Chapter Nineteen | OPHELIA BYRD


OPHELIA DROWNED HERSELF IN DARKNESS. Blocking out the crickets and cicadas, she focused on the way the air shifted and the shadows danced. Her bare crossed legs rested against the cold stone stage of the drama amphitheater. Alone, she tried to meditate.

So many liked to say that nothing good could happen after 2am. And to those not comfortable with the void, perhaps it was true. But as Ophelia closed her eyes and breathed in the Mist and the dark, she could not help but smile. The Witching Hour fueled her.

She didn't need to open her eyes to picture reality. She could see her surroundings in her mind. Ophelia sat alone in silence where so often Apollo's children performed under the sun. Hundreds of empty stone amphitheater seats stacked upwards. Ophelia didn't need lights.

Another breath of freezing air filled her lungs. Adrenaline flooded her veins. Camp had emptied that morning. Few remained. The heroes had fled back to the real world.

Upon her breast lay a necklace with a single wooden bead. The names of loyal Half-Bloods had been memorialized forever, to be carried forward by the children of the Olympians. Ophelia released a deep breath through her nose to the count of five. She'd come out here, alone in darkness to calm down, not feed her frustration.

They deserve to be remembered. They lost their lives to a worthy cause. But what of the other side?

"I really would prefer you to leave me alone right now." Ophelia hated how loud her voice sounded in the amphitheater even at a whisper. It shattered the silence of the void. "You don't need to tell me what I already know."

You just need to know you aren't alone, Ophelia.

"I know I'm not."

Eris didn't respond. Feeling the Mist around her, Ophelia reached out her mind. Touching the Mist felt like running her hand over frost-covered grass. The chill of a dusting of snow, almost painful but not quite. A soothing sort of cold.

Camp Half-Blood rarely had need of the Mist. Pockets of it could be found in the depths of the forest, places of ancient magics hidden even from the demigods. But so rarely did Ophelia feel the kind of power that enveloped her in the amphitheater.

She missed this. She missed feeling so alive. Power coursed through every vein, muscle, and joint in her body until she worried the electric buzzing would split her. Ophelia opened her eyes.

Two brilliant golden-red torches illuminated the darkness from atop the first section of slanted seats. She stopped breathing. Hecate, skin pale as a porcelain doll and hair the same blonde as Ophelia's own, stood before her. Even from thirty rows away, she could feel the majesty emanating from her mother.

Tears filled her eyes unbidden. It had been so long. So many months, alone, with only Eris to speak to. "Mom."

"Ophelia."

"Mom," Ophelia said again.

She stood up off the ground, desperate to stand level with her mother. But the goddess didn't move, towering above her with those blessed torches to either side. Ophelia forced herself to stop crying.

"I'm sorry," Ophelia said.

She got no response.

Hecate took a deep breath. The world began to change, the Mist shrouding the Camp Half-Blood amphitheater until Ophelia found herself in an ancient greek ruin. A stone altar dominated the space. Carved atop it were different symbols; a human skull, an intricate key, crossed reed torches, daggers, twisting serpents, a pentagram. But at the center, a massive circle containing a maze with a central six pronged star dominated the altar. Hecate's Circle.

The goddess stood only a few yards away, black eyes shifting to a subtle purple and no longer so empty as to scare Ophelia. A black Labrador lay beside a crumbling pillar. Hecuba. Beside her, Gale the ferret-like polecat. Ophelia couldn't help but a smile.

"Your quest is a dangerous one, Ophelia," Hecate said. She stepped up to the opposite side of the altar. "I am not Phoebus Apollo. I can't see your future, but I can see many."

Ophelia frowned. But she knew this. Her mother could see into the crossroads, the potential tracks, fates laid out but not yet chosen.

"I'm sorry—"

"Stop apologizing," Hecate said. She looked up at Ophelia, meeting her gaze. "You made a choice. It is done. Now you must live with it. Use it. Your brothers and sisters need you."

They needed her. Ophelia took a deep breath, relishing in the boundless Mist and shadows swirling around her in this conjured ruin. Her siblings needed her.

Tears threatened to spill again. "I'm sorry."

Hecate smiled. She reached out a hand across the altar. At first Ophelia thought she had on black nail polish. But as she took her mother's cold hand in her own, she realized it wasn't paint. Her fingers were black, like they leeched shadow out of the air and stained themselves.

"I see another crossroads before you, Ophelia. Choices. Four." Hecate's eyes shifted from violet back to black as ink. "Each one leads to death. Whose death is up to you alone."

Death. Ophelia felt her blood run cold, an emptiness so unlike the way freeing shadows refreshed her. The Oracle's tri-tone words filled her mind. To Herald's home but one returns.

"Yours. His. Hers." Hecate paused. "Or theirs."

Hecate's grip on her hand tightened. Ophelia felt the circulation to her hand drain. Pain filled her arm, her fingers, her wrist.

"Why?" Ophelia said. She felt tears filling her eyes, unable to escape her mother. "I can stop it."

Alex would not die. She wouldn't allow it. She couldn't even think of that. Without him, she had nothing. She had an empty black void, the shadows and the whispers of the dead for company.

"You're worried about the son of Hermes?" Hecate said. She released Ophelia, eyes returning to normal. "He is reckless. Impulsive. Cunning."

