Little Camper - PainfullyPisces - Percy Jackson and the Olympians (2024)

Chapter 1: Prologue.

Chapter Text

Depending on how you look at it, there are many places to begin this story.

You could start in Greece, roughly four thousand years ago, when a demigod son of Zeus, Dionysus, rose to godhood after inventing wine and introducing it to humanity, who, after he invaded India (long story) amidst the drunken celebrations, sat down with soldiers, fauns and fortune tellers before returning to Mount Olympus.

You could start sometime around the beginning of the nineteenth century when the heart of Olympus and all the gods, nymphs, and monsters attached to it moved to America.

Or you could begin in the early 1900’s, when a family from the Mediterranean immigrated to America, bringing with them only a few personal possessions and among them, a small collection of grapevines wrapped carefully in damp linens and hidden in suitcases, which would go on to found the largest and oldest vineyard in the state of North Carolina.

You could also begin sometime in the 90s when Dionysus, bored and flipping through a wine magazine, came across an advertisem*nt for said vineyard and found himself enticed, not only by the description of their merlot but also the photo of the owners’ daughter, Rhonda.

You could begin with the weekend he spent at the vineyard, which had grown in the last two decades to include a hotel and restaurant, the vineyard expanding to host weddings and other events. You could begin with how he wooed Rhonda, and then left without much explanation, as gods tend to do.

You could begin it in the bathroom in the hotel reception, where Rhonda took a pregnancy test and discovered, feeling a plethora of things, that she was expecting a child.

But this story is not about them. It’s about what came after, or more specifically, who came after.

So let’s instead start this story somewhere else.

Chapter 2: 2002 - I

Chapter Text

BEFORE

Stephanie Olive Overbaum and her mother did not talk about all the strange things that kept happening to her.

It was a general unspoken rule between them that topics about magic and monsters were out of the question. Mentioning her strange dreams and nightmares or the way she often ended up returning home, frantic and frightened by what she swore was some fantastical creature was forbidden. Always had been.

One time, when Stephanie was six years old, she’d tried to put it back into the question. The reason for this was that she could no longer pretend that using her mother’s advice of ‘ignoring it and looking the other way’ was helping. Not when the weird things she saw didn’t go away, and on the contrary seemed to seek her out.

She’d been sitting on the edge of the bathtub, watching her mother applying her make-up the same way Rhonda Overbaum did anything: quick, calculated movements in a particular order that promoted efficiency over anything else. Her blush was done in five quick swipes with a soft brush on each cheek, her brows combed through in two flowing flicks of her wrists. She’d gotten to her mascara, which she applied with the precision of a neuro-surgeon when Stephanie asked,

“Mom, do you believe in monsters?”

She watched Rhonda continue to apply another two carefully placed swipes of mascara, her dark brown eyes staring into her reflection, unmoving before she put the brush back in the tube and twisted it shut. She picked up her lipstick, a dark mauve she’d started using after seeing a similar thing on the front of ‘Something Borrowed, Something New Magazine’,

“Of course not. Monsters belong in fairytales and movies. You know this.”

Stephanie had known the answer before she’d asked so she wasn’t exactly surprised. Just disappointed.

Rhonda had never been inclined to believe in anything except cold hard facts. But Stephanie was, somewhat against her will, forced to believe in the softer, murkier possibilites of something outside of scientific reach. Recently it had caused her to lose sleep, unable to stop her brain from going over every odd encounter she’d had in her short lifespan.

“So you’re not scared of them?” She picked at the chipping nail polish on her left thumb, in a futile effort to appear at ease.

Rhonda applied her lipstick in two smooth motions. She opened her mouth to say something, then closed it, pressing it into a thin line.

She turned to Stephanie, her hand resting on the sink. “I think it would be a waste of time to be afraid of things that aren’t real, don’t you? They can't hurt you,”

Stephanie nodded. Her stomach felt like it was filled with snakes, twisting and turning over each other. “But if they were— and if they could...What would you do about it?”

Rhonda snorted as she packed up her make-up, hastily placing everything in the little pockets lining her bag. “You’ve been watching too much television, Steph,”

And that had been it. She’d attempted to smooth a strand of Stephanie’s hair down, which was a futile attempt; it refused to stay in place, and then she’d left for work.

That was the most they’d ever spoken about it. Since then, Stephanie had learned the hard way that to try and talk to Rhonda about the supernatural was like trying to explain object permanence to a baby; She didn’t get it, and every time you picked up the subject you had to start all over again.

But that didn’t mean Stephanie stopped experiencing weird things.

Weird had become a favorite word of hers, since it started. Weird was a wonderfully abstract term. Weird could be the guy with the strange, limping walk outside the local middle school she’d seen chewing on a Seven-Up can. Weird could also be the boar the size of a great dane that had chased her down one summer afternoon on her way home from school, it’s glowing red eyes glaring up at her after she’d escaped into a tree like it had a personal vendetta to settle with her. It had been hours before it gave up and trodded off. Weird could also be the dreams she had. The feeling she had before she realised what she was looking at; A chill running through her spine, like the feeling of electricity in the air before a storm.

Sometimes she felt like her whole life had been like that and it was only a matter of time before the storm hit.

*

2002, Summer.

Clouds were gathering over Whitland Vineyards. This was not in itself unusual for the time of year: they often had thunderstorms in the summer. And had it been any other Saturday morning, the Overbaums would’ve shrugged it off. Peepaw would’ve said something about the rain doing the grapevines some good, and Meemaw would’ve hummed in agreement and mentioned her rosebushes coming along nicely, or something to that effect. Rhonda would’ve been nowhere to be found, holed up in the office, scheduling the coming weeks of dress try-ons, dinner rehearsals and bookings of venues.

But as it happened, today was Mark and Shannon Westley’s wedding day, as the cursive on the chalkboard in the driveway reminded anyone who neared the house. A neat arrow on the bottom of the board pointed guests in the direction of the garden. A taped-on sheet of paper on the top of the sign pointed staff in the direction of the kitchens.

Stephanie did not know Mark or Shannon, and she didn’t really care if it thundered on their wedding day. But rain made brides anxious. And anxious brides meant Rhonda was stressed.

Already when Stephanie had been roused from her unsuccessful attempt at sleeping (too much turning, too little sleeping) at the sound of Rico, the head chef at Whitland, guiding the delivery trucks backward into the curved driveway, the air outside had been stirring with insects keeping low to the ground. It matched the nervous energy that always took hold of Whitland on days like these.

The mix of this nervous buzzing from the world outside, the bumblebee lazily knocking against the glass door leading to her balcony, Rico’s naturally booming voice; the remnants of his distant past in Boston, and the beeping from the trucks made the morning impossible to ignore, and so, groggily, Stephanie had given up sleep and slipped out of her bed.

Rhonda had seemingly been up for hours, already fully dressed when Stephanie had appeared in the kitchen. She barely noticed Stephanie, rolling her eyes and tapping her pen on her notepad as she called around to check, then double check, and circle back to florists, bakers, make-up artists, cello players, and the Dolly Parton cover band the bride and groom had insisted on ordering for the reception.

Stephanie had taken advantage of her mother’s lack of attention and had sought refuge in the fields. From there she could see most of Whitland as it was unraveled and put back together for the day’s event: lawn furniture pushed to the side and hidden in the sheds, rose bushes trimmed and watered, the windows washed, the farming equipment driven into the barns, the tents splattered out onto the lawns like a puzzle that still needed to be put together. From this safe distance, Stephanie could watch it happen like a tourist watching a glacier threatening to drop off into the ocean from the safety of their arctic cruise.

The building that made up Whitland itself was this big stucco thing in two parts: The Old House and the New Wing. A story told in two books; the original and the sequel, similar yet clearly set a couple of decades apart.

The Old House stood centered on the grounds with ivy growing up the walls and strings of lights hanging from the awnings of the porch. It overlooked the original fields and the garden, taking the better view from the New Wing, which you wouldn’t know unless you stood on Stephanie’s balcony and compared it to the balconies on the New Wing, which overlooked Field A through C.

It had been built to resemble her great-great grandfather’s home in the Mediterranean, both inside and out. It wasn’t a bad look but it did stand out against the old, run-down farms that neighbored it on the surrounding properties, which only made Stephanie like it more.

People who came to Whitland for weddings and business meetings called it ‘Darling’ and ’Romantic’, the regulars who spent the majority of their holidays there called it ‘An oasis’ and one particular writer from Oregon, who’d spent four months renting a room there to revise his manuscript had described it as ‘A portal to Europe’s wine capitals’.

Stephanie called it simply home. And The New Wing, which was sort of like a step-home, of sorts. The distant relative of homes; She knew it well but didn’t visit often.

The New Wing was the hotel that had been built sometime in the late 70’s. Before then, people had occasionally rented out the guest rooms, and when demand became too big, it had been built to accommodate the growing number of people who wanted to stay there. Stephanie never saw it as it originally looked. It was renovated at the hands of Rhonda right before she was born. In Rhonda’s vision, it had been stripped down to look ‘modern’, meaning the most exciting color used in the paint job was beige. It would’ve remained stripped of life entirely if Meemaw hadn’t stepped in and insisted they added potted plants here and there (Rhonda had argued against this heavily because ‘all they do is collect dust and spiders’).

Rhonda preferred things like that. She liked clean lines and modern architecture. she thought stucco looked archaic. She thought the mosaic-style floors of the Old House looked cluttered, not to mention difficult to maintain.

As Rhonda appeared on the lawn, snapping at the team of guys who’d come to assemble the tents, Stephanie was happy she’d chosen to escape the house at the first chance she got. She’d learned from living with Rhonda every day since she was born that it was best to stay out of the line of fire if she was going to be busy. Which she always was.

Stephanie had no intention of putting herself near the wedding, knowing that circling close to it often ended with her being forced to act as Rhonda’s helper, which always included wearing some horrible outfit she’d picked out for her.

Instead, Stephanie crossed the field into the undergrowth, intent on disappearing in the forests that surrounded the property until the whole thing was over.

Chapter 3: 2002 - II

Chapter Text

How simple it would have been if Stephanie could have stayed there in the woods all night, counting the fireflies as they appeared in the dark shadows of the trees that lined the entire property Whitland sat on. She could have sat there, listening to the distant speakers booming out a bass line like the heartbeat of a sleeping giant all night, returning when the music got low and people started wandering towards the New Wing to get some rest.

Unfortunately, in the short span of years that Stephanie had been alive, the universe had a funny way of proving to her that her life was not simple.

Her life was being hunted by something taloned and sharp-toothed right when you least expected— or wanted— it.

In the darkness, she wasn’t sure exactly what it was but the short scuffle she’d had with it after it found her had left her with long scratches down her arms and one particularly bad one that crossed over her forehead, down to her ear.

Something hot trickled down, over her eyebrow and into her right eye. She tried not to look at her arm as she wiped the liquid out of her eye with it.

As she nearly tripped over a root, she wished she’d brought a flashlight with her. Most kids probably would have. But Stephanie knew the woods around Whitland enough not to be afraid of it, even in darkness. It was her wood, after all. Or it used to be before they started finding her there, which was a very recent development.

Whitland used to be a sanctuary, away from monsters and wild animals and other things Stephanie was supposed to pretend were imaginary.

The thing laughed at her as she stumbled through the undergrowth. She wished she’d brought anything worth throwing. All she had was a pack of gum she’d forgotten in the pockets of her shorts. Not exactly a monster killer.

She tried desperately to hurry through the plants that had grown freely for years, but she wasn’t fast enough. Every step she took, the thing chasing her seemed to be two steps closer to her.

“You can’t run forever, βοτρυόπαις1 Its voice was like nails on a chalkboard, raspy and shrill.

Stephanie could see the lights from the windows of Whitland. She could hear the laughter of people talking on the lawn. She could smell her grandmother’s roses sweet scent mixing with the wet, rain-soaked grounds.

That was when her shoe caught in a leathery plant. She jerked her leg, trying to break free. The plant didn’t give in.

Sometimes it felt like there was some force out there that had it out for her, she just wished she knew what she’d done to offend it in the first place.

The thing with claws grabbed her, and suddenly the the plant had no problem letting her go.

She hit a tree trunk, coughing as the air in her lungs was smacked out of her. Her head throbbed. The stream of blood running into her eye forced it shut.

“Did you think you’d be safe forever?” the thing cooed. It was hard to make out its exact shape but it was taller than Stephanie would have liked. It crept towards her, hunched low, like a lion stalking its prey.

The speakers mixed with her heartbeat, like an echo of a delayed connection.

Boom, boom, boom.

As the thing came into the light streaming through the trees, Stephanie got a good look at its face. Glistening teeth. Blood-red lips. Eyes like black holes. It’s fingers sharpened into talons, glistening red in the slivers of light.

“It was only a matter of time before we found you,” it grinned.

Stephanie was too busy trying to get her ribs to remember how to expand to answer.

It tilted its head. A sharp twist not unlike a chicken. Then it seemed to remember Stephanie didn’t matter enough to be confused about.

“I wonder, will your father be disappointed? When he learns of your fate started and ended here...”

For a second Stephanie felt like she was sinking into the ground, like the world was swallowing her whole.

“My…What?” She gasped, her lungs were burning.

The thing didn’t answer. Instead, it lunged, laughing shrilly, claws extended towards Stephanie’s throat.

She rolled and felt the gust of air as the thing impacted with the tree behind her but she didn’t waste time to see if it was hurt.

She knew going for the tents was a bad idea.

For one short moment, she’d allowed herself the childish belief that if she made it to the tent, with all the adults, someone was bound to help her.

There was just the tiny detail that adults typically didn’t see what she saw.

She got a few odd looks as she appeared in the massive tent but no one seemed to care enough to comment on the blood-soaked child squeezing her way past the clusters of people. It was late. People were drunk. She was screwed.

