Percy Jackson belongs to Rick Riordan, not me. I only have the rights to Atlanta Jackson.

I changed the cannon of Sally Jackson being taken and will have a different events for the story.

Chapter Five: We Play Pinochle with a Horse

I had weird dreams full of barnyard animals. Most of them wanted to kill me. The rest wanted food.

I must have woken up several times, but what I heard and saw made no sense, so I just passed out again. I remember lying in a soft bed, being spoon-fed something that tasted like buttered popcorn, only it was pudding. The girl with curly blond hair hovered over me, smirking as she scraped drips off my chin with the spoon.

When she saw my eyes open, she asked, "What will happen at the summer solstice?"

I heard Atlanta's voice beside me, "What?"

She looked towards Atlanta, then around, as if afraid of someone would overhear. "What's going on? What was stolen? We've only got a few weeks!"

"I'm sorry," I mumbled, "I don't…"

Somebody knocked on the door, and the girl quickly filled my mouth with pudding.

The next time I woke up, the girl was gone.

A husky blond dude, like a surfer, stood in the corner of the bedroom keeping watch over me. He had blue eyes-at least a dozen of them- on his cheeks, his forehead, the backs of his hands.

When I finally came around for good, there was nothing weird about my surroundings, except that they were nicer than I was used to. I was sitting in a deck chair on a huge porch, gazing across a meadow at green hills in the distance. The breeze smelled like strawberries. There was a blanket over my legs, a pillow behind my neck. All that was great, but my mouth felt like a scorpion had been using it for a nest. My tongue was dry and nasty and every one of my teeth hurt.

On the right of me was Atlanta, sitting in another deck chair, reading a book. She wore some jeans and an orange T-shirt, and no shoes. Her prosthetic arm gone.

On the table between us, was a tall drink. It looked like iced apple juice with green straw and paper parasols stuck through a maraschino cherry.

My hand was so weak I almost dropped the glass once I got my fingers around it.

"Careful," a familiar voice said.

Grover was leaning against the porch railing, looking like he hadn't slept in a week. Under one arm, he cradled two shoe boxes. He was wearing blue jeans, Converse hi-tops and a bright orange T-shirt that said CAMP HALF-BLOOD. Just plain old Grover. Not the goat boy. Atlanta had put her book down, smiling at me.

So maybe I'd had a nightmare. We're still on vacation, and we'd stopped here at this big house for some reason.

"You saved my life. Both of you," Grover said. "I…well, the least I could do…I went back to the hill. I thought you and Atlanta might want these."

Reverently, he placed the shoe box in mine and Atlanta's laps.

Inside was a black-and-white bull's horn, the base jagged from being broken off, the tip splattered with dried blood. Atlanta pulled a horn from her box as well. It hadn't been a nightmare.

"The Minotaur," I said.

"Um, Percy, it isn't a good idea-" Grover said.

"That's what they call him in the Greek myths, isn't it?" Atlanta demanded. "The Minotaur. Half man, half bull."

Grover shifted uncomfortably. "You've been out for two days. How much do you remember?"

"Our mom. Is she…"

Grover smiled.

I stared across the meadow. There were groves of trees, a winding stream, acres of strawberries spread out under the blue sky. The valley was surrounded by rolling hills, and the tallest one, directly in front of us, was the one with the huge pine tree on top. All of it looked beautiful in the sunlight.

Our mother was safe and it was Atlanta's doing. I can't imagine what would have happened if she wasn't there last night.

"She's safe no thanks to me," Grover sniffled. "I'm a failure. I'm-I'm the worst satyr in the world."

He moaned, stomping his foot so hard it came off. I mean, the Converse hi-top came off. The inside was filled with Styrofoam, except for a hoof-shaped hole.

"Oh, Styx!" he mumbled.

Thunder rolled across the clear sky.

As he struggled to get his hoof back in the fake foot, O thought, Well, that settles it.

Grover was a satyr. I was ready to bet that if I shave his curly brown hair, I'd find tiny horns on his head. But I was too tired to care that satyrs existed, or even minotaurs. All that mattered was our little family was safe.

