0.3
EIGHT MONTHS AGO
He can feel her from across the room.
Despite the pounding music and the slough of sweaty, swaying bodies separating them, he could still feel her.
Isaiah Wallace wrinkled his nose slightly at the heavy scent of overheated flesh, cheap perfume, spilt alcohol and the occasional waft of the earthy, sweet smoke of a cigarette. Heat is pouring thickly from their eager bodies and it fills the cold club with its humid excitement. Shouts of laughter and drunken declarations, the DJ's speech and the clinking of bottles bleed beneath the deafening music like the drones of insects and they all blur together as he focuses on what he is originally here for.
There she is. Isaiah's cold eyes are snared by the girl surrounded by fervent admirers clad in short dresses and high heels that look like delicate instruments of torture, clamouring around her as she coolly puts her mouth around a cigarette and sips her drink by tilting a large bottle of Grey Goose down her throat.
Lyra Burke is pretty in the way that all girls are. Dewy skin, bright eyes, fuck-me-daddy legs, Lolita hair, lips that know how to pout. She is a defining feature of how pretty girls like her should be sweet little angels. Pretty girls like her shouldn't hurt people. But then again, like Lyra, pretty faces can hide plenty of secrets because she's also evil in the way how girls are not. She's sharp silk, red lips, lace and leather, a type of boredom only found in the wicked and cruel.
He steps forward, swivelling through the gyrating throng of masses. He watches her as she shifts in her seat, bored and unamused, as she observes the dance floor from her VIP section, lounging on the plush purple booth like a lazy cat. The boys and girls on her tables- her so-called 'posse'- trying to talk to her, attempting to engage in useless conversations, half of which are a barely sober teenager but she ignores them like static, unimpressed and cold as she brushes them aside and lights up another cigarette. Dressed ironically in her school uniform, she makes her debut in a plaid skirt, her school stockings, black Oxfords and a white buttoned down shirt that has been undone at the bottom and tied up in a knot above her belly button, showing her slim torso.
"I don't understand her importance," Erika remarks beside him, shattering his focus. "Why are we dragging ourselves all the way to LA for this?"
"Because," Isaiah answers, marginally annoyed, "she could be the answer to everything."
Erika makes a disparaging sound at the back of her throat but Isaiah ignores her and begins to move through a sea of bodies. The throbbing music acts as a bath of stimulation, pushing his heart to beat faster, pumping in sync with his pulse, vibrating against his skull as his eyes bore holes into his target. He blatantly ignores Erika, leaving her, everything and everyone who doesn't fit into his agenda. Uncaring, because that's what he is. He stalks closer, sliding against other people- filthy mortals, Isaiah shudder, with their ordinary, mundane, unworthy blood.
Suddenly, the room still. She notices him, her gaze landing dense and heavy on him. He smiles; a gesture that can be misread as flirty, inviting her to play his games, wondering if she'll get burned or she'll be a worthy competitor. She smiles back. He steps forward, out of the crowd, in front of her, catching her attention. He points to her cigarette, which glows cherry red at the tip. His twitching fingers and dried lips now yearn for the hazy comfort of a cigarette. Anything to dull the secretion of agitated excitement currently racing through his brain.
"Can I have a cig?" He asks, yelling over the music when he approaches her table. She tilts a yes with a nod of her head.
"Get him one, Chloe," she orders as the girl beside her rummage through her back and whips out a packet of cigarette, producing one for him to take. The girl whose name he presumes is Chloe flicks her lighter and in a sharp, short burst of fire, smoke curls up into the dark air from the thin outline of his cigarette.
"Thank you," he replies, and assessing a number of bottles stacked upon each other in ice buckets and the mess of half-empty glasses scattered over the obsidian table, he carries on: "Wow, you're loaded."
"Of course," she smiles and Isaiah feels a shiver of coldness travel up his spine, "How else will I enjoy myself?"
Chloe giggles beside her and whispers into her ear. She rolls her eyes but there are traces of a smirk around the corners of her mouth. "My friend thinks you're cute," she says to him, unapologetically forward. Her voice is sweet and honey-flavoured, smooth like saccharine- at a glance. But he figures that her voice is more indicative of her personality than anything else, as the deadliest poisons are often the sweetest. And from the reports he read about her and his observations of her over the last few months, Lyra Burke has the innate capability to be crueller than anyone he knows. Maybe even crueller than himself. "And maybe I agree."
Isaiah squash the urge to smirk. Hook, line and sinker. "Well, that's good because I'm about to ask you for a dance."
She raises her eyebrows and takes a drag before passing it to Chloe to finish it. "You're lucky I'm bored."
She stands up from the booth on one foot, then the other. Her spine straightens, showing her full height. She nearly towers over him and she isn't wearing any heels like the rest of her friends. Her gaze skirts across the two-story complex of the club, examining the crowded dance floor painted in artificial fog and an array of laser lights. She holds her hand out expectantly and Isaiah graciously accepts it, like the gentleman he is (oh the irony). When their fingers touch, electricity jolts through his fingers. Her eyes flicker to his face as if wondering if he felt anything. Isaiah did but he didn't let his face show it.