Ophelia paused. She saw Hecate's illusion flickering, subsiding. But a gnawing fear had been growing in her chest since their return to Camp Half-Blood.

"Can we trust him?" she said. "Hermes. He's trying to get to Alex."

Hecate folded her arms over her chest. With a small huff, she rolled her eyes. "He is insufferable. Always off doing something. He can't sit still, hates silence." She put her hands on her hip, eyes glowing brighter in the gloam. "You know, Hermes is the reason Apollo went through a Synthpop phase? It's a miracle we didn't rebel against the Olympians years ago. He played Gloria on repeat over Delian Radio for years. Years, Ophelia. Zeus only gave Dionysus the title of God of Drama because Apollo is already the god of too many things. He's the real drama queen."

She didn't know what to say to that one. But she couldn't help the tiny smile breaking through her stress. Watching her mother act so human… Ophelia reached up and ran her thumb over her pendant.

Her mother took a deep breath. "Treat Hermes as you would any of the Olympians." She shook her head. "I fought beside them many times. I hoped they would do better than the Titans. They've not lived up to my expectations. To their potential." Looking in Ophelia's eyes, she added, "Will you?"

"What do I need to do?"

"Beware the rivers and the bridges you will burn," Hecate said. "Four paths. Four roads to death. Just remember. Walk with the shadows. Use them. Don't let them use you."

Before she could respond, Hecate glanced up past her. The Mist faded. Ophelia found herself sitting cross legged once more in the center of the Camp Half-Blood performing arts amphitheater. Her mother stood a few feet away with her torches in either hand.

"I'll save them. I promise," Ophelia said.

Hecate didn't respond. She neither smiled nor spoke, pulling her torches in closer to her chest. In a puff of smoke, the flames went out, and with it, the goddess vanished. Ophelia sat alone.

Tears streamed down her face. Suddenly the solitude and silence of Camp Half-Blood at two in the morning didn't feel so comforting. Four paths to death. A crossroads approaching. Ophelia tried to wipe her cheeks dry. She squeezed her eyes shut to stop the tears.

You will not be alone at the crossroads, no matter what your mother says. I'll be there.

"Why should I trust you?"

Few have come through as much strife and discord as you, Ophelia, and survived. Why shouldn't the goddess the Strife stand with you now, in turn? We're family.

Ophelia felt a rush of air as the Mist swirled. She opened her eyes. Three feet away, just out of arm's reach where she sat on the stone ground, a golden apple glowed.

She leaned forward, trying to take it. She just wanted to look at it, to hold it. Did it buzz with the same energy that Ophelia always felt from being surrounded by the Mist? Her muscle twinged as she stretched. Just a few more inches—

Footsteps at the top of the amphitheater stopped Ophelia in her tracks. She looked up. Small, ghastly pale, surrounded by darkness stood Nico di Angelo. On his belt hung the Stygian sword he wielded so dangerously in front of the Empire State Building.

"Nico." She stood up off the ground, straightening her black shorts without looking away from the boy's face.

"Hecate was here?" he asked.

She bristled. It sounded almost accusatory, even if he didn't glare or point fingers. But then, of course he would know. Son of Hades, and all. He probably senses beings of the Underworld easily. And though her mother held power in all domains, earth, sea, sky, or underworld, she lived primarily with Persephone.

Ophelia nodded. "Stopped by for a chat." She looked at him closer, leaving the stage and starting up the stairs towards the top of the amphitheater. "Why are you awake?"

He paused. She wondered what he could've been up to not want to speak of it. But Nico just gestured to her. "I could feel death."

She recoiled. The way Nico could sense it, she wanted nothing to do with it. Not right now. She didn't need more reminders of the imminent fate of one or all of them. Alex could not die. Kitty could not die. And Ophelia, well Ophelia didn't fear death the way others might. But she didn't want to experience it yet.

Nico seemed to sense her fear. He took a half step back, down casting his eyes. But then he looked up again. "I'm leaving."

"Now?" she said. Ophelia frowned. "But you just finished building Cabin 13."

"I belong in the Underworld. There's nothing here for me." He shuffled in place, a bitterness that reminded her almost of Alex, though not quite the same, settling in his features. "Not right now, at least. The Dead are easier."

She didn't know about that. Her only experience with the dead was their painful whispers in her mind during battle or silent skeletons as allies. But she didn't press it. "Good luck."

"You too. You're going to need it."

Nico nodded to her once more before turning and backing away. She lost sight of him at the treeline. Alone, again. But not quite so dark. Ophelia glanced up at the sky and found it grey and blue, not inky black. Sunrise.

She looked back towards the ampitheater stage. No more apple. She signed.

Twenty four hours until they departed. The satyr scouts were set to return this morning. Chiron and Alex would plan their next course of action. This time tomorrow, they'd set off into the real world.

Ophelia frowned. Already, she could feel the comfortable chill leaving her body. With each moment that passed, more sunlight filled the camp. As she walked back to Cabin 11, she saw the sun's rays paint all of the white, Greek architecture gold. The lights had already been turned on in Cabin 7, muffled music audible from the path as she passed them.

They had twenty four hours until Alex led them to the crossroads of death where Ophelia would stand alone.

Not alone.

Ophelia paused outside the Hermes cabin. "Not alone," she echoed.