrodite who reportedly really liked musicians.
Chiron congratulated him, and Will Solace led the singing of songs that Neil enjoyed, even though he figured in the daytime, this would probably be pretty hokey. Or maybe not. Good food, friends, music—what else could you want?
The Apollo cabin lent him some PJs and found him a bunk—a hammock, actually, near a window in the cabin. Lights out came fast, but as the cabin settled in, he could only think, I could get used to this.
He closed his eyes.
In a few minutes, they popped open again.
If Apollo was his dad, who was his mom? Mrs. Thomas had still lied to him. And fixing instruments just by touching them—what? And what was this whole Greek-Roman thing? And what about all this crap with the Stoll brothers? How was he supposed to react to this?
Oh, good. Now he'd be up all night. Dangit.
He rocked gently in his hammock. There were no easy answers to this. Ugh! He'd always hoped things would get less complicated when he got older.
His feet started to twitch. There was no way he'd be able to process this standing still.
Neil rolled out of his hammock and landed on his hands and feet in a runner's pose, which felt really cool. He tiptoed out of his cabin and carefully closed the door.
Then he sneaked back in and grabbed the sling and marbles Robby had lent him. Just in case.
It was a gorgeous night for a walk. He wandered toward the beach and then up toward the woods. Slowly, he started to think through things.
So his mom. She was either dead or gave him up. Neither possibility was pleasant. And Apollo? If the legends were true, you couldn't count on anything from a god.
Great. Still an unwanted orphan.
At least now he had brothers and sisters. That was kinda weird and great. Of course, that made him feel a bit guilty about his friends back at the orphanage. They were like his brothers and sisters too. Maybe literally. And Mrs. Thomas—ugh, lying to keep them safe. Of course, if the Stolls were right, maybe it was better this way.
Neil kicked at some leaf bracken. This was supposed to clear his head.
A twig snapped. Neil froze. Mitchell was creeping through the trees.
Huh. Neil decided to follow him.
It wasn't the part of the woods he and Mrs. T came through the night before; it was the opposite direction, he was pretty sure. They passed the tree with the Golden Fleece thing in it. Past that there was a road, but Mitchell took a right into the woods. Carefully, Neil followed.
After ten minutes of sneaking, Neil heard someone else moving through the trees. He stopped about fifteen yards short of Mitchell and crouched in the shadow of a big tree.
The other person came into view. Neil saw a flash of gold armor.
"Mitchell?" said a girl's voice.
"Leila," he answered, in a sigh. He ran to her, embraced her, and kissed her.
Suddenly, Neil felt like a giant creeper.
"I'm so glad you came," she whispered. "We're getting close, and Octavian's getting everyone angrier by the day. I don't think there's any chance of peace, and—"
"Shh, shh. It's all right."
"No, Mitchell, it's not. How can we even—"
"Leila, please. You're freaking me out. I thought your mom was Spes."
Leila sighed. "She is. It's just hard. It's so hard."
Mitchell pulled her close. "I know, I know. It's gonna be all right, I promise."
"I don't know why I believe you."
He stroked her hair. "Me neither. Hey, do you know anything about Greek demigods trying to come into camp?"
"Um…we captured a couple of kids. They seemed really confused, so we kept them back at the hotel. I think Octavian forgot about them."
"It's just…we're hearing about demigods dying out there. Gaia's getting aggressive."
She pulled away. "I haven't heard about that. Octavian—" she growled— "Octavian doesn't tell us anything. It's nothing but kill the Greeks, we'll find them soon, we're almost there. All the time." She sighed. "Oh, that reminds me. Any changes to your patrol routes?"
"No, but they're increasing patrol teams to three. How far have you all advanced?"
"A quarter mile since last week. We're being harassed by a couple of weird monkey monsters, and they're slowing us down in a big way."
"Huh. Weird. Um, have you figured out how many Romans feel like you do?"
"No. We're all afraid to talk about it! Everyone knows Octavian stabbed Gwen in the back and is undermining Reyna. There's no telling what he'll do with her gone." She turned back toward Mitchell. "He's crazy."