Her fingers are cold when he grips it in his arms and lead her towards the floor. "I never catch your name," she says over the music, her lips quite close to his ears. At this distance, Isaiah takes his time to analyse her features- exotic almond eyes, long thick eyelashes and cocoa, tan skin from her Arabic origins. The hints of Hecate exist in her slightly upturned nose, narrow face, sharp cheekbones and angular jaw.
"Isaiah," he introduces himself politely. "What about you?"
He already knows her name but he pretends like he doesn't when she answers: "Lyra. Lyra Burke."
His hands slide onto her thin waist and he directs her backside towards his front so he can feel her body against his chest. She doesn't mind as his fingers rub over her stomach, brushing the cotton of her school uniform. She's skinny. Super skinny, almost anorexic. Figures. Girls like Lyra are so stuck on maintaining an image, they'll do anything to stay perfect. Even starvation. Isaiah can't have that. He needs her eating. To channel the powers he wants her to have to perform the spell he needs her to do, she'll need to be in perfect, healthy conditions. And that means eating. "I know."
She arches her eyebrows. They are perfectly plucked. Benefits of being a spoiled Beverly Hills princess. "How?"
"I know what you did to Cori Weston."
The smile on her face melts off instantly and confusion settles in but only for a fraction of a second before it's replaced by a snarl and cruel, incendiary lights in her eyes, "Cori Weston-"
"It's fine," he interrupts her, mouth pressed to her ear. She's rigid in his grip and Isaiah wonders if it's fear that has frozen her to her spot or interest. Most likely, interest, "If anything, I sort of admire the brilliance of it."
She keeps quiet, intrigued.
"I know," he carries on strong, "That you're special. You're like me. You have powers. You're a demigod. And what you did to Cori Weston, your adopted sister, your ex-boyfriend and so many others before have been a result of that."
"Have you been stalking me?" she murmurs as their bodies intertwine in the messy, sweaty heat of people. They rock their hips to the hard techno beat pumping out of the speakers. Despite the loud music ringing in his ears, they lower their voices, their faces and ears near each other to catch what the other is saying.
"Maybe," he shrugs. It's sort of true. The minute he catches a whiff of demigod activity anywhere, he send scouts to check them out, see what they're like. He remembered reading the report his scouts wrote on Lyra. He was so thoroughly impressed he decided to take the detour himself, wondered if the anorexic sociopath was exactly like they described and if he has fina
lly found the right person for the job he needed her for.
"And I know that Cori Weston was one of your best friends since you were five. I know that you found out she's been sleeping with your boyfriend. I know that you roofied her drink, dragged her to a hotel room and let her get gang-raped by five men who were your friends. You watched and filmed it, then post it all over her social media websites. And somehow, just magically, you managed to use the Mist to falsify the evidence and deceive the whole Los Angeles police force that the whole case was just a scam by your best friend to get attention, that there was a consent given and all Cori Weston was is an attention whore, crying rape so that everybody would pay attention to her. The case was shelved, the boys were charged not guilty and your name wasn't dragged into it once. Cori Weston was so traumatically scarred, she hanged herself two weeks after the five boys were found not guilty."
Unmoved and exasperated, Lyra sighs. "You made it sound like I'm a total bad guy. Please, whore was asking for it. Not my fault she decided to off herself because she couldn't take it."
It's possible she's crueller than me, Isaiah muse as he spins her out and twirls her in, "My point is that you're not a mortal," Isaiah disregards her statements, pressing onto the main point. "You're a demigod."
Even though the humidity is driving him crazy, her hands still feel cold to the touch, like a dead corpse. "And you're one too?" she breathes into her ear, her warm breath ghosting on his skin, making him hungry. He feels her fingers move onto his wrist, feeling his arms under his jacket. She's so delicate, tender, fragile. He wants to break her fingers or crack her lovely skull. See blood run down her pretty face, unspooling her brains. Somehow, he has no doubt she's thinking the same thing with the way she's predatorily stroking his wrist. They are like two tigers, who have cornered each other, wondering which is the bigger monster.
He nods. She seems unconvinced. "Prove it."
This time, he frees himself of her grip and grabs her wrist, pulling her towards the exit. "I'll show you."
PRESENT DAY
The ground shifts dirt softly between his toes as he steps into redwoods of California. He's far enough from the clearing, where the status of Bacchus cannot be seen any more from the top of the hill that overlooks New Rome.
Santiago Rafael Nieves-Linde breathes into the deep fresh air of the Californian woods that surrounds Camp Jupiter. The air is tinged with redwoods and damp dirt, fresh from the rain. The trees are leaking slightly, rain droplets falling onto his face when he slips underneath the thick branch of a tree. He looks overhead of the deep forest green canopy- a dry green space, where the leaves shade him from the sun blinking down at him, keeping him safe and hidden.
