— Rowan —

All traces of blood have long since been washed out of the trickle of water running down the bottom of the concrete tunnel, for which all of us were glad — it was bad enough that we had to deal with the memory of what Ryan had tried to do — screw it, what Ryan had done. It would be even worse if every time we wanted to enter or exit the camp, we had to feel his still-warm blood soaking into our shoes.

Still, though, there are still dark smears along the cracked and crumbling concrete walls, and my stomach clenches every time I walk past them. I'm almost grateful for the deteriorating illumination of my flashlight now — it makes it harder to see everything, and I can almost convince myself that the blood splotches are algae or shit.

I stand by the base of the slimy ladder now, freezing water surging around my knees, flipping the flashlight over and over in my hand in a bold maneuver that Ryan would have slapped me in the face for. Unless he was the one doing it. . . .

But that was just Ryan.

I'm waiting for Will. I kind of expected him to turn up last night, but he hadn't, not that I really blamed him — the guy hadn't slept in over a week.

I had changed Ryan's bandages, as I was supposed to. He would live. Whether he would be okay, that was an entirely different matter. But he would live, if he wanted to. If he cared enough to drag himself out of his coma.

He won't pull himself together for you, a voice at the back of my mind whispers. He doesn't care enough. He's more focused on making life easy for himself.

Yes, maybe that was true, but it was also true that this wasn't exactly a cozy two-story house, and Ryan and I weren't exactly spoiled. Sometimes you just have to look out for yourself and do what's best for you, and put other people's needs aside until you're sure you're going to be able to eat tomorrow. I can't blame Ryan for looking out for numero uno.

I shouldn't, anyway.

It wasn't because of Ryan that I was hoping Will would show up. It was because of . . . I don't know. I wanted to talk to someone, someone who understood what it felt like to have someone close to you not care enough about you to stick around when life got a bit too hard for their comfort. Will would get it. Will wouldn't give me pitying looks or act like I was to blame for what happened. Will understood. And he was, for lack of a better word, a friend.

It still amazed me how much shit Will had been through — being neglected as a kid, whatever crap happened at home that was so bad he couldn't visit his mom because of it, losing almost all of his siblings, finding out his siblings were not in fact the good people he'd thought they'd been (rookie mistake), getting back the best friend and older sister he had lost as a ten-year-old and right away losing her for a second time, having to take care of two younger kids and make sure they never turned out like the rest of the cabin, having to keep an entire camp alive . . .

It was a lot, to say the least. And it got even crazier when I remembered that he wasn't even fourteen yet.

No, he would certainly understand what I was going through. I was more concerned that I couldn't understand him.

Ryan might have, though. If Ryan was awake. Willing to be awake. For me. For Will. For Allie. For . . . pretty much all of us.

There's a faint grating sound above me, almost drowned out by the sound of the rushing water, but unmistakable as the sound of a manhole cover being shoved aside, and my shoulders sink with relief. It might not be Will — in fact, there's a pretty good chance it isn't — but it very well could be, and I'm hoping that it is.

I lift my head, shout his name up the pipe. It echoes around the dripping, slimy stones, covered in layers of coursing sewer water. I don't think there's any way he can hear me like this — if it is him — but a few moments later, I hear a boy's hesitant shout. "Rowan?"

Even though it's the last thing I feel like doing, I can't help the smile that pulls up one corner of my mouth. "Yeah, just checking."

There's several more hollow clangs, growing steadily louder as Will hauls himself down the ladder. I can hear faint cursing, and I snicker — Will never has been the most coordinated.

Finally, he comes into view, dropping down beside me and running his fingers through his tousled curls. I can finally click off my dying flashlight; his arm is glowing, again, and this time it's crept up to meet his elbow. He notices me looking, and he grimaces. "I know. Soon it'll reach my shoulder."

Neither of us bother to say hello — somehow, in the few days we've spoken to each other, we've progressed past that. We may as well remark that the sky is blue or that grass is green. Or so I hear — not a lot grows down here.

Right.