She went for the back of the tent. Maybe if she managed to hide there, the thing wouldn’t find her. Maybe it would come across a more appetizing adult on its way.

She nearly didn’t make it to the back, having to dodge people dancing to reach the tables of food set out.

She’d hoped to find a carving knife, or a sharp pair of tongs to defend herself with.

Instead, she found the panini station. Great. She could arm herself with lunch meats and forks.

The cover band started up a new song. The people on the dance floor cheered.

“Here you come again,” Not Dolly Parton sang, “Just when I’m about to get myself together...”

She could see the thing smile through the crowd as she made eye-contact with it’s black eyes. Its clawed hands pushing people aside, parting the crowd like the sea.

She was going to die to the soundtrack of a sea of drunk wedding guests belting Dolly Parton.

This was the worst.

The thing charged. Stephanie ducked but not fast enough. A clawed hand caught one of her braids and pulled. Off-balance, she tipped over. Razor-sharp claws dug into her scalp with one hand, keeping her still. The other hand rested above her throat, ready to dig in and rip it out. She fought against its grip. Thrashed and pulled but her muscles ached. The cuts on her arms and forehead stung. Her ankle throbbed with pain. She was toast.

Toast…It was maybe the dumbest idea she’d ever had but when you’re probably going to be killed anyway, even dumb ideas are better than nothing.

Stephanie leaned back away from the table, letting gravity pull her towards the floor. The thing followed her, keeping a firm grip on her head.

“So weak, half-bloods, when they’re young,” it mused to itself, flashing its sharp teeth. Its breath was acrid like someone had hidden rotten meat in a laundry basket full of dirty socks.

Stephanie tried not to look at it, instead, she tried to see how far back she could lean. She just needed more space for her legs…

“What’s this? You’re not putting up a fight?” it barked a laugh like a firecracker going off, “How pathetic,”

Stephanie tried to drown out its voice. She focused on the noise of conversation behind her—the speakers and the bassline from the song, drunken voices chanting like a choir along with Not Dolly. The grapevines lit up with strings of light, visible through the clear plastic windows of the tent. The smell of wine and food and the wet grass.

“No wonder your parents don’t want anything to do with you,” The thing continued, “you can’t even— OOF!”

Stephanie kicked as hard as she could, sending the thing flying back into the table spread with more force than she had anticipated. She landed on the plastic floor of the tent with a thump.

Maybe the panini station was allergic to monsters, or maybe the monster’s feathers were highly flammable.

Either way, Stephanie had to duck as the panini station went up in flames, an explosion of feathers and ashes raining down over her, sticking to the drying blood on her face and arms.

Her heart was beating so loud she didn’t notice the music had stopped.

She didn’t spend long taking in the shocked expressions of the wedding guests. Luckily they didn’t seem to connect her to the panini station’s spontaneous combustion. She squeezed past them, head reeling, blood pounding through her.

It was on the lawn, halfway to the safety of her home when she heard the cackle from the woods and her blood turned to ice.

The same cackle as the thing she’d just killed. Distant, yes, but it meant there were more of them. And they would be coming for her. Sooner or later.

Knowing her luck, it would be sooner.

Heart racing, Stephanie set into a sprint.

Chapter 4: 2002 - III

Chapter Text

Stephanie had been too busy stumbling away from the door to the pantry, trying to listen over the sound of her pulse in her ears if any monsters were breaking into the house, to remember that the pantry had shelves. Old, and dingy shelves that really only needed a slight knock like Stephanie’s shoulder bumping into one to send the entirety of their contents raining to the ground, showering Stephanie in boxes of dried pasta, rice, cans of beans, and halved peaches. She fell to the ground with them in a foolish attempt to try and catch the worst of it before it clattered onto the tiled floor.

She’d been scraping macaroni and penne into her arms, hoping the monsters’ hearing wasn’t good enough to have heard the ruckus when she’d seen it.

Her name, written in Rhonda’s neat, tight handwriting along with a date. 15th September 1991.

Her birthday.

The shoebox was old, and dusty, like it had been sitting in the back of the pantry since that day, eleven years ago.

Her pulse got louder. The rushing of blood in her ears made the pantry seem cut off from the world outside. The single lamp above her shone like a spotlight on her and the shoebox.

As she reached out and lifted it, she felt that tingling sense of danger return in the pit of her stomach. She hesitated to open it. She felt like something clawed might jump out if she did.

“Will your father be disappointed?” That thing had said, taunting her. Like she knew him personally.

The thing about Stephanie’s father was that much like the monsters, Rhonda and she didn’t speak about him.

But that hadn’t stopped her from wondering about him. What he was like. What he looked like. Sounded like. Why he left. Why he never came back for her.

Rhonda swore he never even knew she existed. She’d told her, making sure to look everywhere else but at Stephanie, that by the time Rhonda became aware she was pregnant, her father had already left.

But Stephanie sometimes wished he had known. It had been all too tempting when she’d been little and afraid of how the world seemed constantly against her, to imagine her father reappearing in her life and being on her side.

Then she got a little older and started thinking that maybe there was a reason Rhonda had never mentioned him and that maybe it was best to do as her mom had, and just forget about him.

But now, she had a feeling there was a much better reason that thing had known about him, which meant there was a reason it, and all the weird things like it, had known about her.

And if they were coming to finish what the last monster had started, there was no better time than the present to find out what that reason was, before it was too late.

She held her breath and flipped the lid off.

Coughing as the dust swirled around her, she tried to make sense of what she was looking at.

Some kind of flower crown was nestled next to a bottle of wine. The flower crown was much too small to have been Rhonda’s. It also lacked too many flowers to be called a flower crown. Stephanie picked it up. Gingerly at first, then gripping it tighter when she realised how much her hands were shaking.

Grapevines. Weirdly, it still smelled faintly of freshly cut branches, the tart scent of green grapes still clung to it.

She put it down, trying to tell herself she was imagining the weird spinning feeling in the tips of her fingers that lingered where she’d touched it.

The bottle of wine she ignored. Living on a vineyard meant that there was wine everywhere, and finding it tucked into a shoebox was not the weirdest place she’d found a stray bottle.

Besides, it was the letter that was hidden beneath it that was much more interesting.

There was only one. A purple envelope holding a cream-colored piece of paper. It was handwritten, the letters were squat and thick. They looked ancient, somehow.

“Dear Rhonda,” It started.

Stephanie practically ripped the paper from the envelope to reveal the rest.

“I write because news has arrived that you’re expecting a child. I offer first my congratulations. Secondly, I extend my sincerest apologies and I feel compelled to warn you.

Your child will be no ordinary child. This child will be half-god, half-mortal, and while that may sound like quite the asset — and in some ways it might be— it will also bring some complications.

Some forces would rather see it that your child doesn’t survive into adulthood, forces that are far too powerful for you, or any other mortal, to try and fend off.

As long as we gods exist, so will they, and they won’t cease to try and extinguish us, which unfortunately often leads them to pursue our children since they’re easier to kill.

But I’m not writing to waste your time waxing poetry about the balance of the world, instead, I’ll give you some advice.

In this letter, I’ve included a few things. The first two are gifts, and they’re yours to do with as you please.

Personally, I would keep them somewhere safe, since they’re rather valuable.

The third is a flyer, for a camp. Should the stress of raising a demigod, and believe me, you wouldn’t be the first mortal mother to buckle under the pressure, I suggest you send your child to the address listed in the flyer. There your child will be protected, cared for, and trained properly.

You’ll do your best, of course, to raise your child — but too many mortal parents hesitate to entrust their children to proper trainers, and this is a mistake.

I trust you won’t act so carelessly.

Ps. If you haven’t decided yet, I’ve always favored the name Eliá.

- Dionysus, god of wine,

Olympian council member no. 12.”

Stephanie blinked. She read the letter again. And again. Then she flipped the box over to make sure there weren’t any other letters hiding from her. Nothing.

This had to be some kind of sick joke. A prank her family planned on playing on her before deciding that pretending her dad was a god was a bit too far.

But she knew her mom. Rhonda Overbaum didn’t joke. Her grandparents maybe but they’d never as much as mentioned her father’s existence.

She picked up the wine bottle again. Olympus Vineyard no.43 1912 Port.

Stephanie felt dizzy.

Then the door swung open. Rhonda frowned first at the mess on the floor, then at the cut on Stephanie’s face.

“What on earth—” Then, as Stephanie’s eyes darted to the letter that was still clasped in her right hand, Rhonda noticed the shoebox, and all its contents spread around Stephanie.

Rhonda’s eyebrow twitched upwards only once. Then her face set, the stone-like expression she always put on whenever Stephanie tried to mention something weird that had happened to her appeared in the lines of Rhonda’s face.

“Oh.” She said.

“Mom—” Stephanie began but Rhonda held up a hand, her expression warning,

“Not here,” She interrupted, casting a nervous glance down the hallway towards the kitchen, “Upstairs.”

Rhonda barely let Stephanie stand up before she grabbed the wine bottle, the crown of vines, and the letter and shoved it into the shoebox. Then she grabbed Stephanie’s wrist tightly as if Stephanie was going to fight her grip, then she took off down the hall, shoebox tucked tightly under her blazered harm.

“She fell.” Rhonda huffed at Meemaw and Peepaw before they’d even gotten a chance to ask what happened to Stephanie, staring at them with mouths hanging open at the sight of the crusty splotches of red on Stephanie’s clothes, the deep cut across her forehead and cheek. “She’s fine, I’m taking her upstairs to clean it up.” Rhonda added, not bothering to sound reassuring as she took the steps faster than Stephanie thought possible in heels. She tried to keep up, her leg muscles burning, stumbling a little on the last step as Rhonda tore down the hallway past paintings of vineyards and wine bottles that Stephanie felt she’d never noticed until now. The dark eyes of a plump boy with vine leaves wreathed in his curly mane of hair met her gaze for a split second before Rhonda whisked Stephanie into her bedroom and shut the door behind them.

Chapter 5: 2002 - IV

Chapter Text

The cool, wet washcloth stung when she first pressed it to her cheek, then the sharp pain dulled to a numb throbbing.

Rhonda sat opposite her on a desk chair, the toe of her foot tapping nervously against the floor, her hands fidgeting, picking at invisible skin tags on her thumbs.

In the distance, the sun was starting to creep up on the horizon. It was summer, and the nights were short, but Stephanie felt like she and Rhonda had sat there in the bedroom for eons, going over the same story over and over again. Every time Rhonda finished, Stephanie would ask her to start over. Each time, she hoped it would make sense, but every time Rhonda stopped, she felt just as confused as before.

It didn’t make sense. None of this made sense.

“Start again,” Stephanie said, “I still don’t understand.”

Rhonda blew out an exasperated sigh. “When I met your father,” she said, impeccably painted nail picking at her skin, “I knew there was something about him. Something more. But I couldn’t put my finger on it, I just thought I was…” She’d paused the same place every time, easing to a slow pace, her face screwed into a grimace like each syllable had to be wrenched from her core, “In love, I guess, but it was brief, and when he left, I tried to put it behind me.”

“But you couldn’t,” Stephanie chimed in.

“I couldn’t. I still had this… feeling, and then when you were born, that letter arrived out of nowhere. I don’t even remember it being delivered. I couldn’t explain how it had found the hospital, and I didn’t understand a word of what he was trying to say.” Rhonda squirmed in her seat. “But I knew.”

“You knew.”

“I can’t keep repeating it, Steph,”

“I just don’t understand why you wouldn’t just,” she gestured vaguely, “say so,”

Rhonda sighed. “I don’t see things like you do, Steph. I tried, at first.”

Stephanie put the washcloth back in the bowl sitting by her feet. The blood dissolved into the water, swirling crimson streaks turning it a deeper shade of red.

“The letter mentioned a place you could send me,” she said, “Why didn’t you?”

Rhonda snorted. “Oh yeah, that.” She straightened up, looking a little more like herself, “I didn’t see how shipping you off to some strawberry farm would help. What kind of mom would do that?”

Stephanie blinked. “It was a camp.”

Rhonda crossed the room to her dresser and opened the top drawer, shuffling through neatly folded pairs of socks. She fished an old, crumpled flyer out and handed it to Steph. “There,” she said, “Delphi strawberry farm.”

Stephanie looked down at the folder. Two kids with 80s haircuts in orange shirts grinned up at her in front of a red Victorian house.

“Camp Half-Blood: Keeping heroes (mostly) alive for nearly three millennia,” She read aloud, flipping it over, there was a picture of winged horses grazing a field, “There’s an address too.” She looked up at Rhonda, who looked like Stephanie had just started chanting in Latin.

She grabbed the flyer and held it up to her nose, squinting at it. She held it up in the early morning sunlight streaming through the windows. She opened it. Closed it. Then she gave up and threw it on the bed next to Stephanie.

“Weird.”

“Really weird.” Rhonda agreed, “Still, I don’t see why I would send you away. So far there’s been no reason to just up and leave…”

A harsh cackle rang through the woods outside. Stephanie’s head whipped around in the direction of the sound. A figure looking suspiciously like the thing she’d fought earlier flew over the treetops before diving into the woods, disappearing.

“What? What is it?” Rhonda asked, following Stephanie’s gaze.

“A reason to leave,” Stephanie muttered.

*

“Wilderness school, eh?” Jeremy was leaning on the doorframe to his brown-stone house by the time Rhonda’s little silver Toyota had rolled up to the curb. Jeremy was Rhonda’s older brother, who’d moved out of North Carolina when he was 18 to go to some Ivy League college, before settling in Washington D.C to run a luxury real-estate business. This was often the first thing people noticed about him, and sometimes the only thing they noticed because it was all Jeremy cared to talk about.

“Hi, Jeremy,” Rhonda huffed, heaving Stephanie’s duffel bag that they’d hastily stuffed full of clothes and whatever else they assumed Stephanie might need.