Atlanta and I still had our mother. We were safe. Would we have to go back to living with… Smelly Gabe? No. That would never happened. I would make our om move us to another state. I would

Grover was still sniffling. The poor kid-poor goat, satyr, whatever-looked as if he was expecting to be hit.

I said, "It wasn't your fault."

"Yes, it was. I was supposed to protect you and Atlanta."

"Did our mom ask you to protect us?" Atlanta asked.

"No. But that's my job. I'm a keeper. At least…I was."

"But why…" I suddenly felt dizzy, my vision swimming.

"Don't stain yourself," Grover said. "Here."

He helped me hold my glass and out the straw to my lips.

I recoiled at the taste, because I was expecting apple juice. It wasn't that at all. It was chocolate-chip cookies. Liquid cookies. And not just any cookies-our mom's homemade chocolate-chip cookies, buttery and hot, with the chips still melting. Drinking it, my whole body felt warm and good, full of energy. My tiredness didn't go away, but I felt as if our mom had just brushed her hand against mine and Atlanta's cheek, given us a cookie the way she used to when we were small, and told me everything was going to be okay.

Before I knew it, I'd drain the glass. I stared into it, sure I'd just had a warm drink, but the ice cubes hadn't even melted.

"Was it good?" Atlanta asked.

I nodded.

"What did it taste like?" He sounded to wistful, I felt guilty.

"Sorry," I said. "I should've let you taste."

His eyes got wide. "No! That's not what I meant. I just…wondered."

"Chocolate-chip cookies," I said. "Our mom's. Homemade."

He sighed. "And how do you feel?"

"Like I could throw Nancy Bobofit a hundred yards."

"That's good. I don't think you could risk drinking any more of that stuff."

"What do you mean?" Atlanta asked.

He took the empty glass from me gingerly, as if it were dynamite, and set it back on the table. "Come on. Chiron, Mr. D, and your mom are waiting."

The porch wrapped all the way around the farmhouse.

My legs felt wobbly, trying to walk that far. Grover offered to carry the Minotaur horn, but I held on to it. Atlanta and I fought hard for this souvenir the hard way. I wasn't going to let it go.

As we came around the opposite end of the house, I caught my breath.

We must've been on the north shore of Long Island, because on this side of the house, the valley marched all the way up to the water, which glittered about a mile in the distance. Between here and there, I simply couldn't process everything I was seeing. The landscape was dotted with building that looked like ancient Greek architecture-an open-air pavilion, an amphitheater, a circular arena-except that they all looked brand new, their white marble columns sparkling in the sun. In a nearby sandpit, a dozen high school-age kids and satyrs played volleyball. Canoes glided across a small lake. Kids in bright orange T-shirts like Grover's and Atlanta's were chasing each other around a cluster of cabins nestled in the woods. Some shot targets at an archery range. Others rode horses down a wooded trail, and, unless I was hallucinating, some of their horses had wings.

Down at the end of the porch, two men sat across from each other at a card table. Our mom was sitting in a chair next to them, and she smiled as she spotted us, waving at us. The blond-haired girl who'd spoon-fed me popcorn-flavored pudding was leaning on the porch rail next to them.

The man facing me was small, but porky. He had a red nose, big watery eyes, and curly hair so black it was almost purple. He looked like those paintings of baby angels-what do you call them, hubbubs? No, cherubs. That's it. He looked like a cherub who'd turned middle-aged in a trailer park. He wore a tiger-pattern Hawaiian shirt, and he would've fit right in at one of Gabe's poker parties, except I got the feeling this guy could've out-gambled even our stepfather.

"That's Mr. D," Grover murmured to me and Atlanta. "He's the camp director. Be polite. The girl, that's Annbeth Chase. She'd just a camper, but she's been here longer than just about anybody. And you already know your mom and Chiron…"

He pointed at the guy whose back was to me.

First, I realized he was sitting in the wheelchair. Then I recognized the tweed jacket, the thinning brown hair, and the scraggly beard.

