Chapter ten: Peter

On the central green, a group of campers was playing basketball. They were incredible shots. Nothing bounced off the rim. Three-pointers went in automatically.

"Apollo's cabin," Arthur explained. "Bunch of showoffs with missile weapons—arrows, basketballs."

They walked past a central fire pit, where two guys were hacking at each other with swords.

"Real blades?" Peter noted. "Isn't that dangerous?"

"That's sort of the point," Arthur said. "Uh, sorry. Bad pun. That's my cabin over there. Number Six." He nodded to a gray building with a carved owl over the door. Through the open doorway, Peter could see bookshelves, weapon displays, and one of those computerized SMART Boards they have in classrooms. Two girls were drawing a map that looked like a battle diagram.

"Speaking of blades," Arthur said, "come here."

He led Peter around the side of the cabin, to a big metal shed that looked like it was meant for gardening tools. Arthur unlocked it, and inside were not gardening tools, unless you wanted to make war on your tomato plants. The shed was lined with all sorts of weapons—from swords to spears to clubs like Coach Hedge's.

"Every demigod needs a weapon," Arthur said. "Hephaestus makes the best, but we have a pretty good selection, too. Athena's all about strategy—matching the right weapon to the right person. Let's see..."

Peter didn't feel much like shopping for deadly objects, but he knew Arthur was trying to do something nice for him.

Arthur handed him a massive sword, which Peter could hardly lift.

"No," they both said at once.

Arthur rummaged a little farther in the shed and brought out something else.

"A shotgun?" Peter asked.

"Mossberg 500." Arthur checked the pump action like it was no big deal. "Don't worry. It doesn't hurt humans. It's modified to shoot Celestial bronze, so it only kills monsters."

"Cool, but I don't think that's my style," Peter said.

"Mmm, yeah," Arthur agreed. "Too flashy."

He put the shotgun back and started poking through a rack of crossbows when something in the corner of the shed caught Peter's eye.

"What is that?" he asked. "A knife?"

Arthur dug it out and blew the dust off the scabbard. It looked like it hadn't seen the light of day in centuries.

"I don't know, Peter." Arthur sounded uneasy. "I don't think you want this one. Swords are usually better."

"You use a knife." Peter pointed to the one strapped to Arthur's belt.

"Yeah, but…" Arthur shrugged. "Well, take a look if you want."

The sheath was worn black leather, bound in bronze. Nothing fancy, nothing flashy. The polished wood handle fit perfectly in Peter hand. When he unsheathed it, he found a triangular blade eighteen inches long—bronze gleaming like it had been polished yesterday. The edges were deadly sharp. His reflection in the blade caught him by surprise. He looked older, more serious, not as scared as he felt.

"It suits you," Arthur admitted. "That kind of blade is called a parazonium. It was mostly ceremonial, carried by high-ranking officers in the Greek armies. It showed you were a person of power and wealth, but in a fight, it could protect you just fine."

"I like it," Peter said. "Why didn't you think it was right?"

Arthur exhaled. "That blade has a long story. Most people would be afraid to claim it. Its first owner…well, things didn't turn out too well for her. Her name was Helen."

Peter let that sink in. "Wait, you mean the Helen? Helenof Troy?"

Arthur nodded.

Suddenly Peter felt like he should be handling the dagger with surgical gloves. "And it's just sitting in your toolshed?"

"We're surrounded by Ancient Greek stuff," Arthur said. "This isn't a museum. Weapons like that—they're meant to be used. They're our heritage as demigods. That was a wedding present from Menelaus, Helen's first husband. She named the dagger Katoptris."

"Meaning?"

"Mirror," Arthur said. "Looking glass. Probably because that's the only thing Helen used it for. I don't think it's ever seen battle."

Feeling absolutely no shame at having picked a girl's dagger, Peter looked at the blade again. For a moment, his own image stared up at him, but then the reflection changed. He saw flames, and a grotesque face like something carved from bedrock. He heard the same laughter as in his dream. He saw his dad in chains, tied to a post in front of a roaring bonfire.

He dropped the blade.

"Peter?" Arthur shouted to the Apollo kids on the court, "Medic! I need some help over here!"

"No, it's—it's okay," Peter managed.

"You sure?"

"Yeah. I just…" He had to control herself. With trembling fingers, he picked up the dagger. "I just got overwhelmed. So much happening today. But…I want to keep the dagger, if that's okay."

Arthur hesitated. Then he waved off the Apollo kids. "Okay, if you're sure. You turned really pale, there. I thought you were having a seizure or something."

"I'm fine," Peter promised, though his heart was still racing. "Is there…um, a phone at camp? Can I call my dad?"

Arthur's gray eyes were almost as unnerving as the dagger blade. He seemed to be calculating a million possibilities, trying to read Peter's thoughts.

"We aren't allowed phones," he said. "Most demigods, if they use a cell phone, it's like sending up a signal, letting monsters know where you are. But…I've got one." He slipped it out of his pocket. "Kind of against the rules, but if it can be our secret…"

Peter took it gratefully, trying not to let his hands shake. He stepped away from Arthur and turned to face the commons area.

He called his dad's private line, even though he knew what would happen. Voice mail. He'd been trying for three days, ever since the dream. Wilderness School only allowed phone privileges once a day, but he'd called every evening, and gotten nowhere.

Reluctantly he dialed the other number. His dad's personal assistant answered immediately. "Mr. McLean's office."

"Tiffany," Peter said, gritting his teeth. "Where's my dad?"

Tiffany was silent for a moment, probably wondering if she could get away with hanging up. "Peter, I thought you weren't supposed to call from school."

"Maybe I'm not at school," Peter said. "Maybe I ran

away to live among the woodland creatures."

"Mmm." Tiffany didn't sound concerned. "Well, I'll tell him you called."

"Where is he?"

"Out."

"You don't know, do you?" Peter lowered his voice, hoping Arthur was too nice to eavesdrop. "When are you going to call the police, Tiffany? He could be in trouble."

"Peter, we are not going to turn this into a media circus. I'm sure he's fine. He does take off occasionally. He always comes back."

"So it's true. You don't know—"

"I have to go, Peter," Tiffany snapped. "Enjoy school."

The line went dead. Peter cursed. He walked back to Arthur and handed him the phone.

"No luck?" Arthur asked.

Peter didn't answer. He didn't trust himself not to start crying again.

Arthur glanced at the phone display and hesitated. "Your last name is McLean? Sorry, it's not my business. But that sounds really familiar."

"Common name."

"Yeah, I guess. What does your dad do?"

"He's got a degree in the arts," Peter said automatically. "He's a Cherokee artist."

His standard response. Not a lie, just not the whole truth. Most people, when they heard that, figured his dad sold Indian souvenirs at a roadside stand on a reservation. Sitting Bull bobble-heads, wampum necklaces, Big Chief tablets—that kind of thing.

"Oh." Arthur didn't look convinced, but he put the phone away. "You feeling okay? Want to keep going?"

Peter fastened his new dagger to his belt and promised himself that later, when he was alone, he'd

figure out how it worked. "Sure," he said. "I want to see everything."