He held her and kissed her forehead.
Neil was starting to wonder how much noise he would make if he snuck away. He stood, slowly.
"What was that?" hissed Leila.
Neil froze, unnecessarily. The sound was coming from the other side, a crash.
"Gods," said Mitchell. "Okay. Go back to your camp. I'll lead it toward Half-Blood Hill. Okay?"
"Okay," she whispered.
"Go!"
She took off running. Mitchell shouted, "Hey! Over here!"
Neil ran, and he heard a roar.
He knew that roar.
Oh gods oh gods—
Neil could still hear Mitchell shouting. He could hear the drakon crashing through the undergrowth. He could hear his own pounding heart.
It was at this time that his brain decided to kick in.
He did have a weapon this time; he could defend himself, and Mitchell. But he'd need space, and a view.
The road.
Mitchell was falling behind. Neil stopped, waited for him to catch up, and grabbed his arm.
"Run," Neil barked, and dragged Mitchell toward the road. The drakon was getting closer—closer—
They burst onto the road. Mitchell was wheezing, but he pulled a spear off his back anyway. Neil dragged him just a little farther and spun around, slipping a marble into his sling.
The drakon clawed through the trees. Neil was ready. He hit it in the eye. It roared and snorted, clawing at its face. Neil loaded and slung again, and again, hitting its other eye and its throat. It was hurt, but not dead, and it was still getting closer no matter how many times he hit it, and now it was too close, so Neil bashed it with a full sling, and it was hit to one side, but it was in front of his face again, and its mouth opened—
And a spear went into the roof of its mouth. It moaned and squirmed on the ground. Neil bashed it again, and it dissolved into yellow dust.
"Oh. Wow. Um." Suddenly Neil felt the adrenaline. It made him dizzy.
"Dude." Mitchell picked up his spear, which was spattered with black blood. "You just saved my life."
"I think I'm gonna fall over."
"Let's get back into camp boundaries first." Mitchell threw an arm around Neil and hauled him forward, still panting. Together, they staggered forward, up the hill, past the pine trees, where the fleece was.
"I'm sorry I followed you," Neil said.
"Yeah, I was wondering about that." Mitchell didn't sound angry.
"I was out for a walk and I saw you go into the woods. I didn't know—"
"It's all right, man. Good of you to look after me."
Neil smiled.
"So, uh…" Mitchell sounded embarrassed. "How much did you see?"
"Um…everything. I'm not gonna tell anyone, though."
"Thank you. I realize the Romeo and Juliet thing is played out, but it's like…I met her on a patrol. She's advance guard. I made her faint. She uh…she agreed not to tell if I let her go 'cause she doesn't believe in what they're doing anymore. We're trying to work toward peace as well as two people can, alone." Mitchell loosed a bitter laugh. "Gods. Shakespeare much? Mom must love this."
"Mitchell…are you okay?"
"Are any of us okay?"
"Apparently not," Neil muttered.
"I'm sorry man. You picked a weird time to be a demigod. Any other time I'd totally recommend it."
"Didn't exactly pick this," Neil said.
"None of us did. So? What are you going to do about it now?"
"What kind of question is that?"
"As far as I'm concerned, it's the only one that matters."
Neil couldn't think of any response.
They parted ways at the cabins. Neil didn't sleep much that night.
Breakfasting with the Apollo cabin almost felt normal. Almost. Except that it was raining everywhere except the dining pavilion, and he was pretty sure it was raining harder outside camp.
He decided to check out the climbing wall after breakfast. It didn't look quite so on-fire today, what with the rain, and Robby had gotten him thinking about upper-body strength. He put some grapes in his pocket for later and shuffled through the rain in that direction.
One of the Stolls stopped him on the way.
"I'm Travis, before you ask," he said. "I never said congrats on getting claimed."
"Thanks, I guess," said Neil, and continued walking. Travis kept up with him.
"I didn't come to apologize," he said.
"Then why'd you come?" Neil was about done with this whackjob.