"Well, there are worse things," I point out as we begin heading down the tunnel, forcing through the surging current of people's old sink water. I can't deny the feeling of satisfaction our slow but steady progress gives me, as if I'm shoving the water aside. Get out of my way, river. Get off my back and step aside. "I mean, Jake said you have this one kid at camp, and whenever he's pissed, whatever he's touching dies. Skeletons crawling out of the ground. Shadows turning freezing. You know him?"

"Oh, yeah," he nods. "Nico di Angelo. Son of Hades, although you've probably guessed that already. He's . . . interesting."

I give him a sideways look. "What does 'interesting' mean?"

"He's . . ." Will shrugs. "What can I say? He is what he is. He's not bad, really."

I shrug. "I can work with that. Although he probably wouldn't like me much. The second he killed the grass I was standing on, I'd punch him." There isn't much grass down here in the sewers, and what little there is above ground is precious.

"Yeah . . ." Will freezes for a second, shakes his head, and then hurries again to catch up to me, although I notice he hangs back slightly. "Wouldn't like you much. He — he —"

I give him a curious look. "He what?"

"Nothing, just reminded me of — of —" Will pauses. We're at the junction now, the right hand tunnel where we usually go, and the left hand tunnel where we . . . don't. Most of us . . .

Will turns slowly, looking between the right and left tunnels, and I can see the gears turning in his mind. I silently curse myself for dragging the memory back up, but it might not be what I think. It might be . . .

Will turns and gives me a look, and now I see real fear flashing in his abnormally washed-out eyes. "He doesn't like you much," he says softly. "You said he didn't like you much."

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Ryan steps out of the left tunnel, arms still wrapped in bloody bandages, face smeared with dirt and grease, still listing slightly. The tunnel is dim, lit only by the light of Will's forearm, but we can both see the shotgun in his hand. "Need some help, Row?"

I want to run forward and throw my arms around him, but I think it's better if none of us move.

— Will —

I hate guns. I hate suicide watch. I hate sewers. I hate bandages. I hate glowing hands. I hate my life.

Especially at this particular moment.

Honestly, am I cursed or something?

Every time I think it's safe to trust, every time I find someone I care about, every time I start to let my guard down, to be happy, I end up . . . here. Not here in this exact geographical location, but nonetheless in the same place — angry, humiliated, and terrified.

Rowan's been lying to me the whole time. I don't know why that surprises me, but it does. I know, shocking. Don't trust the person you met in a dark alley at night whose best friend is a drug dealer. Don't follow them into their sewers. Don't talk to them. Don't let them into your personal life. Everyone except me saw this one coming a mile away.

I lower my head, eyes burning with fury and shame.

Rowan doesn't move, just stays frozen like a deer, eyes fixed right on Ryan. Right on the muzzle of his gun, the dark hole that could end any of our lives in a second. She looks . . . scared. I know she's an incredible actor, but this seems real.

Stupid fucking idiot, I berate myself. That's why you ended up here in the first place. That's why there's a gun pointed at your face. Don't trust them. You know better.

"Ryan," Rowan says in a carefully measured voice, "I'm okay. Really. Put the gun away."

Ryan's hand wavers. He seems honestly confused for a moment. His dark eyebrows knit together. "But I thought — we agreed this was best. We agreed if he started to remember and get suspicious, this would be the easiest —"

"I know!" Rowan shouts. "And it was the stupidest thing I ever agreed to. Just put it down, Ryan. Just walk away from this. I'll explain it to Will — God knows he's probably figured it out already — and we'll — I don't know. Something. But for the love of God, put the fucking gun away."

Ryan clenches his jaw, grips the gun a little tighter for a moment, and then lowers it. He slides it into a loop on his belt with shaking hands, then drags himself through the sewer water towards us, breathing hard. The bandages on his arms are dirty and spotted with blood like a poppy field, his skin and clothes are covered with grime, and his curly hair is tangled and matted with sweat. He's finally come out of his sleep, if only so he can kill me.

When he reaches me and Rowan, I half expect him to grab the gun again and blow my brains out. He wants to; I can tell by the way his fingers twitch toward the black holster, but he doesn't. Because his sister doesn't want him to, and he loves his sister.