“Hey Uncle Jeremy,” Stephanie echoed, following on her mom’s heels.

The trip to Washington had been exhausting in more ways than one. The first hurdle was just getting packed in the car while Meemaw and Peepaw asked question after question, and Rhonda and Stephanie did their best to lie their way through it. They couldn’t tell the truth, so in a pinch, Rhonda had told the family that Stephanie would be visiting a wilderness school in New York, and if the visit went well, she’d be enrolling to stay.

Then there had been the constant moving on the actual trip. Apparently, word got around between monsters quickly, and every time they’d pulled over to get gas, use a restroom, or buy food, a monster had spotted them before Stephanie could spot them.

Jeremy stopped Stephanie at the door, his manicured, tan hand clamping down on Stephanie’s shoulder.

She tried not to wince. Most of her body ached after her encounter at the wedding. It was the closest she’d ever come to losing, and considering it was the most physical she’d ever gotten in a fight, that wasn’t promising.

“Jesus, kid,” Jeremy’s brown eyes scanned Stephanie’s swollen, bruised face. The deepest of the scratches had been a hot topic of debate between Meemaw and Rhonda. Meemaw thought it would need stitches. Rhonda, knowing they didn’t have time to drag Stephanie to a hospital, insisted it just ‘looked’ deep.

Stephanie reluctantly agreed with her grandma but didn’t feel like sitting idly in a waiting room. If she could blow up panini stations, she didn’t want to take her chances with hospital equipment.

“What happened to you?” Jeremy asked.

Stephanie opened her mouth to answer, but Rhonda beat her to it.

“She fell in the woods.”

Jeremy’s lips split open to show his artificially white teeth, which made the rest of him look desaturated in comparison. It was a smile Stephanie had seen before on the news, on billboards selling legal advice, and on election posters. It was a smile that encouraged putting a down payment on a house just a little out of your budget and ensured you that the signs of mold in the basem*nt were an easy fix.

He barked a short laugh, his hands coming to rest on his hips, pushing his grey blazer back to reveal the slight beer belly he’d developed since Stephanie had last seen him at Christmas. She suppressed a groan. That meant they’d be dieting again.

“You have your mother’s spirit, that’s good, means you’re a fighter,” Jeremy mimicked a few boxing moves into the air.

Rhonda did not comment. Instead, she moved on to the rest of Jeremy’s family, who’d appeared in the hallway.

Jennifer, Jeremy’s wife, and the editor of a culinary magazine, sprung forward to greet Rhonda. Jennifer, like her husband, was more of a concept than a singular person. Her manicured hands, pristinely tied up blonde hair and veneered smile promoted a healthy, balanced diet and the newest spring collection of kitchen utensils.

Stephanie couldn’t point out one thing she knew Jennifer actually liked, other than Jeremy, and their house, which she changed constantly to fit the seasons and newest interior design trends.

She and Rhonda got along great.

Stephanie slipped quietly past the adults to her cousins. Maisie, the youngest, had inherited Jennifer’s blonde hair and Jeremy’s tendency to tan in the summer and stay tan through the winter, always looking like she’d come from a tropical vacation somewhere. She greeted Stephanie without looking up, eyes fixed on a hot pink, glittery Tamagotchi.

Christopher Junior, or Topher, was a couple of years younger than Stephanie but the way he’d always carried himself with the serious, somber expression of an old man made it easy to forget he wasn’t the same age as her.

“You don’t look like you fell,” Topher said, eyeing the cut on Stephanie’s face with the greyish-blue eyes he’d inherited from no one in the family. Between the two of them, they were the only members of the Overbaum family who hadn’t inherited their trademark dark brown eyes. Stephanie’s grape-green eyes stood in contrast to all of them but at least next to Topher, they didn’t look too out of place.

Stephanie shrugged in response, not sure what else she could say. She wasn’t in the mood to convince him.

“It’ll scar,” Topher remarked, wrinkling his freckled nose, then he turned on his heel and followed the adults into the living room, leaving Stephanie in the hallway.

She caught her reflection in the full-length mirror Jennifer had installed. She touched her cool fingertips to the bruised, swollen side of her face. She tried to picture the long scratches as white, jagged scars on her forehead and cheek. She’d rather they didn’t stay, but if they did, then they’d at least go well with the scar running across her lips.

There was no impressive story of monsters with claws behind that scar. Just a cautionary tale about not keeping your knives where a five-year-old can find them and use them to pick their teeth, as seen in cartoons.

Stephanie wasn’t hungry but in Rhonda’s world, being on the run from monsters apparently didn’t make a good enough excuse to skip having to sit through dinner.

She felt restless and slightly feverish. She’d given up on picking at her grain salad. If Jeremy saw her hand shake as much as it did, he’d comment on it, and she really didn’t want any more attention. It was enough that she kept glancing up from her plate to find Topher’s eyes settled on her with an unreadable expression.

The noise of something clattering to the ground outside the house made Stephanie flinch but she kept her eyes fixed on her plate. She didn’t want to have to explain to her family that she had to excuse herself to go outside and fight a fight she’d probably lose in ten seconds flat.

“Topher, something the matter, champ?” Jeremy asked. Maybe it was Stephanie’s already frayed nerves making her imagine things but it almost sounded like Jeremy was a little nervous himself. She looked up to find Topher staring at the wall behind Stephanie, frowning.

“There’s something in the alley,” he said, frankly, “it’s scared, though, so it won’t come in.”

Then he shoveled a forkful of broiled cod and grain salad in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully while Jeremy chuckled, baring an uncomfortable amount of teeth,

“Kids, eh?” He told Rhonda.

“Yeah…Kids,” She replied, eyes locked on Stephanie over her wineglass.

Chapter 6: 2002 - VI

Chapter Text

Doom. That was always how her dreams started. With the overwhelming certainty that she was doomed.

But she always kept running anyway.

She followed the same route every time, without thinking about it, like a train running on pre-laid tracks. Though the surroundings occasionally changed slightly, it largely remained the same backdrop of dark buildings stretching so tall they seemed to disappear into the stormy skies above her.

She smelled smoke. Heard the clattering of metal on asphalt, and the scraping, raspy laughter echoing against the concrete buildings.

She glanced over her shoulder, furtively glancing at the maze of buildings she’d left behind. She saw nothing.

She never did at first.

As soon as she turned back she was forced to come to a sudden halt, nearly crashing into the hotel-like building that had appeared, taking up the entirety of the world ahead of her.

Had it always been there? It didn’t matter.

It was nothing like Whitland, which in the business was known as a ‘boutique hotel’ — a cute way of saying ‘small’. This was a monstrosity gilded in gold, with lavish windows and doors carved out of marble. She could probably be lost in there forever, never to be found.

Which was good, right?

The alternative was the dark alleyways that had opened up the sides of the building, leading to another set of twisting roads.

As tempting as it was, she never picked the hotel. It felt sinister, somehow, in all its glory. Its placement right there on the road felt like too lucky of an escape. Nothing was ever so simple. She couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever was waiting in the endless corridors was worse than being chased through the alleys.

She went for the darkest roads. Maybe she’d lose the crowd pursuing her if she could keep her bearings.

Of course, just as she thought it, the alleyways became an obstacle course of flaming panini stations, wedding guests, and clawed hands grasping after her, trying to grab hold of her clothes, her ankles and her hair.

She dodged it to the best of her abilities or swung at them with a weapon she wasn’t sure she’d always had.

At least in her dreams she was a good fighter.

She took a left. Then another. Feeling her way in the darkness. She just had to trust that there would be more road ahead of her. That the darkness would end and she’d find her footing.

Naturally, her pursuers had no trouble at all, yelling taunts at her in a language she didn’t recognize but understood perfectly.

Just as she lost her footing on some marble-like things that she’d stopped questioning long ago, she heard their footsteps pick up, getting closer.

The hairs on her neck stood up.

Dead end. She reached her hand up and found nothing but stone. There was no out. She turned to face the pursuers following her when they came crashing around the corner.

Any second now. She thought. Strangely, a part of her, deep inside her wanted to beckon them on. Wanted them to come to her.

Maybe she just wanted this dream to be over now.

“What are you doing?” A voice called from behind the wall, muffled and echoey through the stone.

“I don’t know.” Her voice responded, or at least she thought it was her.

“Move!” The voice behind the wall called. It sounded confused and desperate. “Come on, Steph! Run!”

“I don’t know.” Her voice repeated, tinny and raspy, like it was being played back on one of her grandparents’ old vinyls.

“I think–” her voice began, exhausted and resigned, “I think—”

Something shifted ahead of her. The flick of a tail. The glistening of teeth and claws. Fire and smoke. She couldn’t even make out how many of them there were in all the movement through the darkness.

But they were all coming for her.

She felt the first weapon pointed at her before it even made contact. A tingling, rushing sensation in her ribs that beckoned her to move. Her instincts maybe? It didn’t matter. It was futile. She couldn’t have moved in time if she tried.

The dream shifted before she could come to terms with the fact that she was a goner.

Something brushed her hip and she flinched, suddenly aware that her surroundings were different.

She was standing in a clearing. Gnarled tres that looked dusty and dehydrated were covered in fresh, spring-green ivy like tinsel on a long-dead Christmas tree. In the distance, tents had been raised in formation like a military camp, but the people in it were in a chaotic state; cheering and hollering as they danced and played cards and drank.

The smell of wine was thick and heavy. It made her dizzy, even in her dreams, to simply breathe in the air.

People were singing and dancing in the clearing, women with dried flowers in their hair and gossamer dresses, and men with horns growing out their heads playing music on panflutes and make-shift skin drums.

Their weapons were lazily cast aside, leaning on the sides of the tents or strewn on the ground.

It had been hard to pinpoint why the camp, with all its cheerful celebration and music, had been unsettling until Stephanie heard it. Wailing. Mixing with the laughter and singing. It came from further into the camp. A white tent. An infirmary.

They’d won whatever battle they’d been camping to fight. But not entirely without losses.

Something large brushed against her side again and she jumped back when she realized it was a large cat, spotted and double the size of a great dane. It sauntered casually past her, before turning its head back to look her in the eye.

Emerald eyes glistening, it co*cked its head in the direction of the camp.

Stephanie didn’t need to move to follow its cue, the dream simply blurred and came into focus and she was inside one of the tents.

Its dark purple fabric made the inside feel like it was covered by the darkness of night, despite the sun barely touching the horizon outside.

It was quieter, too.

Only a couple of people were assembled around a person crouched in the middle of the tent. The light shining through the top encased them like a spotlight, their elaborate red and pink robes glittering in the streaks of light. Their dark hair was sleek and neatly decorated with a golden headdress. Their eyes were fixed on the ground, a tight frown drew a line between their brows.

Someone laughed. Both the person crouching on the ground and Stephanie looked up to find the source of the laughter. Lounging on a throne-like chair at the back of the tent, the source was a young person, and from where she stood, Stephanie had a hard time figuring out if it was a girl or a boy; their features obscured by the shadows. Dark curls enrobed a plump, feminine, sunkissed face, a sharp nose pointed towards smirking, thin lips. Their eyes were hidden beneath their thick, dark lashes as they looked down on the crouching figure, laughter still rumbling in their chest.

Beside them, a couple of the horned men were sitting, slack-jawed and heavy-eyed, giggling into their goblets. A couple of women with wild hair and torn dresses kept careful watch over the crouched person, their eyes blown wide and bloodshot. Their bodies were tense, shoulders squared and teeth bared like they were waiting for the cue to pounce.

The crouched person kept their gaze fixed on the throne.

“Why would I waste my time with fortune telling?” The person lounging asked, “As you can see, I’m not exactly lacking at the moment,”

The crouched figure, Stephanie assumed this was the fortune teller, shifted. Their jaw was clenched as they drew breath through their nose. “It’s not so much about fortune, my lord. It’s more akin to what your homeland’s oracles would perform.”

The lounging lord snapped his fingers and one of the horned men jumped into action, handing him an overflowing goblet of wine. He didn’t seem to mind it dripping down his tan arms and his chin as he took a long drink, before wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

“Indeed? Tell me then, why should I bother letting you peer into my future? I have oracles, as you say, at home who could easily fulfill your purpose, and at a much more opportune time,”

The fortune teller opened their mouth and then snapped it shut, their lips pressing into a thin line. Their dark eyes sparkled like onyx pearls. Tight lines ran around their mouth and eyes. Their shoulders were drawn tight up to their ears. They bristled, at first Stephanie assumed it was out of repressed anger – Rhonda often did a similar thing seconds before she flew into a rage when something went wrong with her planning – but then she saw the fortune teller’s eyes roll back into their head, body convulsing softly. No one else in the tent seemed to care much that they were having some sort of fit. Finally, their body went slack with a heavy sigh like a weight was lifted off their back. Sweat glistened on their forehead.

“My lord,” the fortune teller gulped down a breath, color drained from their face, “I did not come here to compete with your oracles. I hear they are of excellent skill, enforced by your mighty brother—”

“So let me ask again, in simple terms,” The lord interrupted, his words slurring as he sat up, “Why are you here? Why not bother someone else?”

A new expression struck the fortune teller. “I think— I believe I have to be here, my lord,”

“Oh?” The lord yawned.

“It’s hard to say…These things are hard to explain... I’m sure you know,” the fortune teller’s face darkened as their chin dipped, “I think I’m here to relay a message to you, it’s urgent, and it won’t…” they squirmed again, their hand trembling as it found their robes and adjusted them, their eyes squeezed shut, “The messengers won’t leave me until I deliver it,”

This made the lord laugh, loud and long. A high pitched laughter rolling through the tent like a child’s, “Is that so?”

