I firmly latched the door of my dressing room with a satisfying click, immediately cutting off the crowd of The Ellen DeGeneres Show mid-laugh and flopped into the chair in front of my vanity. I surveyed my reflection; I looked tired. Happy, but tired. Twenty-two isn't all that old to be running about touring the world, writing music, sponsoring this and launching that, but the dark circles under my eyes aged me several years. I need a break, I thought. A real break, not a break spent writing songs and tinkling at the piano and frantic emails with record labels. And not a break spent evading monsters.
I had arrived at Camp Half-Blood when I was thirteen, escorted by a satyr named Thelma. I was a scrawny country girl with ratty curls, a stolen celestial bronze sword (too big for me to have actually used, luckily Thelma had proven an adequate protector) and an unbeatable determination to find some place where I belonged. Lucky for me, I was claimed almost instantly and was pleased to find that I fit in quite nicely with Apollo's other children. That night at the campfire, the head of the Apollo cabin had showed me how to play a few chords on her guitar and the rest is history... I was off, scribbling lyrics in between sword lessons and strumming melodies during mealtimes. I was never much of a swordsman, but I had enough skill to fend off most monsters that might pop up. I had traded my life as a demigod for a life as a celebrity though... I had chosen the glitz and glam over the heroics and hellhounds.
Like I said, I was happy. But the late nights and perpetual jet lag took their toll; I was dabbing concealer onto the dark circles under my eyes when the God of the Sun shimmered into existence behind me. Daddy.
"There she is! My little southern belle, rich and famous!" My father grinned, flashing his pristine teeth as he threw a perfectly tanned arm around my shoulders. There should definitely be a rule against a person's father looking younger, healthier, and tanner than their child. It was just a blow to the self-esteem. No amount of goop products were going to achieve the immortal sheen of a Greek God.
"Hi Daddy-" I began, but I was cut off by my fathers upraised hand. He spoke,
"Taylor is so great, I make excellent children, I deserve a medal," Apollo finished with a flourish, beaming at me. I swear, the haikus were getting more and more crude. This is who I'd inherited my talent as a lyricist from? My mother must have some hidden songwriting talent in her, it was the only explanation. I made a note to ask her about it next time I was home.
"I am so proud of you, Tay!" Apollo chirped, helping himself to the fruit tray perched on the counter of my dressing room. "Another fantastic album- it'll go platinum for sure. It's the talk if Olympus. Even Hades is listening to it!" I seriously doubted the last part. The thought of Lord Hades humming along to any form of country music, especially mine, was more than laughable. But I smiled at my father anyway.
"That's great, Dad."
"I know, isn't it? It's nice to have a kid that's good for something besides all the stabby-stab, knifes and swords and blood… heroes! Too political, too full of themselves. Keep up the good work, kid," he said with a wink. He walked over and planted a kiss on my forehead, scooped up several more pieces of pineapple, and evaporated with a flash of light.
Alright, what was the point of that visit? Maybe Olympus was out of pineapple, or maybe Apollo just wanted a good excuse to remind me that he liked having a foot in the door to the mortal world. I let out a sigh. I really did appreciate the fact that my dad had taken the time to come congratulate me on my latest release, but he was just a painful reminder of the life I had left behind and the family I had let down. I hadn't been to camp since my first album release and hadn't even tried to help during the Titan War. While Chronos ravaged New York City, I had been consumed my guilt, curled up at home with my cats and my bodyguards outside. Not that the bodyguards (nor the cats) could have protected me from the wrath of the Underworld if Chronos had returned to power. I should have gone and helped, I should have lifted a sword or a bow and contribute what little I could—but I couldn't bring myself to face the bad memories of camp and my life before signing with my record label. With the flourish of my pen on my record deal, I had made the decision to separate myself entirely from the mythological and magical, and firmly cement myself into the mortal world of music. A predictable, controllable world; this many beats in a measure, this many measures in a song, this many songs on an album.
The only link I had to that world, aside for the occasional visits from my father, were two specific demigods...
Ellen had asked me today, just as so many others have in the past, what my inspiration for my songs were. I smiled and gave the usual false answer. "My own experiences."
My songs come from the heart... two hearts, actually, but neither of them mine. Coming from a family shredded by the complications that came with being a demigod, I hadn't ever witnessed true love before I went to camp.
Before I meet Percy Jackson and Annabeth Chase.