Ryan wraps his arms around Rowan, hugging her tightly and leaning his head against hers. He's about a head taller than her, but she somehow seems older and bigger than him. Maybe it's because she's not so fucking impulsive.

But after the third murder attempt (fourth? Fifth? I've lost count), it's possible I'm biased.

Finally Ryan pulls away, wiping tears out of his eyes. "Sorry I was asleep for so long," he says apologetically. "Don't take it personally."

"I haven't been," Rowan says in a tone that suggests she's been doing exactly that. She swipes the back of her hand across her face — maybe to wipe off the droplets of sewer water, maybe to hide dark eyes full of tears — and turns to me. "Will. Come on."

I glance back down the tunnel, nerves clenching in my chest. "Where?"

"That's . . . a good question." She glances over at her friend. "Where do you think?"

He's already turned and begun sloshing down the tunnel that leads to the camp. "Wherever, as long as I'm gone. And I have to go meet some clients today — if I blow them off, C.P.'ll have my blood."

I give Rowan a curious look. "C.P.?"

"Stands for Cocoa Puffs." Rowan shakes her wild curly hair out of her face. "Come on. May as well go down the left tunnel." She jerks her head toward the sewer line we've been avoiding so far. "It's full of shit a little farther down, but if we stay close to the entrance, it'll be more of this. A little warmer, maybe, but . . . well, nobody will overhear us for sure."

There was a time when I would have been disgusted at the thought of more of this, but now, I'm only grateful. There are worse things than gray water. It's gray, sure, but that's really its least redeeming quality. When you live in a sewer, anyway.

So I follow Rowan into the tunnel without a word.

The water is even deeper here, rolling and bubbling just over our knees. It's slightly warmer, too, and I shudder as I think about all the piss and diluted shit we're standing in. I know this is a sewer, but the fact doesn't really sink in when the water is still relatively clean.

"Alright, this is good." Rowan stops just ahead of me, and I stop too, not walking up to meet her. I figure the farther away I am from the other end of the tunnel, the better.

I take a deep breath. "So . . ." I start carefully, "you brought me back here to tell me . . . what?"

Rowan shrugs. "It's not really a long-winded story this time. There are just some things I — I thought you should know. Because you deserve to. I guess we'll start out with what you know, and you should be able to connect the pieces from there."

"Okay, so . . ." I take another deep breath. "You lied, the first time I met you. After Ryan attacked me —"

"And you attacked Ryan."

"Shut up, O'Connor. He started it. Anyway, you lied and said that Ryan didn't like you much, and that was why you ran. Down this tunnel —" I throw a hand out at the slimy, dripping walls and sluggishly churning piss surrounding us — "although I know now that you were probably near the entrance. Because nobody wants to go very far down this tunnel, yes?"

Rowan inclines her head. "That is correct, William."

"Thank you, Professor. Anyway, I guess two planned it, and that was why you got out of there so quickly. The water thing was just a distraction, because you knew I hardly ever got to have actual fun. You thought your friend could actually kill me, but you forgot I was half god, and I could take him. When you realized I actually stood a fighting chance against you guys, you stepped in and decided to hear me out. I miss anything?"

She smirked. "Excellent detective work, but you forgot one important detail — I couldn't have planned anything. I had no way of knowing you would be in the alley. Finding you there was just random chance. I wasn't even sure you were a demigod — in fact, it was only a vague possibility in my head. Not every guy with curly blond hair and blue eyes is a child of Apollo."

"Right," I mutter. "I mean, most of my siblings didn't look like me, and all the ones that did are dead. And the ones left . . . we look nothing alike. You'd never guess we were siblings. We're not even the same race."

"Gods don't have DNA, right?" Rowan points out. "So really, you aren't related."

"True," I admit. "But we share a parent, so it's easier to just call each other family."

"I guess . . ." She bites her lip and shrugs. "Anyway, all you said is bullshit. Bringing you back was a stupid, risky move, but I figured . . . well, first lesson of living here, always carry a knife. I could have stabbed you if you tried to attack me. But I didn't think you would. Maybe I've just spent too much time talking to Gracie, but a lot of you reminded me of her, when you started talking."