“A warning, my lord,” The fortune teller said, somberly, their eyebrows twisting up in an almost sorry expression, “From the gods. Mine, and some of yours, as retribution for what you’ve done here,”

“That many, eh?” The lord studied his nails, which were tinted red with what Stephanie hoped was wine, “quite the line-up,”

“Yes, my lord,” The fortune teller said, their shoulders loosening slightly, “Your fate, and your future, depends greatly on it,”

“That tends to be the case with oracles and fortunes,” the lord agreed, his words dipping into his goblet as he raised it to his lips again,

“Y-Yes, my lord.” The fortune teller sniffled, shaking like a cold breeze had run through the tent, though the temperature remained the same stuffy, dry heat.

The lord sat up, suddenly looking alert and more sober than Stephanie had assumed possible considering the purple tint of his lips and teeth. He leaned forward, face coming into the light streaming into the tent, his eyes barely visible through the shaggy, dark curls. The color of pressed grapes.

“But,” he said, voice low and serious, “It is a very serious matter you bring here, into my camp. It’s a dangerous thing to play with the fortune of gods. We don’t like to have words put in our mouths.” his purple teeth glistened as his lip drew back, “I hope your pantheon knows that too,”

“I’m sure the message is not meant as a declaration of war,” the fortune teller’s voice was higher than before, “My gods have not altered your fate, my lord. The dice were thrown the moment you decided to invade. No, It’s a warning of what’s to come, the outcome of your victory here—” The line between the fortune teller’s eyebrows deepened, “Nemesis is your god of retribution, yes? But also balance. No victory can be had without some loss from both sides. Here, we consider it payment, and this message warns not of the losses you’ve already paid, but one to come, as a result of this war you’ve waged,”

The lord sat back, rolling his eyes, revealing the bloodshot whites of them, “I’m sensing there’s an ‘unless’ coming,”

“Unless,” the fortune teller nodded, the jewels on their head-dress shaking from the motion, “there’s change, in your course,”

The lord snorted into laughter again. Manic giggles bubbled in the throats of the horned men and women around him.

“Gods do not change.”

“What you do with it is up to you,” another shiver ran up the spine of the fortune teller, they looked like they were about to be sick, “I’m only tasked with relaying the message.”

“Who sent you?” There was a sharp edge to his voice now, something dangerous glistened in his eyes.

“My lord?”

“I want to know who sent you,” he repeated, leaning forward so fast, Stephanie was surprised he didn’t fall right out of his seat, “You said some of my family had a hand in this payment? I want to know who I can thank for this inconvenience when I return,”

The fortune teller frowned. “I do not know who exactly is involved, gods do not always like to show themselves as they are,”

“Spoilsport,” the lord murmured.

“I’m sorry?”

“Nothing. Nevermind.” He put his goblet down and clasped his hands together, lips twitching up at the corner at the sight of the fortune teller flinching, “Let’s get this over with then, shall we? If you’re so sure it can't be avoided,”

The fortune teller nodded. “I’m sure, my lord,”

Stephanie never got to hear what the message was, or what payment the lord needed to be warned about.

The dream shifted so suddenly that she nearly crashed into a coffee table.

The living room she suddenly found herself in was so different from the clearing that she needed a second to realize just what she was looking at.

There were no giant cats here, no men with horns growing out of their hair, and no fortune tellers or drunken lords.

It was a simple, cozy living room, if a little dusty. Outside, a heavy downpour drummed on the roof and windows. Through the open arch to the kitchen, she saw two girls sitting at the dining table, looking a little uncomfortable. Their hair was unkempt and tangled, their faces dirtied and bruised in a way Stephanie felt odd recognizing.

They weren’t bruises you got from schoolyard scraps with other kids or accidents. She’d seen them on her own face more times than she could count recently. They were bruises you got fighting things bigger and stronger than you, bruises that got you dragged aside by teachers and well meaning old ladies in the grocery store to ask if everything was alright at home. But Stephanie had a feeling their bruises, like hers, weren't from home.

A woman was humming a frantic, disconnected tune at the kitchen counter, her back turned to all of them. The youngest girl was watching the woman with alert, grey eyes.

The older girl was looking past Stephanie into the living room.

A man and a boy were having a hushed conversation in front of the fireplace. She couldn’t make out their muffled voices, but going by the man’s tense expression and the boy’s tearful, angry eyes it wasn’t good.

As if someone unplugged Stephanie’s ears, their voices reached her.

“What’s going to happen? If you love me, then tell me.” The boy had to look up to meet the man’s eyes, but that didn’t stop him from trying to stare him down, hands balled into tight fists.

The man grimaced. “I can’t tell you. You know this.”

The boy bristled. “Then you don’t care.”

“I do care, Luke,” the man said, “but—”

“I don’t need you, you know,” Luke sniffed, “I have a new family,” He glanced towards the girls in the kitchen, “I don’t need your help, either of you,”

The man shifted his weight, looking into the fire. “I’m your father,”

Luke scoffed, “A father is supposed to be around, I never even met you!” He shoved past his father, not caring that his shoulder impacted with him, nearly knocking him into the mantle above the fireplace.

“Come on,” he barked at the girls, not waiting for them on his way to the door, “We’re leaving.”

Stephanie was leaving, too.

The dream morphed again, and she was in a new clearing.

It wasn’t the same as before. This one was lush and green, heavy shadows fell from the treetops. The sky was golden above her.

It would have been beautiful if it weren’t for the screaming.

A fight was happening all around her. Volleys of arrows rained down, shot by invisible archers. People cried out as they attacked their enemies. It didn’t matter where Stephanie looked, everywhere was chaos and bloodshed. As much as she wanted to run, to escape before someone noticed her, she remained rooted to the ground.

Something was coming. The trees and undergrowth bristled as it moved. Stephanie could do nothing but watch as it pounced on her, sending her into the grass.

Paws the size of dinner plates held her down. Emerald green eyes stared, unblinking, into her own.

She felt the panther’s breath, hot and bitter-sweet like fermented grapes, on her face.

The panther spoke without opening its mouth, in the voice of the fortune teller.

Child of ivy, lime and wine.

Three to be born, against the odds,

Two can be saved, but one will be lost.

At the millennia turn,

It has begun.

The Toyota rolled over a pot-hole and Stephanie jolted awake, drenched in sweat.

“Sorry,” Rhonda muttered, eyes glancing into the rear-view mirror, “Did you get some good sleep?”

Stephanie wiped the sweat off her brow and turned the AC up, “No.”

They were silent for a moment. The song playing from the speakers faded out. A guitar riff strung out, startling Stephanie.

“Let’s go girls,” Shania Twain beckoned.

“Hey,” Rhonda said, “Could you be a hero and find a new cd? God— erh, gods?—knows I love her but I can’t listen to this again.”

Stephanie ducked down to the pile of CDs at her feet. They’d started neat and organized, but around the 5th hour of driving, she’d given up trying to maintain the order.

Stephanie fished out a CD and shoved the disk into the sound system, watching the player eat it. The beat kicked in. Charles and Eddie crooned over an upbeat piano melody.

“Look into my eyes,

would I lie to you, baby?

Would I lie to you?

(Oh yeah!)”

The landscape changed and turned from flat highway roads to fields of flat grass and buildings here and there. It was somehow the exact same as North Carolina, and completely foreign at the same time.

Stephanie wondered, sinking into her seat, if this was going to become a routine, or if it would always feel this weird to drive all the way up here.

The folder, which she’d kept tucked in the pocket of her shorts the entire trip, so she could pull it out to read it over – partly just to make sure she hadn’t imagined it, mentioned that it was optional to stay year-round.

Stephanie had never been away from Whitland before, except for a few short trips with her family. To stay somewhere so far away alone seemed daunting, and at the same time, weirdly freeing.

She didn’t hate Whitland. She didn’t think she could ever hate it.

But she would be lying if she thought the promise of a camp full of kids exactly like her, away from her family; her mom’s tight jaw at the mention of anything mythological, and her well-meaning, but ultimately ignorant grandparents. Away from her school with teachers who couldn’t even help her with her mortal difficulties, let alone assist in fending off monsters sounded, well, like a dream come true.

She’d miss her friends, though, the few of them she had.

And the vineyard. Her room. Dusty and cramped and plastered in stickers and drawings to make up for the white walls and furniture.

Rico and his staff in the bustling kitchens, cracking jokes to lighten the mood when Rhonda was in a bad mood.

Her grandparents laughing at dinner whenever a guest from the hotel wandered into the Old House on accident.

The smell of the fields in summer when they’d just been watered. The popping sound of wine bottles opened at the end of the harvest when everyone gathered on the large backyard porch to eat and drink together.

If she stayed at camp, would all of that just be over for her? Knowing Rhonda, her room would be turned into a second office, or a gym or a storage unit the second she decided to stay permanently.

Was leaving supposed to feel this heavy?

“Nearly there,” Rhonda noted, turning the car onto the highway exit. She glanced in Stephanie’s direction, “Ready?”

Stephanie watched the traffic lines disappear under the car, suddenly aware of how each one passing brought her a little farther from home,

“Definitely.” She lied.

Chapter 7: 2002 - VII

Chapter Text

“And you’re sure this is the place?” Rhonda asked. Her eyes were fixed someplace through the windshield of the car. Behind them, Farm Road 3.141 curled around the base of the hill, leading to the lazy afternoon traffic of The middle of nowhere, Long Island as Rhonda had described it.

Despite it being June, the weather had turned since they reached New York. The sky was overcast, and the air heavy and humid. Insects flew low to the ground. In the distance, a few birds dove after them.

“Unless the banner is wrong, then yeah,” Stephanie replied.

“Banner?” Rhonda squinted, eyes dancing around the tree line. Stephanie wondered what she saw, though she doubted it was anything interesting given her mythological blindness.

On the last stretch of the road trip, Stephanie had decided to question Rhonda about the whole ‘I can’t see what you see’ thing. She couldn’t think of a single good explanation why Rhonda and all the other adults who’d masterfully waved Stephanie’s concerns off as a vivid imagination and tv addiction (She didn’t even watch that much tv…Anymore) shouldn’t be able to see what she saw. She clearly wasn’t hallucinating these things, so Rhonda not even being able to see half of them was confusing, to say the least.

They had politely nibbled on the ten-grain buns that Jennifer had made for Jeremy’s diet. Apparently they were very low in cholesterol. They also resembled hard tacks more than bread, and after three pointed looks from Stephanie, Rhonda had suggested they take their breakfast with them on the road. They’d stopped at a roadside diner to get actual breakfast. While they ate, Stephanie had recounted all the weird supernatural encounters she’d experienced near Rhonda, while Rhonda gave her version of the story in return.

“The guy at the high school that one time?” Stephanie had asked, skewering a piece of pancake onto her fork.

“He just had a limp, no?” Rhonda asked. She was already done eating her eggwhite omelet and had moved on to nursing a cup of black coffee.

Stephanie shook her head while chewing. “Goat legs. Horns,” she said, thickly, before swallowing. “He was eating a soda can. Chewed right through the metal.”

Rhonda made a face. Stephanie couldn’t tell if it was from her speaking with her mouth full or the thought of chewing on aluminum. “Oh.”

“Kindergarten. Speech therapist.” Stephanie pointed her fork at Rhonda.

Rhonda thought about this for a moment, sipping her coffee. “I guess she had a bit of an odd-ball personality but I just thought that was from working with small children…”

“Snake.”

“Snake?”

“Like ninety-nine percent sure, yeah.”

“Yikes.” Rhonda’s eyebrows jerked upwards. She looked like she regretted having breakfast.

Stephanie put her fork down, her appetite gone as she thought back over the past couple of days. Talking about the monsters she’d seen as a kid was one thing. She still had scratches on her arms. Her face ached with every expression she made, the skin around the gashes tight from being a little swollen. Topher was probably right about it scarring. It hadn’t become just another distant memory yet, and honestly? She wasn’t sure if it was a good idea to bring it up so soon…

Rhonda’s head tilted, “What? You’ve run out of monsters?”

Stephanie met her eyes, brows furrowed. “No, just…The wedding?”

Rhonda’s mouth became a thin line, her chin dipping as she took a deep breath. Stephanie prepared herself for Rhonda to change the subject, finally shrugging her off. She figured her mom would revert to her old self eventually. Already by having this conversation last more than ten seconds, she was pushing her luck. But then Rhonda straightened, her face void of any readable expression and repeated,

“The wedding.”

Stephanie picked up her fork again, twirling it between her fingers. She needed something in her hands. Something she could look at that wasn’t her mom. The smaller of the scratches on her cheeks were starting to itch, the skin was still swollen and bruised. She was pretty sure Topher was right about them scarring. All those other monsters were practically ancient history; distant memories that felt more like dreams than actual things that had happened to her. The wedding had been two days ago, and everytime she caught a flash of her reflection she was painfully reminded of how real it was.

“What did you see?” Stephanie asked, “When it happened?”

Rhonda’s dark eyes were darting around Stephanie’s face, like she was picturing her as she had been that night: blood running down her face, hair loose from its braids, shirt ripped.

“I didn’t see it, or I don’t think I did.” Rhonda said, “It’s funny, when I try to picture it now there’s this blur over it, like a dream or… something,” she said with a shrug. “Everyone agreed the table suddenly caught flame, which ignited the gas canister heating the grill. A freak accident, probably a candle or something. I was able to win over the bride and groom with a discounted trip to the vineyard for their first anniversary. They were just happy no one was hurt…” Rhonda was tapping her painted nails against her mug, her lips pressed together; the closest she could get to apologetic,

Stephanie’s lips formed a pout, her eyes stuck on a ring of coffee sullying the clear mint-green table. She’d nearly died that night, her face was possibly going to look like she’d gotten mauled by a bear for the rest of her life, and everyone present at her near-death-scene had boiled it down to a freaking candle.

My life is so messed up…

Rhonda’s fingertips inched across the table as she started to reach out, before seemingly changing her mind halfway through. Her palm rested flatly against the middle of the table.

“I’m guessing that’s not what really happened?” Rhonda’s voice was low.