"Mr. Brunner!" Atlanta and I cried.

The Latin teacher turned and smiled at us. His eyes had that mischievous glint they sometimes got in class when he pulled a pop quiz and made all the multiple choice answers B.

"Ah, good Percy, Atlanta," he said. "Now we have six for pinochle."

He offered Atlanta and me a seat to the right of Mr. D, who looked at me with bloodshot eyes and heaved a great sigh. "Oh, I suppose I must say it. Welcome to Camp Half-blood. There. Now, don't expect me to be glade to see you, your sister and mother."

"Uh, thanks." Atlanta and I scooted a little farther away from him because, if there was one thing we had learned from living with Gabe, it was how to tell when an adult has been hitting the happy juice. If Mr. D was a stranger to alcohol, I was a satyr.

"Annabeth?" Mr. Brunner called to the blond girl.

She came forward and Mr. Brunner introduced us. "This young lady nursed you back to health, Percy. Annabeth, my dear, why don't you go check in Atlanta's and Percy's bunk? We'll be putting him in cabin eleven for now."

Annabeth said, "Sure, Chiron."

She was probably our age, maybe a couple of inches taller, and a whole lot more athletic looking. With her deep tan and her curly blond hair, she was almost exactly what I thought a stereotypical California girl would look like, except her eyes ruined the image. They were startling gray, like storm clouds; pretty, but intimidating, too, as if she were analyzing the best way to take Atlanta and me down in a fight.

She glanced at the minotaur horns in our hands, then back at us. I imagined she was going to say You two killed a minotaur! Or Hi I'm Annabeth and it's nice to meet you and your sister officially or something like that.

Instead she said, "You both drool when you sleep."

Then she sprinted off down the lawn, her blond hair flying behind her. Mom let out a small laugh and I felt my cheeks heat up.

"So," Atlanta said, her voice clearly awkward. "You, uh, work here, Mr. Brunner."

"Not Mr. Brunner," the ex-Mr. Brunner said. "I'm afraid that was a pseudonym. You may call me Chiron."

Okay Totally confused, I looked at the director. "And Mr. D…does that stand for something?"

Mr. D stopped shuffling the cards. He looked at me like I'd just belched loudly. "Young man, names are powerful things. You don't just go around using them for no reason."
"Oh. Right. Sorry."

"I must say, Percy, Atlanta," Chiron-Brunner broke in, "I'm glad to see you both alive. It's been a long time since I've made a house call to a potential camper, or two in your cases. I'd hate to think something might have happen to you two."
"House call?" Atlanta asked.

"My year at Yancy Academy, to instruct you two. We have satyrs at most schools, of course, keeping a lookout. But Grover alerted me as soon as he met you both. He sensed you, Percy were something special and Atlanta he sense…something different. So I decided to come upstate. I convinced the other Latin teacher to…ah, take a leave of absence."

I tried to remember the beginning of the school year. It seemed like so long ago, but I did have a fuzzy memory of there being another Latin teacher my first week at Yancy.

"I remember him…Mr. Roes…?"

Chiron nodded.

"You came to Yancy just to teach Atlanta and me?" I asked.

Chiron nodded. "Honestly, I wasn't sure about either of you at first. We contacted your mother, let her know we were keeping an eyes on you in case you were both ready for Camp Half-Blood. But you two both still had so much to learn. Nevertheless, you made it here alive, and that's always the first test."

"Grover," Mr. D said impatiently, "are you playing or not?"

"Yes, sir!" Grover trembled as he took the sixth chair, through I didn't know why he should be so afraid of a pudgy little man in a tiger-print Hawaiian shirt.

"You do know how to play pinochle?" Mr. D eyes Atlanta and me suspiciously.

"I'm afraid not," Atlanta and I said.

"I'm afraid not, sir," Mom said.

"Sir," Atlanta and I repeated. Normally I hated when our mom reminded Atlanta and I to be polite towards an adult, but I was really happy she was able to.

"Well," Mr. D told us, "it is, along with gladiator fighting and Pac-man, one of the greatest games ever invented by humans.. I would expect all civilized young men and women to know the rules."