"To make sure you got the message."
"Yeah, I got it. Thanks."
This isn't a game, all right? People are dying. All the time."
"I know."
"And we can't stop it, okay? There's nothing we can do."
Neil frowned. Okay. This wasn't about him, then. "Travis? I know."
"No you don't." Travis walked away.
Neil reached into his pocket and grabbed his sling and a leftover grape.
Travis yelped and turned around, the back of his head stinging from a squashed grape.
"No, really, Travis. I know."
Travis huffed. It might've been a snort or a chuckle. And he walked away.
Neil figured that was a small victory. He headed to the climbing wall.
After he'd fallen of for the sixth time, June came up to him and told him Chiron wanted to see him in the Big House's office.
It was quiet when he came in. It was always quiet here, as far as he could tell. That'd be worth remembering. He liked quiet.
Neil entered the office and went straight for the piano. Chiron wasn't there yet, and if it killed him, he would finish Bartok.
He played it all the way through this time. Back home, into the music. Home. Yes.
He finished the fourth movement, letting the notes ring for a moment before his fingers floated off the keys.
Two people clapped; Mrs. T was standing just inside the door with Chiron, who was currently in his wheelchair.
"Oh, hey," Neil said, standing.
Chiron smiled. "I must say, it'll be nice to have someone playing this old thing." His smile looked strained, though. He was as tired as anyone in this camp.
"I hope I play it well," Neil said.
"I'm sure you will, Neil. Right then, uh, Mrs. Thomas wanted to speak with you, if that's all right."
"Sure, yeah."
Chiron nodded to Mrs. T and wheeled out. Neil offered the piano chair, and she took it. Neil found an empty spot on the wall to lean against.
"Chiron told me you were angry with me," she said.
"I was," Neil said, a little too quickly. Shoot. "I'm not anymore," he added. "I get it now, I think. Why you never told us. I'm not really okay with it, but I think I understand."
"For the record, Neil, I am not really okay with it either. I wish there was a better option."
Neil shrugged.
"I'm going to have to leave you here, you know. You wouldn't be safe back there now."
"I kinda figured."
"Are you okay?"
"I think so. Will you say goodbye to everyone for me?"
"Of course. Although, you know, you'll probably be seeing them again here." She smiled a little. "You'll like it here, I hope. May the gods be with you."
Neil tried to smile. "Same for you, I guess."
Mrs. Thomas stood. She patted the piano. "Glad you have this."
"Me too."
"I must admit, that Bartok piece of yours…I know it's supposed to be complicated and very musical and such, but it never sounds complete. What's the word?"
"It doesn't resolve? Because technically—"
"Not quite. It's just…it could be finished, and it's not."
Neil considered this. "I think that's why I like it. All the discordant stuff fits together in the end like—like life." Neil exhaled, surprising himself. What a thought! There was a spark in Neil's head, a connection, and it was connecting him to something big.
Mrs. Thomas grinned. "Son of the god of philosophy. I'm not surprised. Goodbye, Neil. For now."
"Bye, Mrs. T."
She smiled at him, and exploded into a gust of wind.
Neil flipped the hair out of his face. He forgot she could do that. Was there ever going to be an end to weird things in his life?
Probably he was just getting started.
He strolled out of Big House. Mitchell was waiting for him on the porch.
"Hey, man, do you play basketball? I may have accidentally challenged Clarisse to a game of three-on-three."
"I've honestly never tried."
"That's okay, man, you'll be great."
"I'm not really an athlete…"
"Naw, it's cool. I don't care if we win, I just like messing with Clarisse. It's good for her, you know? It'll get her mind off the Romans and stuff."
"I don't know, Mitchell. She kind of seems like the type of person who'll kill us."
"Okay, so you sling something at her, I'll make her faint, and we'll run. Do you think Robby would be on our team?"
Neil laughed. He'd wanted time to think. A lot of time to think. But first, apparently, he had to lose a game of basketball.
They headed over to the basketball courts as the sun climbed higher.