Stephanie didn’t dare to move her eyes from the dried ring of coffee. She wondered who left it there, and what they’d talked about as they’d sat in her seat. Probably something completely normal. She chewed her words.

The worst part of the trip hadn’t been the monsters that forced them to cut their snack runs and leg stretches short. It wasn’t the bickering that had developed between them, as it always did when her mother and she were stuck together in an enclosed space. It wasn’t the nightmares she’d had every time she’d drifted off.

The worst part of the whole trip had been the glimpses of normal she’d seen everywhere; the other kids begging their parents to get their favorite snack at a gas station, tired truck drivers stretching their backs on their way to the bathroom, tired faces of morning commuters behind the wheels of cars they'd passed on the highway.

A bell rang over the front entrance to the diner. A family of four entered and sat down in a booth a little away from the two of them, the kids practically diving nose-first into the faux leather booth, the parents casually discussing something as they browsed the menus. The waitress promised to be right over, refilling a man’s coffee cup while he browsed the morning newspaper.

Every regular person they’d met was a stabbing reminder that Stephanie was not. She was not normal. She’d always suspected it, obviously, but now it was confirmed. And every mile that brought her closer to camp took her further and further away from that.

“It’s eyes were black,” she said, deciding to keep the description brief. It was less real that way, “and it had claws and wings, and teeth…”

“Oh my!”

“It was terrifying by the way… Thank you for taking it so seriously,” Stephanie muttered bitterly.

“Sorry,” Rhonda’s lip was twitching, “I thought you liked that movie?”

They hadn’t spoken much more the rest of the trip.

When they’d finally found the address, which wasn’t marked other than a small sign advertising Delphi Strawberry Services, Rhonda had slowed the car to a halt. They’d sat there, in silence, staring out the windshield, not quite believing they had actually arrived.

Stephanie was afraid to move. Afraid to speak first. It was strange to think that the best decision of her life could be waiting just a short trek from the car. Alternatively, it was terrifying to think it might be the worst decision of her life…

Her mind was racing with the possibilites of what would happen when she entered the camp, the majority of which her brain painted out to be helpfully negative.

There was only one way to find out, she guessed.

She took a deep breath and unbuckled her seatbelt. She knew her father had gifted Rhonda the flyer with the intention that she would, you know, use it eventually. Still, as she stepped out of the car, she felt like she was trespassing into forbidden territory.

Rhonda followed suit, hand lingering on the handle of the car door.

In front of her was a forest of pine trees, separated in the middle by two marble columns with an orange banner tied between them, waving softly in the breeze.

WELCOME TO CAMP HALF-BLOOD!

“Well, I just love what they’ve done with the place,” Rhonda mused, leaning on the hood of the car, arms crossed over her chest.

“You don’t see anything, do you?” Stephanie smirked.

“Some old, barely standing buildings and dusty strawberry fields. Not exactly a place I’d send my kid for the summer.” She shrugged, before turning to Stephanie.

“Okay, here’s what’s going to happen: You’re going to go in there, find whoever is in charge and bring them out here,”

Stephanie frowned. “Why?”

Rhonda gestured to the hilltop, “What do you mean ‘why’? I’m not just going to dump you here without making sure the place — lovely as it looks—” She gestured to the trees, which to her probably looked a lot less inviting, “Isn’t run by some axe murderer or child cannibal or something.”

“Child cannibal?” Stephanie repeated, brows raised.

“Whatever!” Rhonda scoffed, “I just need to know it’s an actual summer camp. Now go,” She waved her hands at Stephanie. “There’s a limit to how long I want to wait alone in the middle of nowhere, and it’s coming on fast.”

Stephanie had no choice but to turn and walk towards the marble columns, mumbling to herself that she wouldn’t exactly have been surprised if Rhonda had dumped her there.

Stephanie didn’t know why it was called feeling butterflies when you were nervous. Every step she took felt less like a butterfly took flight inside of her and more like a small grenade went off, sending shockwaves of jittery nerves buzzing through her. By the time she reached the tree line, she felt like someone was running a low electric current through her. She wiped her face with her shirt sleeve. Despite being on the coastline, the summer air was heavy and cloying.

Or maybe she was just lightheaded from the shere size of it all.

It was bigger than she thought a summer camp would be. The flyer contained only a few photos and most of them showed sepia-toned campers from decades ago, not the actual camp itself. She’d never been to a summer camp before, but she’d pictured a clearing in the woods. A few log cabins. Canoes. People roasting marshmallows over a small bonfire. Sleeping bags crammed together under the stars.

She had not pictured marble buildings shimmering white in the sunlight, scattered across a vast, green valley. There were, to her surprise, actual strawberry fields tucked behind a large, three-story Victorian house. Lush rows of green plants continued past the curve of the hillside. She could just make out figures walking along them.

Opposite the blue Victorian, campers in orange t-shirts were playing volleyball. A couple of older-looking boys — she assumed these were counselors? — watched them on the grass, sitting under a shaggy, furry blanket that seemed way too hot for the weather.

Something flew over the treetops in the distance, and for a moment fear seized her. Surely, they didn’t have monsters here? That would defeat its purpose, wouldn’t it?

Then the gigantic, winged creature let out a whinny and Stephanie had to squint to make sure she was seeing it right. She thought they were kidding when they mentioned the pegasi in the flyer. She figured they’d dressed horses up with fake wings or something. But there it was; an actual flying horse. The girl riding it high-fived another rider as they joined them in the skies.

Rhonda beeped the horn impatiently, shocking Stephanie out of her open-mouthed staring.

Stephanie had been so busy taking it all in, she’d forgotten she was still technically standing outside the camp. She sort of understood her mother urging her on, but if she could see all this Stephanie didn’t think Rhonda could blame her for staring.

On the volleyball court, a large, redheaded kid of about thirteen years scored a goal. His team cheered. The opposing team laughed at a brown-haired girl’s ridiculous-looking attempt at saving the ball, resulting in her tumbling into the sand where she lay laughing, clutching her stomach. The older boys overseeing the game laughed with the same braying laughter at something one of them had leaned in to remark.

She figured they looked non-threatening enough to talk to. If the two older guys were counselors, then they’d probably know where to find whoever was in charge, she just had to go past the threshold…

She knew it was stupid but she held her breath as she took the final step past the marble columns. She half-expected sirens to go off, announcing to the campers that she was intruding on their grounds.

Instead, nothing happened, other than the sun feeling a little hotter, and the air more pleasant. She could smell the ocean, and the strawberry fields baking under the sun. She could hear a distant gurgling from a creak in the woods somewhere, and the laughing from the volleyball game.

In the distance, down by the beach, a low building smoked. The sound of metal striking metal rang out across the valley like church-bells.

She walked slowly, cautious of every move she made in anticipation of the campers seeing her. AND she'd almost made it completely unnoticed when her Converse slid on the gravel and she almost slipped about twenty feet away from the Volleyball court, alerting the two counselors of her presence.

She felt extremely awkward, making the final paces to where they were, now that they were looking at her.

The counselors, however, seemed completely casual, like they were used to kids dropping in unannounced and nearly biting the gravel.

“New kid,” one of the counselors remarked, lifting his yellow cap to rustle the auburn-brown curls underneath,

The other counselor, a slightly older-looking guy with a whispy beard and shaggy curly hair, moved to stand up. “Gee, Owen I hadn’t noticed,” he said, rolling his eyes.

As they stood, Stephanie realized they weren’t covered with a shaggy blanket but that their legs were the blanket. Feeling a surge of deja vu, she remembered the men from her dream. Sure enough, as they approached, she could make out the horns growing out of the shaggy curls, and the cloven feet.

“I’m Asa,” The oldest of them pointed to himself, then to the younger guy with the cap, “This is Owen—” Asa looked behind Stephanie, frowning slightly at the empty hillside she’d come from, “—is your protector coming?”

Stephanie gripped the shoulder strap of her backpack tighter, trying to channel her nervous energy into her hand instead of her whole body, “My…Protector?”

“The satyr who guided you here?” Owen chimed in. The sweatshirt he was wearing read Pan Rulz — whatever that meant— “Did he send you ahead without him?”

A concerned expression appeared on both their faces at the same time.

Asa said, “He’s not hurt is he?”

“No, he’s fine,” Stephanie said, before catching herself, “Erh I mean he’s not—”

Asa turned to Owen, “Send Elijah to search for him; he can’t be far...And remind E to bring a weapon this time. I don’t care how much of a pacifist he is and neither do the monsters,”

“Wait!” Stephanie said, already feeling like she’d managed to mess this whole thing up, as usual, it didn’t take long, “You really don’t have to do that.”

Owen looked between her and Asa, “Do you want me to go or not?”

“He’s fine?” Asa asked.

“He doesn’t exist,” Stephanie said, “I don’t have a protector, or whatever you call it,”

Asa and Owen shared a look, while she shifted her weight uncomfortably. Her knuckles were white, nails digging into the shoulder strap.

“How did you get here then?” Asa asked, squinting, “And don’t try to tell me you walked here alone. No offense, but very few kids your age could make it here unharmed without a protector, although—” He eyed the deep gashes on Stephanie’s face, and for once she was happy she was so bruised; her blushing wouldn’t show through as much, “—I guess you didn’t make it entirely unharmed,”

“I made it on my own.” A short, Hispanic girl called lazily over her shoulder on the volley court,

“And you were comatose in the infirmary for a week from over-exhaustion, Stella,” Asa barked back,

Stella yawned, lifting her shoulder in a half-shrug.

“My mom drove me.” Stephanie said once Asa turned his attention back to her again.

Both of the satyrs made a face.

“Is that…bad?” Stephanie asked. She wouldn’t be surprised if it was. That'd be just her luck, coming here and finding out she'd already messed up before she even started.

“Not bad,” Asa scratched his beard, “Just… unusual. How’d she know where to go?”

Stephanie pulled the flyer out of her pocket and handed it to Asa, hoping his confused expression would soften but instead, his frown lines grew deeper as he looked it over.

Beside him, Owen eyed it hungrily,

“My dad gave it to her,” Stephanie said, hoping maybe that would clear up whatever question kept lingering on their faces.

Asa looked from the flyer to her, brow quirked. “I haven’t seen one of these in years.”

“Ooh, Vintage,” Owen said,

Asa jerked it away from him. “Not for eating! Stay focused, man,” He handed it back to Stephanie. “You said your godly parent gave this to you?”

“When I was born,” Stephanie replied with a nod.

“Well, that explains some of it,” Asa said, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “And if he gave it to you, I’m assuming you know who it is?”

“Is that not normally the case?” Stephanie asked,

“Not really,” Owen snorted. “The gods don’t make a big fuss about showing themselves to their kids. They don’t even let them know they’re half-god, most of the time.”

He nodded in the direction of the campers behind him, lowering his voice, “Some of them never get told. Takes a few weeks for them to adjust when they get here since their entire world’s gone—” He mimicked the sound of an explosion.

Stephanie felt a little dizzy. That didn’t sound very reassuring, even if it did line up with the treatment she’d gotten from her dad so far.

“But don’t worry,” Asa said, “Already knowing who he is only makes things easier. You might even get to skip cabin 11 if he claims you before nightfall,”

“Cabin 11?”

“Hermes,” Asa said, “As the god of travelers and strays, his cabin takes in new campers until their parents claim them,”

“If they claim them,” Owen added.

Asa swatted his shoulder, “Dude!”

Owen didn’t seem to care much, shrugging. “What? It’s the truth…”

He sized Stephanie up like he was already silently placing his bets on who it might be, and he wasn’t alone. Behind him, a few of the more idle volleyball players were starting to stare,

“Who is it then?”

Stephanie tried not to squirm under their gaze. She squared her shoulders, trying to look confident.

“Dionysus,” she said, hoping they couldn’t hear the slight crack in her voice.

She didn’t think they noticed, though; as soon as the name left her lips several things happened at once.

Owen went into a coughing fit. Asa looked like he might faint, his face draining of color. The redheaded kid on the volleyball court’s head whipped around to look in Stephanie’s direction so fast he forgot what he was doing.

“Ow!” The brown-haired girl who’d fallen earlier rubbed the side of her head, the freckles on her nose wrinkling as she grimaced, “Watch it, Malger!”

Malger blushed, eyes darting from Stephanie to the girl he’d hit, “Sorry! Sorry, Cass…”

The other volley players stood frozen, watching her with mixed expressions that ranged from intrigued and amused to worried. One particularly promising boy looked downright sorry for her.

“Dionysus,” Asa gasped like he’d forgotten how to breathe. Beside him, Owen was still hacking and coughing.

Stephanie was finding it increasingly difficult to maintain her cool, calm, and collected posture, spine curling more and more as she shrunk into herself. Maybe she’d gotten her mythology mixed up. Maybe Dionysus wasn't the god of wine but the god of bad luck and summer camp-based horror movies?

“Yeah?” she said, then, “Are you okay?” when Asa swayed dangerously.

The satyr shook his head, trying to collect himself.

“Just peachy!” he said, his voice a few octaves too high to be convincing,

“Is it like bad luck or something?"

“No! No, it’s great! He’s really—” Owen choked out before falling back into another coughing fit. Asa padded him frantically on the back,

“Listen, would you maybe walk up to the Big House with me, real quick?” He squeaked.

Before Stephanie could answer, he’d already grabbed her wrist and started dragging her toward the blue Victorian.

She glanced over her shoulder as she was strung along, only to find the volleyball players talking to a group of archers who’d just come from the woods. A few of them gestured towards her. The archers all turned their heads to look as she was practically thrown through the open door to the house.

“Look, I don’t know what’s happening right now, and if it's that bad I can just leave but—"

"Well—"

"—but! If this is going to be a big deal," Stephanie said quickly, words nearly stumbling over one another in order to get everything out before Asa could take off again, "My mom is waiting by the car and I promised I would find whoever is in charge so she could talk with them.” Stephanie said.

