I do not own PJO.

CHAPTER 9

Death

You duck into the living room of the Argo ll.

It's dark except for the tapestries of Camp Half-Blood glowing with the light of the full moon. A figure is illuminated in the silver glow, stalking up the hill. Clarisse. You watch her as she patrols the boundaries, watching for potential threats.

The whites of her eyes glisten demonically as she approaches. Her gloved hand is tight around the sword hilt. She's limping heavily. She looks exhausted, the light casting canyons into her gaunt face.

She cautiously checks the surrounding area for threats, then sits heavily on an old moldy tree stump.

You're intrigued, because this is all very out of character for Clarisse.

She puts her head in her hands, a defeated sigh escaping her. After a few minutes, she raises her head and stares straight ahead without really seeing anything at all.

Her eyes are bloodshot. As you watch, they overflow. Even after going through all the trouble to get herself alone and completely undisturbed, she still scrubs at her eyes like they have done her some great personal wrong.

"I'm so sick of this." She whispers, her voice rough and gravelly. "I can't do this much longer."

She winces, her hands going to her injured leg, hastily wrapped in dirty gauze bandages.

"I hate you," she says. "I don't care that you're my dad. I hate you so much, for making me do this. For making us do this. You have no right to do this to us. We're not your disposable slaves."

Her voice has risen to a hateful growl, shaking with rage. The sky crackles with lightning. It starts to rain, suddenly, sheets of wetness soaking her.

She rockets to her feet, wobbling on her good leg and slightly off-balance. "DO YOU HEAR ME!?"

Her hands are clenched into fists at her sides, knuckles white. The look of rage on her face is one that you never ever want to see directed at you.

Thunder booms overhead.

"I hate you for doing this to us," she yells, all thought of keeping her voice down forgotten.

And then she crumbles to the muddy ground. A sob is ripped from her throat. Tears rivulet down her face, mixed with rainwater and dirt. Her hair and ripped clothes cling to her skin. Her fingers scrabble at her body, marking it with raised red lines.

A rustle in the bushes alerts you to another presence eavesdropping in the night. Reyna steps out of the shadows, eyes cold and proud. A long ugly red scar cuts her eyebrow in two.

Clarisse lifts her head slowly, demigod instincts cutting through her sorrow. Her tear-stained eyes meet Reyna's slowly. Reyna advances on the injured girl. Clarisse stumbles to her feet, hand flying to her sword. She grits her teeth and growls, "What are you doing here, Roman?"

Reyna lifts her chin. "Do you have doubts of the gods' greatness, Grecian?" Clarisse looks away. "I have the right to question their motives at times." Reyna steps closer, into striking range. "Questioning the motives of the gods is disloyalty. It is our requirement to do the bidding of our immortal parents and remain loyal to the death."

Clarisse scoffs, but she's bluffing. You can see her hand tremble on the sword hilt.

"You are daughter of the war god," Reyna says coldly, her hand clenching on her knife hilt. "Surely you must be enjoying yourself."

Clarisse snarls. You can see her rage bubbling up again, just below the surface. "Not when my friends are dying," she says. "Not when my home is being destroyed. Not when we should be helping the others and here we are fighting this petty war!"

They stare at each other, at a stalemate. Clarisse's chest is heaving.

A figure stalks up the hill. A teddy bear hangs from his belt. His thinning straw hair is perfectly manicured. He approaches the two girls.

"Reyna," he says in a clipped voice.

Reyna whips around, eyes shards of obsidian sharp enough to slice flesh. "Octavian," she says. "This isn't your shift. Go back to bed."

Octavian drawls, "I thought I heard a disturbance. Apparently I was right." He eyes Clarisse like a piece of meat.

She turns up her nose at him. "This is none of your business," she hisses. "If it has something to do with my fellow Romans, then indeed it is my business," he says silkily.

She glowers at him.

He turns his attention to Reyna. "Congratulations for catching the head of the snake…so to speak," he says. "The legion will be proud-not that it was that hard. Grecians are notoriously stupid. Especially children of the war god."

Reyna stiffens. "Watch your mouth Octavian," she says. "And learn some respect. I am the praetor."

He nods. "Of course. I was merely stating facts."

You can see the moment that Clarisse snaps. Her shoulders tense, and her eyes narrow. Her balance steadies, and a strange look comes across her face, a shadow in the already dark night. She yanks her sword out of his sheath and aims it at Octavian's face. Her hand does not shake.

A look of fear crosses Octavian's features and he takes a step back, reaches for his puny knife. He's no match for Clarisse, who disarms him within three seconds of the fight.

He backs up, hands thrust into the air.

Reyna watches impassively. He starts babbling in panic when Clarisse doesn't let up, keeps her blade pointing at Octavian's chest.

Clarisse is too far gone. The look she sports you have only seen one other time, on Ares, when he was trying to beat you to a pulp, and you know that this cannot end well.

A sick feeling roils in the pit of your stomach and you take a few steps forward, nearly tripping over the couch. Your hands press against the silky fabric of the tapestry.

Octavian is on the ground, his bloodied elbows supporting his upper body and a look of sheer terror on his face.

Clarisse stands above him, snarling in the blood-hungry way that only a child of Ares who is too far gone can manage. The blank rage that swirls in her eyes sends shivers up your spine.

Reyna is standing a few feet back. She looks torn, but she stays where she is, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. Octavian is calling desperately for her. Clarisse's sword dangles above Octavian's chest.

You watch it fall in slow motion, watch the muscles ripple in Clarisse's back, catch the sparkle of the bronze in the silver moonlight, see Octavian's armor ripped apart by the force of the blow.

Reyna rushes Clarisse, knife out, face a mask of intense concentration. Clarisse must sense this, because she wrenches her sword out and meets Reyna's blow. Droplets of thick dark liquid spray into the grass.

The weapons are locked, blades trembling with force. Clarisse meets Reyna's eyes, blue to black, both dark with anger.

"Call off your army," Clarisse says. "Leave us in peace."

Reyna says, "And you expect me to surrender and leave after you just murdered Octavian right in front of me?!"

"Don't pretend that the only reason you're here was because of that snake," snarls Clarisse. "Leave. Or else."

She lets her weapon drop, and gestures roughly at Octavian. Then she turns and stalks away.

Silence grips the hill with an iron fist.

Reyna brushes a strand of loose hair out of her eyes, then turns to the body and begins to carry the dead weight back toward the bushes.

You stand there, speechless at the scene that has just unfolded in front of you. The Greeks and the Romans really are at war. Octavian was murdered. Clarisse issued a death threat to Reyna and the legion if they didn't surrender. Guilt and horror rise and bubble in your stomach. So many things have gone wrong with this quest, and right when you thought you'd hit the limit of how bad things could possibly go, it's been topped.

Camp Half-Blood could possibly be destroyed by the time you and your fellow ship members arrive in America. Your throat closes off, choking you in your own shock and sorrow.

You turn and leave the still, silent room, heading blindly towards the stairs that lead up and out of the belly of the ship, towards the fresh air and hopefully some clearer thoughts.

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