Percy could hardly believe what was happening.
The strange girl sat across from him in the diner booth, wolfing down a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup, her long and wild black hair brushing the plate. Impossibly, he could feel the crispy bread in her hands, and he could taste the food as she inhaled it. The talking, which he had quickly realized was her thoughts, continued in a muted fashion, much like a constant inner monologue. He saw what she saw in his mind's eye, and he could tell that she could do the same with him. She saw what he saw, felt what he felt, and heard what he thought, but the difference was that she could understand English.
She was clearer now than she appeared in his dreams. Her eyes were the same shade of sea green as Percy's, and she was about the same height. She was slender and almost pretty in a sort of haunting way. Her eyes were cutting, and her expression was mean. Her nails were the least normal thing about her–they were sharp as talons. Her hair was thick and wild, managed only by a singular thin white barrette studded with pearls. She wore a thin, loose cotton tank top, linen shorts, and sandals, as if she were made for the beach.
She finished the food and gave the cup of fruit the waitress had brought her a disappointed glance. He knew, somehow, that the meager, depressing handful of mixed fruits from a can were not what she was hoping to receive. Nevertheless, she dragged it toward her and began to pick at it, much more slowly now that her hunger had abated somewhat.
He resisted the urge to pinch himself to see if this were real. He sort of wished that Calli could have come with him, just so he would have someone here to confirm his sanity.
"Better?" he asked.
She glared at him, popping a shriveled grape into her mouth. "Do you not eat?" she asked in that same thick, Russian accent.
"I've already eaten." And he didn't have much money on him. She shrugged, and he realized that she knew about the money because he had just thought about it. He was flummoxed all over again. But it at least made him feel a little better, and a little less crazy, that he could tell that she was just as confounded by their connection as he was.
"I do not know why we can hear each other's thoughts," she said testily.
"I didn't accuse you of anything."
"Not with your words."
He sighed. She was frustrated for two reasons–he felt suspicious about her, which she could tell, and he had pulled his sword on her behind the dune in a moment of confusion. He hadn't been able to understand her thoughts in that moment, them being in Russian, but he had picked up on her feelings with ease. She had felt as if his appearance was an answer to prayer until he had pulled his weapon; then, she felt betrayed, angry, and even disgusted, for some reason. He didn't know exactly why, but she clearly had a distaste for weapons.
Still, it hadn't been difficult to convince her to come with him to the city to eat. She was starving, and she could sense his intentions. He hadn't asked her many questions on the way, and she hadn't either, both of them being so overwhelmed. But he felt certain that this was the twin of fate he had been awaiting. She had to be.
"Who are you?" she finally said, reaching for her coffee–why she wanted to drink coffee at night, he couldn't fathom. "Who is Percy Jackson?"
He felt impatient to ask her the same thing about herself, but he knew they would get to that. "I'm a demigod, son of the sea god." He had planned to continue, but her eyes grew wide before his sentence was even complete. Go figure, she could read his thoughts to find out what he was going to say before he even said it. What was the point of even trying to talk?
"Do not be frustrated with me. I am, how do you say? In the same boat," she quipped.
"Yeah, but your thoughts are in Russian. It's not exactly the same."
"But it is not a pleasant feeling to have someone else in your head," she grumbled, and he found himself agreeing. "Why can we do this?"
He blinked. "How am I supposed to know?"
Her eyes narrowed. "Did you not cause this?"
"Like what, an empathy link? How would I cause this?"
"What is an empathy link?" she asked, trying to search his mind. She was puzzled as to who the satyr in his thoughts was.
"It's a connection where someone can feel another person's emotions, and they can sometimes send each other thought messages when they're in trouble. It's not like this, though. This is so much more. And I didn't cause it," he explained. "Well, as far as I know."Can something like this be caused by accident?
She shrugged.
He leaned forward. "You were upset when I said who my father is. You don't like him," he said. She looked down at the table, gritting her teeth. "Why? Who are you?"
She heaved a deep sigh. He saw glimpses of people in her mind that he surmised were her parents. He felt as if time slowed down as she spoke.