Asa was wringing his hands, glancing down the hallway. “Your mom….wants to speak… with the person in charge…?” He repeated dryly, swallowing hard.

“If it’s not too much trouble,” she said. She thought, Even if it is, my mom will have me drag them out there anyway.

Asa grimaced, “Okay. Okay! Alright, just—” He grabbed Stephanie’s shoulders and hastily moved her into the parlor, apologising as he bumped her into a lamp, then a worn leather sofa (She wasn't sure if it was directed at her or the furniture)

“—Wait right here. Don’t move.” Asa said, already backing away towards the staircase. He was about to take the stairs when he suddenly turned,

“Oh! And do not go into the kitchen.”

Stephanie gave him a half-hearted thumbs up in response.

When he disappeared up the staircase, and the clip-clop of his feet became distant enough, she let out the sigh that had been building inside her. She pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes, trying to steady herself. She hoped it would block the world out but instead she was met with the memory of the other campers staring at her. The archers' heads turning in unison to catch a glimpse of her.

She wished she knew enough mythology to guess why they were all acting so weird about this, unfortunately she was coming up blank.

Maybe this was a mistake, part of her thought, maybe it was better to stay at Whitland and be flayed alive.

But then the memory of the monster resurfaced in her mind. Its raspy whispered voice asked,

Will your father be disappointed when he discovers your fate began and ended here?

She hadn’t thought much about what the monster had meant until now but maybe it meant there was hope? Maybe it meant her father didn’t think her fate was supposed to end at Whitland.

Which meant that maybe he thought her fate was at camp…

She tried to hold on to that thought. So what if the campers had some sort of bad experience with Dionysus? By the sound of it, the gods didn’t make common appearances at the camp anyway. Hopefully, he’d continue to ignore her and stay far away, leaving her to make a much better impression on his behalf.

Asa reappeared with a middle-aged man in a motorised wheelchair. He still looked frantic, glancing towards the hallway. The middle-aged man on the other hand looked completely calm, giving her a reassuring smile as they approached,

“Hello, you must be the new camper Asa mentioned,” the man extended his hand. “I’m Chiron, the activities director,”

Stephanie shook his hand. It was warm and slightly calloused. It reminded her of her grandfather, whose hands were weathered from working at the vineyard his whole life.

Chiron didn’t exactly give the impression of being someone who did a lot of work with his hands; from the waist up he was dressed in a tweed blazer, a cardigan vest, a white cotton shirt, and a dark red tie.

His legs were almost completely covered with a thick blanket, only the toes of his leather shoes stuck out at the bottom. He looked like most of the writers who came to Whitland to work on their books in peace, not exactly what she’d pictured an activities director at a summer camp to look like.

“I’m Stephanie,” she said. She opened her mouth to ask about her mom, whom she was sure was tapping her foot impatiently on the dirtroad and checking her watch but Chiron was quicker than her,

“Now, Stephanie, how are you feeling? Nervous? Jittery? On the verge of a breakdown?” Chiron asked.

She glanced at Asa’s pale face beside Chiron. His left eye had developed a nervous twitch.

“A little...” She admitted.

Chiron let out a warm chuckle, “All perfectly normal. It is admittedly a lot to take in.” He gestured to Asa, “Now, I must admit I wasn’t expecting a new camper to be brought in by Asa, I thought for sure that he was taking a break from searching—”

“I didn’t bring her in,” Asa said, cloven foot tapping nervously on the wooden floors of the parlor, “That’s what I meant to tell you before.” He added in a panicked whisper, nodding towards Stephanie, “Her mother brought her in and she wants to speak to her father,”

Chiron frowned. “Her father is…here?” he asked, confusion edged into the lines of his face,

“She doesn’t have to speak to my dad, just whoever’s in charge,” Stephanie explained,

Understanding dawned on Chiron’s face. He looked to Asa, who nodded wildly.

“I see,” He flashed an apologetic smile at Stephanie. “The thing is, Stephanie, if your mother wants to speak the person in charge of Camp, she will have to speak with your father, as he is in charge here,”

Stephanie frowned. Surely, she didn't hear that right. Why would a god spend their time at a summer camp?

“He’s here?” she said, eyes darting from one to the other. Between Chiron's conspiratorial expression and Asa's nailbiting, they didn't give much away. “Since when?”

A childish part of her; the part that used to fantasize about her dad arriving out of nowhere and saving the day whispered in the back of her mind that maybe he was there for her and she had to suppress a laugh. Definitely not.

“Since…A while ago,” Chiron said furtively, “It’s a long story, one perhaps best told by him.”

He started the wheelchair down the hallway, “Why don’t you come along? I believe he’s usually found in the kitchen this time of day,”

On the short walk from the parlor to the kitchen, Stephanie’s mind managed to throw every question it could come up with at her. They all centered around one main question:

What on earth was the protocol for meeting your dad for the first time?

Should she hug him? Shake his hand? Bow?

No. That was too weird. She’d play it safe and do nothing... Unless it was like meeting royalty and doing nothing was considered insulting?

She shook the thought off. God or not, her dad had been than a mysterious shadow in her life until just a few days ago. No more, no less. She’d have to remind herself that the god part didn’t cancel out the fact that he'd never bothered to send as much as a birthday card.

He could afford to be a little insulted by her. Not showing up in your kid's life what-so-ever while hanging out in a summer camp full of other people's kids was pretty insulting too, if you asked her.

Chiron parked his wheelchair in the doorway to the kitchen.

Bracing herself, Stephanie joined him. Unsure of what to do with her hands, she started wringing them until she looked over and saw Asa doing the same thing. She shoved them in her pockets instead.

The house’s kitchen was mostly blue with white accents on the cabinets and drawers. A coffee machine stood next to the old-fashioned gas stove that looked completely unused. The floors were checkered linoleum. A microwave was stashed in the corner.

Someone was standing behind the open refrigerator door, obscuring them from view.

Except, it wasn’t just someone.

Stephanie felt like she couldn’t breathe right. Should she say something? What was she supposed to say? There was no good way to start that conversation.

Also she wasn't sure she wasnt immediately vomiting onto the linoleum floors if she tried opening her mouth.

Luckily, Chiron either sensed Stephanie’s nervous breakdown threatening to kick in for real or decided it was best an adult handled the conversation.

“Mr D?” he said,

“Mhm?” a gruff voice replied. There was a scraping sound from the fridge like he was moving things around.

“There’s someone here to speak with you, it’s u—”

“Don’t care.” Mr D interrupted, followed by more sounds of things being removed from the fridge and set down on the counter,

“If it’s a personal problem, take it up with your cabin counselor,” he said flatly like he was repeating himself for the hundredth time, “If it’s a maintenance problem, speak with the staff— Not me!— I can assure you anyone else on the staff will do just fine.”

Stephanie’s brain felt like it was breaking apart as it tried to form an image of her dad. When it was unable to fit this first impression of him into any of the boxes she’d dreamt up as a kid, a sense of panic steadily crept up her spine as she realized she was completely and utterly unprepared for this moment. She had no idea who her dad was. God or not. He could be anyone.

Oh god, she thought, he could be anyone.

And so far he seemed like someone who sucked. At least she could understand Rhonda being attracted to him in some distant past.

Eugh. Gross! that's not an image I needed right now... she thought, supressing a gag.

Amid her mind scrambling to make sense of what she was hearing, a synapse in her brain managed to connect for a second to ask, Is he… wearing flip-flops? before breaking apart again.

Chiron cleared his throat. Stephanie could’ve sworn there was a note of hesitation in his voice.

“It is rather delicate,” he said, brown eyes quickly darting to Stephanie, then back to the fridge door. Staring into the sunglass-wearing pineapple fridge magnet was apparently easier than looking at Stephanie.

The was a soft scoff from behind the fridge. “In case you couldn’t tell, I’m extremely busy today.”

Stephanie couldn’t see what he was doing exactly but it sounded a lot like he was stacking things into his arms.

“It’s your daughter.” Chiron said, voice so tense, Stephanie was surprised it didn’t snap clean in half.

The fridge door slammed closed.

A silver can of soda clattered to the ground. Stephanie followed it with her eyes as it rolled towards her until it bumped against the tip of her shoe. She picked it up. She didn’t realize gods drank Diet co*ke.

Or she didn’t realize he did.

Right, she thought. Because this meant…Her brain seemed to kick into its regular speed just to reel at the realization.

She looked up.

Stephanie had pictured many ways her dad might’ve looked through the years. She’d gone through all the possible variations: Tall, short, fat, thin, beard, no beard, etc.

She’d done extensive research on the matter. When she was little she’d quizzed Rhonda, using Meemaw’s women’s magazines, on whether she thought George Clooney or Leonardo Dicaprio was better looking.

The results had been inconclusive. It seemed Rhonda did not like any men. Except for Rico, maybe, who didn’t count because he was Rico.

Then, two days ago, she’d started renovating her old ideas of him to fit the image of the god Dionysus better. She wasn’t sure what he looked like exactly but she figured he’d look a lot more…godly?

A golden aura, perhaps. Trumpets blaring. A crown of laurels. A six-pack or something?

She had not pictured the middle-aged dude in a leopard-print Hawaiian shirt, purple shorts, and flip-flops standing in front of her with an unreadable expression on his face.

His cheeks were flushed. The shadow along his jaw was moreso pushing ten o’clock than five. His eyes, the color of pressed grape skins, were bloodshot and heavylidded. His dark hair was curly and unkempt.

He looked like the guests at Whitland when they stumbled into the restaurant the morning after a wedding to nurse their hangovers with the complimentary breakfast — not a greek god.

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

Chapter 8: 2002 - VIII

Chapter Text

Mr D snorted.

“Well, hello to you too. You’re not exactly easy on the eyes either, child.”

Stephanie wanted death. Nope, death wasn’t good enough. She wanted something worse than death.

She’d said that out loud.

Behind her, Asa barely covered up a nervous laugh with a cough.

Mr D—Dionysus—glared at him.

Asa made a noise like a goose choking on a piece of styrofoam, promptly excusing himself and setting into a sprint down the hallway.

Mr D looked at Chiron, who was slightly better at hiding his discomfort.

“And what about this exactly is so urgent?”

He said this in a way that meant her, though he was careful to look anywhere but at Stephanie, which didn’t bother her. She was still waiting for the ground to take mercy on her and swallow her whole.

She’d said that out. Loud.

“Her mother is here, and she wants to speak with the people in charge, however, I imagine she might want to speak with you especially.” There was something smug in Chiron’s voice like he was secretly happy to be the bearer of bad news.

Looking at the way Mr D’s face contorted painfully at the mention of her mom, she could understand why; he looked like Stephanie had just shaken the can of Diet co*ke and opened it, spraying him with ice-cold soda.

It was nice not to be the most uncomfortable person in the room anymore.

His eyes landed on her, frowning deeply, like he was mentally running through a roster of unimportant demigod children to forget about.

“Your mother is here?”

“Yep.” Was all Stephanie could say, not quite trusting herself with full sentences after her last attempt at speaking because she’d just said. That. Out. Loud.

His eyes widened slightly as he seemingly found her place on the list,

“Your mother…Rosa?”

“Rhonda.”

“Rhonda…Overbaum?”

“That’s her.”

Mr D closed his eyes for a moment, looking like Stephanie had just picked up a fresh can of soda and started shaking it.

“Well, isn’t that just wonderful?”

Stephanie knew enough to figure that was rhetorical. She bit down the urge to mention that she wasn’t exactly thrilled about how this had worked out either.

“I don’t suppose you could tell her I’m not here?” he asked Chiron.

“She’ll be angry if she doesn’t get her way… Besides, she might be disappointed if you don’t go.” She had a bit of trouble voicing the last bit, overcome with the sudden realization that she was saying this, not to the camp director, but to her dad.

Mr D grimaced. “What makes you think that?”

Stephanie swallowed. Nothing. Nothing made her think that except for the very selfish part of her, one that sounded awfully like her five-year-old self, which wanted desperately to see her parents interact just once.

Sure, it was an interaction bound to end in flying shrapnel and flames on the grass but as it were, ten-year-old Stephanie really wanted to see that.

“She hasn’t seen or heard from you in years, not since the letters anyway…”

“Letters? What letters?”

Oh great. You don’t remember, or you don’t care. That’s just perfect.

She glanced between him and Chiron, who looked very intrigued at the mention of the letters. He looked like he couldn’t wait to tease Mr D about this conversation later.

Since you don’t remember…

“The letters you sent her when I was born? You attached a bottle of wine with it — something about being sorry I was born?” She resisted the grin that threatened to break out on her face.

Mr D’s face remained annoyingly steady, bored even. He blinked once. Twice.

“Oh, you mean those,” he said, as if the memory had just come to mind, “Well, judging by your manners so far, I suppose I do owe her an in-person apology.”

Ok. Ouch.

Mr D didn’t cast another glance in Stephanie’s direction as he moved past her and Chiron down the hallway, trudging along with his hands in his pockets.

Stephanie turned to Chiron with a pained expression.

“I really said that out loud…”

Chiron patted her shoulder. “You’re far from the first, dear.”

Mr D’s voice called down the hallway. “Well? Are you coming or not? I’m not doing this alone!”

Stephanie didn’t answer him, trailing behind Chiron’s wheelchair.

An in-person apology. An apology for her...That stung...How hard would it have been to say, oh those! Sorry about that. I’m sure you’ve grown up to be a great kid, despite my zero contribution to the project ?

The three of them garnered a lot of attention from the other campers. They'd gathered quite the crowd in the time she'd been inside, probably helped by Asa, who was looking better. He was chatting animatedly with a group of satyrs in the outskirts of the forest.

Cass and Malger from the volleyball game were both eagerly spreading the word with the other campers as well. The majority of the crowd gawked after them as they passed by and Stephanie finally understood why.