"I'm sure they can learn," Chiron said.

"Please," I said. "what is this place? What are we doing here? Mr. Bun-Chiron-why would you go to Yancy Academy just to teach me and Atlanta?"

Mr. D snorted. "I asked the same question."

The camp director dealt the cards. Grover flinched every time one landed in his pile. Mom would reach over and comb his hair in comfort. He smiled in thanks. I would not be surprised, not unhappy if she adopted Grover into the family too. I could See Chiron smile and I swear I saw Mr. D's lips twitch.

Chiron smiled at Atlanta and me sympathetically, the way he used to in Latin class, as if to let us know that no matter what mine or Atlanta's average was, we were his star students. He expected us to have the right answers.

"Ms. Jackson," he said, "Did you not tell them anything?"

His tone was kind, but on full lecture mode. I've gotten that tone many times.

"I…." Mom cut herself off her cheeks glowing red. "I told them was afraid to send them here, even though Percy's father wanted me to. I know once Atlanta and Percy were here, they probably couldn't leave. I wanted to keep them close to me."

"Typical," Mr. D said. "That's how they usually get killed. Young man, are you bidding or not?"

"What?" I asked.

He explained, impatiently, how you bid in pinochle, and so I did.

"I'm afraid there's too much to tell," Chiron said. "I'm afraid our usual orientation film won't be sufficient."

"Orientation film?" Atlanta asked.
"No," Chiron decided. "Well, Atlanta, Percy. You know your friend Grover is a satyr. You know"-he pointed to the horns in the shoe boxes-that you have killed the Minotaur. No small feat, either children. What you may not know is that great powers are at work in your life. Gods-the forces you call Greek gods-are very much alive."

I stared at the others around the time. Atlanta looked just as confused as me.

I waited for somebody to yell, Not! But all I got was Mr. D yelling, "Oh, a royal marriage. Trick! Trick!" he cackled as he tallied up his points.

"Mr. D," Grover asked timidly, "if you're not going to eat it, could I have your Diet Coke can?"

"Eh? Oh, all right."

Grover bit a huge shared out of the empty aluminum can and chewed it mournfully.

"Wait," I told Chiron. "You're telling us there's such a thing as God."

"Well, now," Chiron said. "God-capital G, God. That's a different matter altogether. We shan't deal with the metaphysical."

"Metaphysical? But you were just talking about-" Atlanta said.

"Ah, gods, plural, as in great beings that control the forces of nature and human endeavors: the immortal gods of Olympus. That's a smaller matter."

"Smaller?" I asked.

"Yes, quite. The gods we discussed in Latin class."

"Hestia," Atlanta said. "Hades. Apollo. You mean them?"

And there it was again-distant thunder on a cloud less day.

"Young lady," said Mr. D, "I would really be less casual about throwing those names around, if I were you."

"But they're stories," I said. "They're-myths, to explain lightning and the seasons and stuff. They're what people believed before there was science."

"Science!" Mr. D scoffed. "And tell me, Perseus Jackson"- I flinched when he said my real name, which I never told anybody- "What will people think of your 'science' two thousand years from now?" Mr. D continued. "Hmm? They will call it primitive mumbo jumbo. That's what. Oh, I love mortals-they have absolutely no sense of perspective. They think they've come so-o-o far. And have they, Chiron? Look at this boy and girl and tell me."

I wasn't liking Mr. D much, but there was something about the way he called me mortal, as if…he wasn't. It was enough to put a lump in my throat, to suggest why Grover was dutifully minding his cards, chewing his soda can, and keeping his mouth shut. Mom looked like she wanted to comfort us, but she held back.

"Percy, Atlanta," Chiron said, "you may choose to believe or not, but the fact is that immortal means immortal. Can you imagine that for a moment, never dying? Never fading? Existing, just as you are, for all time."

I was about to answer, off the top of my head, that it sounded like a pretty good deal, but the tone of Chiron's voice made me hesitate.

"You mean, whether people believed in you or not," Atlanta said.