My eyes burn suddenly and I angrily swipe at them, cursing myself. Gracie's gone; there's no use dwelling on it.

Rowan must catch onto my expression, because she catches my fist and folds her hands around it. "Hey, I miss her too. So does Ryan."

"It's not that!" I snap, stepping away from her. Already I feel my insides curling into a protective ball, and I hate myself in this moment. Why can't I just take her kindness like a normal person? God, what's wrong with me?

"Sorry," Rowan says quietly, stepping away. "I forgot — I didn't mean to — sorry."

"It's fine," I say, desperate to get past this humiliating moment. "I just — never mind. You were saying, about the first night I was down here?"

"Yeah — that. Anyway, Ryan saw you —I guess he was coming out of the tunnel — and he could tell right away what you were. Remember how close he and Gracie were. You two looked a lot alike."

I consider that. I don't think Gracie and I look that much alike — her curly hair was mahogany brown, and her eyes, although blue, were so dark they were almost the same color as Jake's. But maybe we shared features in that strange way family members do.

"I guess," I say.

"Yeah, so, he noticed you, and I couldn't see, because I dropped the flashlight, remember? But he caught my shoulder, whispered 'That's Gracie's brother. Gracie's fucking brother. I'd recommend you hide.' So I did."

"Well, thanks for the help," I mutter. I can't help but feel kind of pissed that Rowan knew Ryan wanted me dead and didn't do anything about it. Then again . . . she'd heard the stories about my cabin. Maybe I can't blame her.

"Yeah, and you already know what happened after that. And there's another thing you might have remembered, when you and I and Ryan all actually talked like civilized fucking citizens —"

"You And Me And Ryan," I muse. "Could be a cool sitcom. We should explore that idea further. We might be able to —"

She rolls her eyes. "Yeah, I don't think so. But remember how we were terrified that it was you in particular? It could have been one of your siblings, and it would have been different. You asked why, and we didn't tell you."

"Seemed more murdery than terrified to me," I say, "but okay."

"ANYWAYS, we never answered your question. I'm telling you now because, what the hell. What can it hurt."

I wait patiently.

"Gracie used to tell us that you would be the most dangerous of your cabin, that you would be the reason for so many of their deaths. . . . 'He won't mean it,' she'd say, 'but that doesn't matter. . . . They'll be dead, most of them, because of him. He doesn't know his own strength. He's a danger to everyone. If he goes wrong somewhere — and I don't think he will, but you never know — he'll kill you without hesitation. That's what he'll know. He's my brother and I love him — I'll go down fighting for him if I have to — but that's the truth.' We never understood why and how she could still love you, but she did. Now I get that everyone comes with warning labels, and if you want to be with them, you just have to breathe in some toxic chemicals."

"Your metaphors need work," I say hollowly, my head spinning.

Gracie thinks I killed them.

Gracie blamed me.

Gracie thought it was my fault.

And I hadn't even done anything yet, most likely.

I had just begun to think that maybe it wasn't my fault, begun to silence the furious chorus in my head, and now I knew one of the only sisters I trusted to have had my back blamed me.

I leaned against the sewer wall, not caring about the slime and algae that coated my back and knotted my hair. It felt as though I was breathing in rusty needles, a sickly-sweet scent that invaded my nostrils and nearly triggered my gag reflex.

"Will? Hey, Will?" Rowan splashes over to stand next to me, face softening. "Look. I know how it sounds. But your siblings – and you — are to blame for a hell of a lot. Maybe you didn't deserve that — it's not my place to say — but it doesn't matter. Gracie didn't care. She loved you, she said she'd go down fighting for you — or with you – and she did." She places a hand on my cheek, which I don't have the energy to push away. "Gracie had her faults, Will. But she was still your sister. And she loved you more than I can say."

I should pull away from Rowan, but I don't. Instead, I place my hand over hers, leaning into her hand as my eyes brim with tears.

Sorry, didn't mean to make this one this short. But I want to get this out here now because I'm going to be gone for a few weeks, so no posting then. I know it's been kind of infrequent, but, you know, whatcha gonna do.