Given that her dad had managed to come across as a world-class jerk in just a two-minute conversation with her, she imagined the kids at camp were interested in scoping out any resemblance between them. After all, had Stephanie not been his kid, she’d probably have been curious about what kind of kids that guy would produce too…

At the top of the hill, by the marble columns, Mr D stopped and turned to Chiron.

“I don’t want to hear a word about this, by the way. Not a word.”

Chiron raised his hands, feigning total innocence but the smug expression remained on his face.

Rhonda was leaning against the hood of the car, arms crossed, watching them as they approached.

Mr D came to a halt in front of the car. Keeping a safe distance from Rhonda.

Chiron remained by his side.

Stephanie floated somewhere between them, not sure which side she was supposed to take. Neither was particularly inviting.

Rhonda said, “You’ve aged terribly.”

Mr D said, “And I see your agreeable temperament hasn’t changed.” He flashed a quick, dangerous smile at her.

Rhonda opened her mouth to reply, fire blazing in her dark eyes but Chiron cleared his throat,

“I understand you wanted to speak to us, perhaps about young Stephanie here?” He nodded in Stephanie’s direction, reminding her parents that there was a ten-year-old present.

Stephanie said nothing but secretly she felt a little disappointed— she had a feeling this had been headed somewhere good. Highly caustic but good.

“Right, let’s not waste any time,” Mr D said, hands on his hips, “Spill it.”

Rhonda glared at him, probably thinking all the things she would’ve said if there hadn’t been children present. “I was getting to that.”

She turned to Chiron. “This whole camp, how exactly does it work? For us…for me.”

Chiron’s expression softened. “Most children come here for the summer only and attend their regular schooling the remainder of the year,” he said, voice steady and reassuring, “For some, the world is simply too dangerous, posing too many threats for them to focus on their studies. For some, their mortal parent lives too far away; rendering the journey back and forth too risky. These children stay here year-round. They are not forbidden from going home, of course, but they must inform us about this first,”

“So you’ll teach her…here?” Rhonda glanced up the hillside again.

Stephanie tried to imagine it as Rhonda had described it. From her mother’s perspective, she could see how this might be an absurd conversation.

“I assure you the skills we teach here are paramount to a demigod’s survival. Everything from the theoretical knowledge of the mythical world and the creatures that inhabit it to the fighting skills needed to defend themselves against them are invaluable. I also oversee regular classes, more or less on the same level as their mortal schools in the off-season, but I like to think learning how to fight takes priority for a young demigod, at least at first.”

“So no more cuts and bruises,” Stephanie said, picking at the scabs on her cheek.

Chiron chuckled, “That’s the goal, yes,” His eyes flickered back to Rhonda, who was biting her lip, thinking. “I understand leaving your child here may seem daunting but it really is the safest place for her.”

Rhonda nodded courtly, taking his words in. Then her eyes fell on Mr D, who raised his brow.

“And you? How do you fit into all this?”

Mr D rolled his eyes. “It hardly matters why I’m here.”

“But you’ll watch over her,” Rhonda said, there wasn’t even the ghost of a question mark in her tone. Instead, something like a threat crept into her voice.

“As unfortunate as it is, it is my job to, so yes,” Mr D said.

Rhonda’s brow quirked upwards dangerously.

He adjusted his face to look slightly more sincere.

“You have my word.”

Rhonda nodded again, more assured this time.

“What do you think, Steph?”

Stephanie looked at Mr D, who was staring off into the distance, looking like he wanted to go anywhere but there.

If she had to choose between her parents currently—and she couldn’t believe she thought this either— she’d prefer to stay with Rhonda. Mr D did not seem either qualified or interested in protecting her. At least Rhonda tried, even if she was unsuccessful, to take care of her.

But it wasn’t like she had much of a choice. It was camp or getting killed by some monster the second she set foot on the grounds of Whitland, and Stephanie knew which one of those options she preferred.

“I mean,” she said, “I can always come back at the end of the summer?”

Rhonda’s chin dipped. “I’m only a phone call away, you know.”

“I know,” Stephanie said. She thought if you answer, that is.

Rhonda held out her arms. Stephanie stepped into her embrace, allowing herself one soft moment of burying her face in her mother's blazer, breathing in her perfume; the faint lingering smell of potpourri and flower arrangements.

“I’ll see you at the end of the summer?” Rhonda sniffed.

“See you,” Stephanie said, the lump in her throat didn't allow her to say more than that. She swallowed hard, not wanting to further ruin her reputation with her dad by being a crybaby as well as badly mannered.

The following goodbyes were swift. Rhonda felt no such attachment to either Mr D or Chiron.

They watched her car disappear around the bend of Farm Road together.

Stephanie pressed her lips together, trying to ignore the hollow feeling in her insides that grew bigger the smaller Rhonda’s car became in the distance.

“Call me for dinner.” Mr D snapped his fingers and disappeared into a cloud of purple glitter.

The air smelled vaguely of grapes.

Chiron cleared his throat. “Alright then, let’s get you settled in.”

*

Getting settled in began with the orientation film, which Stephanie was sure she would never forget, no matter how hard she tried.

(Apollo seemed exactly like she’d imagined him to be, for better and for worse. Chiron turning out to be a horse had been a bigger surprise.)

Next came the tour of the camp. The forgery was down by the beach, which was full of campers hammering red-hot metal to make weapons and armor. A few of them were repairing something, though Stephanie didn’t recognize what it was, exactly, other than it was huge, and looked to be some sort of creature. A black kid about her age was melding two pieces of a giant, metallic head together. When he finished, he gave the head an remourseful pat, shaking his head slightly.

The strawberry fields, Chiron explained, were the camp’s way of making money by selling the fruit to restaurants and Mount Olympus in New York.

“The gods like strawberries?”

Chiron smiled. “Doesn’t everyone?”

Stephanie couldn’t argue with that.

“The fields are mostly tended to by the satyrs and Demeter’s children. Although I’m sure, with you here, they’ll have an extra set of hands, seeing as the strawberries are mostly your father’s doing— we would’ve grown grapes since that is more his forté, but seeing as that would go against his restrictions—”

“Restrictions?”

Chiron looked down at her, puzzled. “He did not tell you about that in his letters?”

“He didn’t tell me anything, really.”

“I see,” Chiron came to a halt, his front hoof scraping nervously at the ground. “A few years ago, your father took a liking to a certain nymph— I believe it was Carme?— anywho. This was a problem because his father, Zeus, had taken a liking to the same nymph sometime before that. The first time Zeus was lenient; Dionysus was only given prohibition for ten years. The second time, however, his father sent him here to oversee the camp, without alcohol, for a hundred years. Alas, this restricts him from growing grapes that could be turned into wine, and so,” Chiron gestured to the fields. “We grow strawberries. In the fall we also grow gourds and pumpkins.”

“Huh,” Stephanie said. She wasn’t exactly sure how she was taking the information that her father was, to put it frankly, stuck at camp. She wasn’t surprised. It made sense, she supposed. She just wished Chiron had excluded the bit about the nymph, though. The image of Mr D chasing a nymph around was unpleasant, to say the least.

The tour continued along the woods, where they held weekly capture the flag games: camp-wide warfare.

“Or a simulation of warfare, rather,” Chiron assured, “No killing or maiming allowed. Every so often we have a few broken bones and, of course, the occasional loss of limb can’t be helped, but the Apollo cabin is always very effective in sewing wounded campers back together. You can hardly tell if it heals right.”

Very reassuring.

Finally, they visited the armory, the sword fighting arena, the arts and crafts building, the archery range, and the dinner pavilion.

The uses for all these were pretty self-explanatory, though Stephanie didn’t get a very good look at them. Mostly she stared at the doodles she’d drawn on the tips of her Converse while Chiron talked.

Occasionally, she’d look up, only to meet the eyes of a camper watching her carefully, sizing her up, and she’d go back to staring at her shoes like they were infinitely more interesting than the marble buildings and impressive sculptures of the gods, heroes, and monsters from mythology.

Honestly, the shaky rainbows and smileys penned in Sharpie didn’t even come close to the camp's architecture but every time she saw the half-sorry, half-intrigued —often with a side of bloodthirst from some of the bigger campers, who tended to look at her like she was a meal— the pit in her stomach grew teeth and started gnawing away at her.

When they reached the cabins, it was spreading into her arms, making her feel numb and weirdly cold, shivering slightly, despite the hot summer sun baking down on the valley.

The cabins were impressive in themselves. If camp ever ran out of cash, they could start doing tours. They’d probably be popular with architecture students, or classics scholars, given they could find a way to actually see the buildings.

They formed a horseshoe formation with the male gods on one side, and the females on the other. Every cabin was designed to represent one of the gods.

Most impressive were perhaps cabins one and two, towering over the others. Just under the roofs were friezes showing the twelve Olympians. Insignias of their symbols were carved into the doors. They looked big enough to be temples.

Chiron noticed Stephanie’s interest in them and mentioned that they stood empty, as well as Poseidon’s cabin.

“Long ago, in the aftermath of World War Two, the Big Three; Zeus, Poseidon, and Hades, made a pact. This pact ensured that they would not sire more demigod children, as they often ended up being too powerful for their own good. These demigods led to chaos and destruction, their warfare fuelled by a hunger for power and control in the name of honoring their godly fathers; not only catastrophic to the state of the mortal world, it was also an enormous embarrassment for the three brothers. Now, their cabins remain standing in their honor, but it has been decades since a camper last inhabited those cabins,” Chiron explained, his face growing more grave as he added the last bit. His eyes were overcast with remembering.

“And Hera’s cabin?” Stephanie asked as they crossed the green, passing by the big hearth sitting in the middle.

Sat by the hearth was a girl, quietly tending to the flames.

From cabin ten, Aphrodite’s cabin, a girl of about ten years skipped down the porch steps and across the green. The two girls waved at each other.

“Hera is the goddess of marriage, and she takes special pride in faithfulness within marriages, so she has no demigod children,” Chiron explained.

At the end of the female side of the cabins, Chiron came to a halt.

“This is cabin 12, Dionysus’ cabin. It’ll be your home when you’re at camp.” Chiron’s head tilted slightly. “Normally we would wait to move you in until you’ve been claimed, however, in this particular case I think there’s little point in waiting. Go ahead and make yourself at home, I’ll have someone come fetch you for dinner.”

And with that, Chiron reached into his pocket, fished out a key, which he handed Stephanie, and left her standing in front of cabin 12.

One time, when Meemaw and Peepaw were celebrating their fortieth anniversary, they’d gone to France, to tour a collection of vineyards there. They’d brought home photos of cottages in the countryside, flanked by rolling hills of grapevines. Some were larger, resembling Whitland somewhat but most were smaller. Quainter. Built simple and rustic in slabs of stone, with wooden roofs and ivy crawling up the walls.

Cabin 12 was built like that.

Despite her father’s restrictions, grapevines grew up on the banisters and the overhead beams of the porch. Ivy climbed the sides of the cabin, making it look like it’d been sitting there forever, slowly becoming one with the green it sat on. It had a frieze too, in what looked like bronze. Satyrs and women—nymphs?— dancing around a campfire, drinking wine and playing music. It was so similar to what she’d seen in her dream it was almost creepy.

Hesitantly, she stepped up the porch steps. The windows were stained glass, depicting grapevines.

She unlocked the door. It was a little rusty, like it hadn’t been used in a while, but with a little brute force she got it to click open.

The inside was similarly rural. Grapevines grew on the beams that crossed the ceiling. The walls were kept white, though she recognized the chalky texture from the walls of Whitland. Stucco.

There were only three beds. A twin-size that had been pushed into a corner, and a set of bunk beds set against the opposite wall.

She placed her bag on the twin-size bed. Her fingers touched the bedspread, which was dressed in a silky purple fabric.

The masks were creepy, though. She tried her best to ignore them while she unpacked, which proved to be difficult.

They were everywhere, for a start. She recognized them as theatre masks. She was pretty sure Jeremy and Jennifer had two hanging in their living room from some business trip to Japan.

She couldn’t place where all of them were from, the ones she recognized ranged from African to Japanese to Italian pantomime. She assumed, based on everything, that some of them were Greek, as well.

Regardless of where they were from, they all shared equally terrifying expressions, which made it sort of hard to feel at home.

She explored the rest of the cabin. A bathroom was tucked in the back left corner (she was thankful they had their own bathrooms; the shared public bathrooms they’d seen on the tour had been…well, public. And shared. Two things Stephanie despised most in a bathroom.)

The weirdest part was the bulbous stone structure in the right side corner of the cabin. It looked like someone had rebuilt a fireplace, or large pizza oven, into a closet space.

She tried the door. Locked. Then she tried it with the key to the cabin, which didn’t even remotely fit. Peering through the small window at the top of the door, she saw nothing but empty darkness.

Okay…weird. And definitely not creepy.

She shrugged it off, assuming it was an old storage space someone had lost the key to years ago, despite the nagging feeling that it was something more than that.

She’d been given an orange t-shirt, and leather necklace in Chiron’s office after watching the orientation film. The necklace was for the beads the counselors designed and handed out every year. Chiron had said it was a signifier of how long someone had been at camp, as well as a way to commemorate the most significant events of the summer.

Stephanie thought it sounded like a consolation prize for surviving another year.

Chiron had held off on the blue hoodie, which read Counselor across the chest, for now.

“The title of counselor usually goes to the oldest camper in a cabin. Alternatively it may go to the most experienced camper. This is usually decided internally among the demigods in each cabin,” Chiron had explained.

“Are there any other demigods of Dionysus?” Stephanie asked.

Chiron scratched his beard, “None that I know of currently, or, that is to say, Dionysus has never mentioned it.”

“Did he ever mention me?” Stephanie felt the last bit of hope she’d held for her dad shrivel at the way Chiron’s gaze turned rueful.