Sometimes, he comes here at hours of a time, escaping the rigid structure of camp life, to just mull in his thoughts. He likes the woods. He likes the soft muted tones of nature, the crickets chirping in the distance and the cool breath of the wind licking up his bare feet.
A deer comes dashing his way, emerging for the pillars of pine trees and slowing when the deer spots him. It stops as Santiago smiles at the gentle creature. The deer's ears perk up. Santiago stills himself. The deer is afraid. "It's okay," Santiago whispers, reading the body language of the animal. It moves backwards slightly, as if not entirely certain if Santiago is safe. Santiago steps forward, coming out of the space, and reach his hand out.
The deer sniffs his palm and then look up, almond-shaped, big round eyes staring straight at him. Santiago pets the deer, stroking its soft head. Being the son of Sylvanus, the God of woods, forests and fields, Santiago possess the ability to develop close relationships with all types of woodland animals.
The deer lead him deeper into the forests, where the skies are no longer visible as a layer of trees and branches covering him from the sun, their green feathers a hundred feet up in the air. Here the growth of the plants are thicker, wider, meaner; an indication that it hasn't been contaminated with a human touch. Trunks as thick as houses, branches the sizes of pillars, tree roots forming a criss-cross pattern of forested veins, very convenient to sit on as they look like the height of half his body mass.
He's not worried that the camp will go into a worried frenzy as most of the time people hardly notice the fact that he has gone missing. Some days, he disappears for hours of a time and people barely bat an eye when he returns.
The deer manage to pick it's way towards a central clearing of sorts, revealing a field of deep, dark purple berries, attached to vines growing wildly over the place. The deer nudge him in the elbow and he glances at where the deer seems to be leaning towards. It opens it's mouth and teeth around a clump of berries, then chomp it down. Purple juice trickles down from its mouth, running freely towards the entangled soil.
Santiago plucks a couple berries from the stem and throws them into his mouth. He bites, breaking the skin of the berries, and the berry squirts out, it's liquid faintly sweet and sour. Like blueberries but tangier. He collects a few and puts them in his pockets. As he straightens up, he hears his name being called out:
"Tiago!"
Santiago turns around. Daewon Kim, one of the members of his cohort, comes bumbling through the thick undergrowth in a tight-fitting shirt and skinny light-wash jeans, wielding a broadsword. The blades glint in the foggy mistiness of the forests.
"What's going on?" Santiago asks, eyebrows scrunching together. Daewon appears breathless, panting harshly. He must've run to catch up with him.
"Leila is looking for you. The election is starting up."
Santiago straightens up and sighs. So much for a day in the woods.
He follows Daewon down the path, weaving through the thick growth of the woods towards the camp.
Back at Camp Jupiter, the legion is in a disarray. Every Cohort lining up behind their centurion at the assigned barracks, ready to march down towards the Senate for the Republic to assemble. Leila Tan, a daughter of Ceres, is preparing for role call as she instructs everybody to fall into their position.
"Finally," Leila says when she sees Daewon dashing over with Santiago lagging behind. "Don't disappear on me again."
"Promised," Santiago nods obediently. Though he's not close with the Fourth Cohort's centurion, Santiago quite likes her- a rare exception, especially since he usually like animals more than he likes people but the centurion was probably one of the best leaders out there. Unlike the other centurions, Leila is level-headed, calm and collected. She never shouts, a strange rarity in centurions. But it makes sense as the daughters of Ceres, Santiago remembers, are hardly aggressive in nature. The cohort respects Leila as well since they've always shut up the instance she asked them to, unlike the other rowdy cohorts.
"Vote for me, okay?" She smiles and squeezes his shoulder before she ushers off to the front and starts the roll call.
As Santiago goes to the back of the line, he realises how the spirits of Camp Jupiter, while chaotic, takes a slight nervous undertone to the mood. Understandable. It's Election Day, which means it's time to see who will be chosen as the next Praetor. As Reyna and Frank are now retiring campers, opting for a more subdued, quieter lifestyle in New Rome as they'll be starting college in the next month. Now it's time for somebody else to run the Legion.
As everybody stream in towards the senate to gather, they allow Terminus to scan them in order to ensure an assassination-free assembly. As Santiago is about to edge towards the end of the line, a loud commotion explodes by the front forum and then a collection of gasps, shouts and yells echo through space. Santiago frowns, wondering what could possibly be happening, and tiptoes to see what's happening.
Nico Di Angelo has appeared on Terminus's head by accident due to his not very well aimed Shadow Travelling, which has caused the said statue to freak out and topple onto the floor into a splutter of expletives and swear words. It didn't faze the son of Hades as he ignores the statue and turns towards the camp, whose attention falls strictly on to the Ambassador of pluto.
Nico Di Angelo spots a grim expression. "I have bad news."