"My father is Oceanus," she said, "ancient titan of the sea."
Percy's knuckles, gripping the edge of the table, grew white. "Your father is a titan?"
"Mind your aggression. I am not your enemy."
"The titans are my enemies," he countered.
"Really? All of them?" she mused. "Did you even know my father existed until I thought of him?"
He sat back, crossing his arms. "What about your mother?"
She cocked her head to the side. "Fair point. Yes, she is a siren."
"A monster."
"I know what she is," she hissed. "I am not a monster."
He knew he had struck a nerve, but he couldn't bring himself to be concerned about her feelings. How in the world had he ended up here, in a Manhattan diner, with a half-titan, half-monster creature who could read all his thoughts? Why would his destiny be linked to hers?
"Tell me something, demigod," she said icily, spitting out the word as if it were poison. "How many lives have you taken with that sword of yours–monster, human, something between? When your father and his people put a weapon in your hand, did you think twice before swinging it where they pointed? And when you meet someone whom they do not like, someone whose family line they wish to erase from existence, how long do you wait before attacking, like a dog?"
He was stunned by the vitriol in her face, her words. The neon sign over their booth cast an eerie glow over her face, contorted in rage. He could feel her hands trembling below the table. He didn't understand where these feelings came from, but the implied question was clear, even without looking within her mind.
How long before you kill me?
He tried to hold onto his anger. He was angry, dammit. But her fear, her pain, her conviction was overwhelming. He raised his hands in surrender.
"Alright, we're not enemies. We are not our fathers," he said.
That last part helped. She still scowled and crossed her arms, but he could tell she harbored dark feelings toward her father. He wondered what her reasons were.
"I suppose I will tell you," she muttered, "if you really are to help me."
Her words brought his mind back to the prophecy he had received. Her head snapped up, her eyes wild and bright.
"A prophecy?" she asked hungrily.
"Do–do you have one too?" he asked in shock.
"Not so much a prophecy as a curse. But it is a long and painful story."
He bit the bullet and told her about his dreams and the prophecy he had received–even the part about an admission of love, though he wished he could skip that. He figured it was pointless to try to hide it from someone who could read his thoughts, anyway. And he knew if she had any insight into the meaning behind all of this that he would be able to glean it from her own thoughts, so it was probably worth it to let her in.
She listened quietly, her despair rising by the second.
"No," she finally murmured.
"Well, I'm not exactly thrilled by the prophecy, either."
"Why!" she exclaimed, slamming the table. Even with the split second of warning he had from her thoughts, her impulse caused him to flinch. The people in the neighboring booths started to glance over. "Why must the Fates torment me?" She put her face in her hands. "My life is in the hands of a warlord."
His face burned with indignation. "I am not a warlord. I'm-I'm just a warrior," he protested, keeping his voice low.
"Sure," she muttered miserably.
"This isn't Russia. We don't have warlords here."
"Shut up, fool," she hissed, looking up to glare at him.
"In case you aren't aware, there's a threat to Olympus. To our way of life," he said, trying to choose his words carefully. "I'm training to defend us from that threat."
"'Us,'" she mocked. "You are not one of them. You are their pawn." She crossed her arms again. "Why do you train to fight and kill? Because they told you to?"
He clenched his fists. "Because someone has to. That's a demigod's destiny."
"No. Destiny is a matter of choice," she argued.
"Tell that to the Fates."
"Damn the Fates!" she said defiantly, and Percy drew in a sharp breath. Those were dangerous words.
"I was trained to fight and kill as well, warlord," she continued. "I was told my destiny was to be used as a weapon in a great war, to restore my father's sole dominion and expand the territory of the Sirens so that they could roam wherever they pleased, killing and tormenting as they went. I was meant to be a pawn as well." Her eyes became glassy, and Percy could see the training she meant, given to her by the Sirens in the Sea of Monsters to use and grow her powers.
"But I refused," she said, jaw clenched. "And that was my great crime. I refused to be used as a weapon, first by my mother, then by my father. And for that, I was cursed."
Percy took a large swig of his blue raspberry Fanta. He had a feeling he was in for a long night.