“As it is, the gods generally don’t like to discuss their mortal families openly,” he said, trying to sound reassuring, but the nervous flick of his tail had given him away.

Stephanie couldn’t tell if she was reassured by the idea of other children of Dionysus running around out there. She guessed, at the very least, that it meant she might not be the only kid he’d ignored.

Had he sent them cards too? Had he apologized to their mothers or had that been a special courtesy, especially for her?

Were they as scared and confused as she was? Tired of being bruised? Tired of being ignored? Were they still holding on to the hope that sometime, somewhere, their dad might reappear and help them out?

At least they still had that… if they even existed.

She didn’t put the necklace or the t-shirt on. This was a decision she quickly grew to regret. For one, as a horn blew in the distance, and kids poured out of their cabins, led by their counselors, Stephanie realized she’d be the odd one out; the only person not wearing orange.

Secondly, her shirt smelled like home, which turned the pit in her stomach into a whirlwind every time she caught a whiff of the familiar scent of Whitland.

There was a rapid knock on the front door to the cabin.

Bathed in the evening sunlight, the tall, brown-haired girl from the Volleyball game leaned on the doorframe, grinning as she looked at all the masks.

“Wow. I mean, I never really thought about what Mr D’s cabin looked like but—” she made a face. “—Wow. He really leaned into the theatre thing, huh?” The girl sauntered across the room as if she’d lived there all her life and Stephanie was the visitor. She stuck her hand out, which was just as freckled as her face,

“I’m Cassandra. Senior camper and counselor of cabin eleven, at your service.” She did a little mock bow. “Chiron sent me to make sure you made it to dinner alright.”

“Why? Is it difficult?” Stephanie asked, which made Cassandra laugh,

“Not at all, but you have to be in the know to know that the horn—” She pointed in the direction of the sound as the horn blew again, the third and final time. “—means that dinner is served, and if you miss it then you miss it. So,” Cassandra nodded in the direction of the door. “You ready to go?”

Stephanie wasn’t hungry, but she didn’t feel she had much of a choice.

*

“Single file, guys!” Cassandra yelled over the chatter of the dozen kids that made up cabin eleven, “‘Kay I’m seeing more of a half-circle, can we get a line of the straight variety? Thank you very much—Esben, Toby, lay off the fighting—save it for Friday.”

She sighed as the group finally got organized enough to take off. Stephanie got to walk by her side, as she technically didn’t belong to cabin eleven.

The sun was slowly beginning to set in the distance, bathing the entire camp in a golden-orange light.

The air had cooled off, a pleasant breeze caressing the camp’s plants and trees. Grasshoppers and ladybugs buzzed in the tall grass. Across the sound, New York’s skyline was starting to glisten as lights from windows and scyscrapers became visible against the blood-orange backdrop of the horizon.

Despite how pretty it all was, Stephanie had never felt so far from home before.

“Normally,” Cassandra said, “You’d start off unclaimed and that would give you time to learn the ropes under the supervision of me and the other senior campers. In some cases, a new kid might be an Athena kid, and then their counselors would take care of teaching them everything they might need to know,” She glanced down at Stephanie. “Since you’re neither, and you have no senior counselors in your cabin, I feel a certain responsibility to help you settle in,”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” Stephanie said, flustered.

Cassandra snorted, “Please, I do it with all the other new kids anyway; what’s one more?” She gently bumped her arm against Steph’s.

“Okay, so,” She spread her arms, gesturing to the collection of tables in the dinner pavilion. “Numbered tables. Each cabin gets one table. Mr D and Chiron sit at the head table —that’s the big one up there at the end—” She pointed to the largest of the tables, where Mr D sat, currently scowling into his goblet, with Chiron standing beside him. A few satyrs filled out the rest of the table, the oldest, meanest-looking ones sitting nearest Mr D in the middle, with the younger, more skittish-looking satyrs sitting near the ends.

“Hermes’ table is the one there at the end on the right side, yours is the one opposite,” Cassandra pointed.

Stephanie’s eyes drifted from the nearly full table where the Hermes cabin had squeezed themselves onto the benches, talking and joking, to the completely empty table marked ’12’.

“I can’t just…sit with you guys?” Stephanie tried.

Cassandra squeezed her shoulder. “Camp rules, I’m afraid… Sorry kiddo.”

Stephanie set off for her table. Cassandra hung back at the table marked ‘7’ for a bit, leaning in to speak with a blond boy of about fifteen, whose eyes darted to Stephanie, whispering something back to Cassandra before nodding.

Stephanie didn’t pay it much attention. They were far from the only kids whispering and glancing at her. In fact, the biggest downside to sitting alone was that there was no one to distract her from the buzz of conversation around her, most of which was lost in the static of noise, except for the odd half-sentences that made it to her table.

Mr D…Since when...Did you see her face?…

At least Asa and Owen were nice enough to give her a little wave from their corner of the head table.

Mr D and Chiron exchanged a few words. Mr D shook his head. Chiron gave him an unimpressed look. After a bit of what looked to be a brief but heated discussion, which Chiron won, Mr D waved his hand irritably and stood, clinking his fork against his goblet.

You could hear a pin drop as all the campers turned their attention to the camp director. Stephanie had her back to most of them, but she could feel their gazes lingering on her. She stared at her tablecloth like it was the single most important thing in her life, wishing she could just slip under the table and hide until the novelty of her arrival had passed.

“Some announcements for the coming week,” Mr D said, “Capture the flag will be held on Friday after dinner as planned. Chiron asks Pastille and Maggot—Hm?—Oh, Padma and Malger, counselors of Athena and Ares’ cabins, respectfully, to deliver their list of allies no later than by breakfast on Friday. He also requests that campers refrain from going into the woods as they have been restocked in preparation for the games. Entering unarmed is at your own risk. Thank you.” Mr D made the move to sit down but Chiron cleared his throat very loudly. Mr D sighed.

“Alright, alright, fine. Ahem. Please welcome our newest camper, Stephanie Olive Overbaum, daughter of me, Dionysus…” Mr D said, like every syllable was causing him physical pain, “Well? don't just sit there and look ashamed. Stand up!” Mr D’s voice snapped at her.

She wanted desperately to ask if she absolutely had to since the whole camp was already staring at her. But having already been reprimanded once for her manners, she didn’t want the second time to be public. She stood but her eyes remained fixed on the tablecloth. She was sure she was blushing deeply enough to blend in with the red sky. She hoped this was customary for new campers, and that everyone else had had to stand, embarrassed to high heaven, while the others looked at her. She wouldn't have put it past Mr D to make her stand just to annoy her, he seemed the type to hold grudges.

She was about to give up and bolt for her cabin with the excuse that she really, really wasn't hungry when something weirdhappened.

The tablecloth turned purple.

Or at least, Stephanie thought it did, until she looked up and realized everyone was now looking at something above her.

A glowing, purple symbol floated about three feet over her head.

A theatre mask, resting against a bundle of grapes. The icon shimmered, turning her and her whole table lavender in the light.

Just as it had appeared, it faded out of existence, leaving Stephanie blinking as her eyes adjusted to the regular light.

She smelled like grape juice. Temporarily, she hoped.

“Wonderful.” Mr D said monotonously, “Now that that’s over with, let’s eat dinner.”

Stephanie wasn’t hungry. Despite the food looking great, she wasn’t in the mood for any of the dishes, which ranged from barbecued meats, salads and different breadrolls to fruits, vegetables, pizzaslices, veggieburgers and chicken tenders. Eventually, one of the nymphs serving slapped a piece of pizza down on her plate with a huff before Stephanie had the chance to politely turn it down for the third time.

She pushed it around on her plate for a while. Picked up an olive and chewed it. It turned to sawdust in her mouth.

If the pit in her stomach had been a whirlwind before, it had upgraded to a black hole, threatening to turn her inside out until she ceased to exist.

*

After some time, a bell rang, and the cabins stood. One by one, they approached the bronze braziers, scraping parts of their food into the flames that lit up the pavillion.

“Psst,” Cassandra nodded in the direction of the brazier nearest to them. Stephanie stood and joined her.

“Offering to the gods,” she explained in a low voice, “you can say a prayer, or simply give your offering as a sign of respect, but we all have to do it.”

“Who do I pray to?” Stephanie wasn't even sure she could remember all their names yet.

“Usually, your godly parent,” One of the unclaimed kids who’d been brawling on the green—Esben— said. Three scars ran down his face, over his eye, in addititon to his love for brawling, vivid teal eyes and the sharp smirk that so far had yet to leave his lips, he looked like someone Rhonda would've adviced Stephanie to stay far, far away from.

Some kids you can just look at and know they're trouble She'd once told Stephanie, while pointing out the kids in her class photo she predicted were troublemakers.

“Yeah…No thanks.” Stephanie said, making sure to say it low enough that Mr D hopefully couldn’t hear.

Esben laughed darkly, “Believe me, I don't love it either but when you have no other way of contacting your godly parent, this is the last resort we're forced to stoop to—” He scraped the juiciest slice of brisket on his plate into the fire, his face falling into an almost meditative expression for a moment, eyes closing, before the smirk returned to his face. “—not that they ever answer, of course.”

Stephanie scraped the piece of pizza into the fire. She wasn't going to eat it anyway. Watching the flames lap at the cheese and turning the crust black, she thought of absolutely nothing.

She returned to her table, glancing up to find Mr D's eyes flicker away from her at the last second back to his conversation with some old, disgruntled looking Satyr, who was loudly complaining about young people littering.

As the sky turned dark, the talk died down. Stephanie was watching the stars appearing in the sky. Behind her, people started to head towards the campfire.

Someone slid onto the bench next to Stephanie, startling her.

The blond kid Cassandra had talked to earlier smiled at her. Up close, his heavylidded eyes were dark blue like the sea. Dark circles ran beneath his eyes. His skin was pale, almost the same color of his light hair. His lips were thin but rosy. He looked like he could be an insomniac member of a boyband. Over his shoulder, he carried a yellow medical bag with a Red Cross patch sewn onto the strap.

“Welcome to camp,” he said, opening the bag and pulling out a small bottle of something clear, which he squirted into his hands, rubbing them together. The scent of alcohol tickled her nose. “My name is Matthias, counselor of cabin seven, Apollo. Also —” His voice was lilting with some accent she couldn’t place. Something European?

He began to pull out pieces of medical equipment, each sharper and pointer than the last, and placed them on the table, rummaging through his bag for something. “— I'm the lead healer at camp. Cassandra asked me to fix your face,” he said casually.

“Oh. Uhm…Thanks?” Stephanie said, eyeing the equipment, which was now enough to keep a surgeon entertained for hours, “Is it going to hurt?”

Matthias looked up from his rummaging, frowning. Then, following her gaze, “Oh…no… here,” He pulled out a plastic ziploc bag filled with what looked like cookie squares. “Up for dessert?” He placed one on her plate.

“Ambrosia.” Matthias started packing all his tools back into his bag, placing each one in its exact place.

“Gesundheit?”

He chuckled flatly. “The food of the gods. In large amounts, it’s deadly to demigods but with the right dosage, it promotes healing.”

Not exactly a good sell. Stephanie grimaced as she looked at the square. It looked pretty normal. If she hadn’t been dealing with the pit in her stomach making her nauseous, she might even have found it appetizing.

Matthias seemed to notice her hesitation.

“It’s up to you, really,” he said, “But I feel I should tell you, that’s all going to scar. Might still, since it didn’t get immediate healing… but it definitely will be a lot worse if you don’t eat it.”

She opted to take it to-go. She could hear the distant thrums of guitar echoing through the camp as she trudged down to the cabins. A few campers were gathering in the amphitheatre to hang out by the campfire before lights out. Stephanie was not interested in prolonging this day.

She got ready for bed quickly and quietly, feeling the lifeless eyes of the masks on her with every move. Maybe she could take them down? It was her cabin now, after all.

She slipped into the twin-size bed. She picked up the ambrosia, and held it in her palm.

She didn’t know how long she sat there and stared at it. Topher's voice mixed with Matthias in her mind. She knew they were right.

If she could have nothing go right with all this. With her dad. With camp. She could at least have her old face back.

She shoved the square into her mouth and chewed, wincing at first, expecting a medicinal taste, or for it to taste like something that had been kept in a plastic bag for who-knows-how-long.

Worse than that by far, it tasted like Whitland.

More specifically it tasted of her grandmother’s cooking. It tasted like the air on those late summer nights in late August, and early September, when harvest season hit the vineyard and everyone who came to help with the harvest pushed the tables on the back porch together at the end of a long day and ate dinner together, laughing and talking till far past Stephanie’s bedtime. The popping sound of a cork being pulled from the neck of a bottle, the gurgle of liquid being poured into a glass. The slightly biting, heady, spiced aroma of wine.

It tasted like the bittersweet moments of Rhonda quietly slipping Stephanie a bag of her favorite candy after they’d fought, along with a lipsticked kiss on her hair; a peace offering.

It tasted like falling asleep on Peepaw while The Muppet Show droned in the background.

It tasted like the burst of fresh grapes, picked at the perfect time, on her tongue. The sunlight streaming through the sliding glass door in her room, turning the dust into golden glitter and making the stickers on her walls and furniture light up.

The smell of food coming from the kitchens. Rico and his staff making Stephanie snacks after school and telling her stupid jokes to cheer her up when she got hurt, again.

The familiarity of home came flooding back to her with every movement of her jaw.

The mosaic-style floors. The way she knew every single one of those tiles. Could trace every painting of flowers and grapes by memory. Knew what they felt like under her bare feet in the summer.

She knew every creak of the stairs, and the floorboards on the second floor; crooked and worn from generations of her family treading across them.

She knew every path and hidden corner of those grounds. Her grounds.

They were as much a part of her as the creases on the palms of her hands and the spots of brown in her grape-green eyes.

It tasted like home. It tasted like home. It tasted like home.

It tasted like home.

And she was not home.