"Exactly," Chiron agreed. "If you were a god, how would you like being called a myth, an old story to explain lightning? What if I told you, Perseus, and Atlantis Jackson'-It was Atlanta's turn to flinch when her full name was said, which was also never mentioned "that someday people would call you a myth, just created to explain some made up reason?"

"I wouldn't like it," I said.

"But Percy and I don't believe in gods," Atlanta said.

"Oh you better," Mr. D murmured. "Before one of them incinerates you."

Our mother gasped covering her mouth, tears forming in her eyes. Grover hugged her as Chiron placed a hand on her shoulder.

Grover said, "P-please sir. Don't say things like that in front of Ms. Jackson. They're in shock."

"A lucky thing, too," Mr. D grumbled, playing a card. "Bad enough I'm confined to this miserable job, working with boys and girls who don't even believe!"

He waved his hand and a goblet appeared on the table, as if the sunlight had bent, momentarily, and woven the air into glass. The goblet filled itself with red wine.

My jaw dropped, but Chiron hardly looked up.

"Mr. D," he warned, "your restrictions."

Mr. D looked at the wine and feigned surprise.

"Dear me." He looked at the sky and yelled, "Old habits! Sorry!"

More thunder.

Mr. D waved his hand again, and the wineglass changed into a fresh can of Diet Coke. He sighed unhappily, popped the top of the soda, and went back to his card game.
Chiron winked at me. "Mr. D offended his father a while back, took a fancy to a wood nymph who had been declared off-limits."

"A wood nymph," Atlanta repeated.

My eyes were still on the Diet Coke can like it was from outer space.

"Yes," Mr. D confessed. "Father loves to punish me. The first time, Prohibition. Ghastly! Absolutely horrid ten years! The second time-well, she was really pretty, and I couldn't stay away-the second time, he sent me here. Half-Blood Hill. Summer camp for brats like you two. 'Be a better influence,' he told me. 'Work with youths rather than tearing them down'. Ha! Absolutely unfair."

Mr. D sounded about six years old, like a pouting little kid.
"And…" I stammered, "your father is…"

"Think Percy," Atlanta said. "We've read about him before. He's father is Zeus."

I ran though the D names from Greek mythology. Wine. The skin of a tiger. The satyrs that seemed to work here. The way Grover cringed, as if Mr. D were his master.

"He's Dionysus," I said. "The god wine."

Mr. D rolled his eyes. "What do they say, these days, Grover? Do the children say, 'Well, duh!'?"

"Y-yes, Mr. D."

"Then, well, duh! Percy Jackson. Did you think I was Aphrodite, perhaps?"

"You're a god."

"Yes, child."

"A god. You."

"Percy," Our mom scowled.

He turned to look at me straight on, and I saw a kind of purple fire in his eyes, a hint that this whiny, plump little man was only showing me the tiniest bit of his true nature. I saw visions of grape vines choking unbelievers to death, drunken warriors insane with battle lust, sailors screaming as their hands turned to flippers, their faces elongating into dolphin snouts. I knew that if I pushed him, Mr. D would show me worse things. He would plant a disease in my brain that would leave me wearing a straitjacket in a rubber room for the rest of my life.

"Would you like to test me, child?" he said quietly.

"No. No, sir."

"Chicken," Atlanta snickered.

I heard Grover snort and Mom and Chiron chuckled. I locked Atlanta in a headlock, ruffling her hair as we laughed. The fire died a little. He turned back to his game. "I believe I win."

"Not quite, Mr. D," Chiron said. He set down a straight, tallied the points, and said, "The game goes to me."

I thought Mr. D was going to vaporize Chiron right out of his wheelchair, but he just sighed though his nose, as if he were used to being beaten by the Latin teacher. He got up, and Grover rose, too.
"I'm tired," Mr. D said. "I believe I'll take a nap before the sing-along tonight. But first, Grover, we need to talk again, about your less-than-perfect performance on this assignment."

Grover's face beaded with sweat." "Y-yes, sir."

Mr. D turned to me. "Cabin eleven, Percy and Atlanta Jackson. And mind your manners."

He swept into the farmhouse, Grover following miserably.

"Will Grover be alright?" our mom asked.

Chiron nodded, though he looked a bit trouble. "Old Dionysus isn't really mad. He just hates his job. He'd been…ah, grounded, I guess you would say, and he can't stand waiting another century before he's allowed to go back to Olympus."

"Kind of cruel to keep him from his home and domain though. And it's just punishing all of camp, cause he's made," Atlanta muttered. Chiron must have heard her, because he chuckled smiling at her.

"Mount Olympus," I said. "You're telling us there really is a place?"

"Well now, there's Mount Olympus in Greece. And there's the home of the gods, the convergence point of their powers, which did indeed used to be on Mount Olympus. It's still called Mount Olympus, out of respect to the old ways, but the palace moves, Percy, just as the gods do."

"You mean the Greek gods are here? Like…in America?" Atlanta asked.

"Well, certainly. The gods move with the heart of the West."

"The what?" I asked.

"What you, Atlanta, and I call the Western civilization," our mom said. "it's not just an abstract concept."

"Correct. It's a living force. A collective consciousness that has burned bright for thousands of years. The gods are part of it. You might even say they are the source of it, or at least, they are tied so tightly to it that they couldn't possibly fade, not unless all of Western civilization were obliterated. The fire started in Greece. Then, as you well know-or as I hope you know, since you passed my course-the heart of the fire moved to Rome, and so did the gods. Oh, different names, perhaps- Jupiter for Zeus, Venus for Aphrodite, and so on-but the same forces, the same gods."

"And then they died," Atlanta said.

Mom chuckled a bit. "They didn't die sweetheart. The gods simply moved, to Germany, to France, and to Spain. Wherever the flame was brightest, the gods were there. They spent centuries in England."

"Yes," Chiron continued. "All you need to do is look at the architecture. People do not forget the gods. Every place they've ruled, for the last three thousand years, you can see them in paintings, in statues, on the most important buildings. And yes, Percy, Atlanta, of course they are now in your Untiled States. Look at your symbol, the eagle of Zeus. Look at the statue of Prometheus in Rockefeller Center, the Greek facades of your government buildings in Washington. I defy you to find any American city where the Olympians are not prominently displayed in multiple places. Like it or not-and believe me, plenty of people weren't very fond of Rome, either-America is now the heart of the flame. It is the great power of the West. And so Olympus is here. And we are here."

It was all too much, especially the fact that Atlanta and I were included in Chiron's we, as if we were part of some club.
"Who are you, Chiron? Who…who am I?" I asked.

Chiron and our mom smiled. He shifted his weight as if he were going to get up out of his wheelchair, but I knew that was impossible. He was paralyzed from the waist down."

"Who are you?" he mushed. "Well, that's the question we all want answered, isn't it? But for now, we should get you and Atlanta a bunk in cabin eleven. There will be new friends to meet. And plenty of time for lessons tomorrow. We also need to get your mother settled as well."

And then he did rise from his wheelchair. But there was something odd about the way he did it. His blanket fell away from his legs, but the legs didn't move. His waist kept getting longer, rising above his belt. At first, I thought he was wearing very long, white velvet underwear, but as he kept rising out of the chair, taller than any man, I realized that the velvet underwear wasn't underwear; it was the front of an animal, muscle, and sinew under coarse white fur. And the wheelchair wasn't a chair. It was some kind of container an enormous box on wheels, and it must have been magic, because there's no way it could've held all of him. A leg came out, long and knobby-kneed, with a huge polished hoof. Then another front leg, then hindquarters, and then the box was empty, nothing but a metal shell with a couple of fake human legs attached.

I started at the horse who had just spung from the wheelchair: a huge white stallion. But where its neck should be was the upper body of my Latin teacher, smoothly grifted to the horse's trunk.

"What a relief," the centaur said. "I'd been cooped up in there so long, my fetlocks had fallen sleep. Now, come, Jackson family. Let's meet the other campers."