Chapter Text
The road is empty.
You stand there for a long moment, letting the quiet settle over you like a second skin. The camp barrier shimmers faintly behind you, a wall of magic that has kept you safe for four years. Part of you wants to turn around. To walk back through the honey-thick barrier and pretend this never happened. To eat dinner at the pavilion and laugh at Connor Stoll's terrible jokes and go to sleep in your cold black cabin like nothing has changed.
But the bat skull is still in your palm, small and sharp and real. And the road ahead is dark and waiting.
You start walking.
The first hour is easy. The roads around Camp Half-Blood are quiet, winding through farmland and forest that still smell like summer. Crickets sing in the tall grass. Fireflies blink in and out of existence like tiny green ghosts. You keep to the shoulder, one hand on your bow, the other shoved in the pocket of your jacket. Every few minutes, you check behind you. Old habit. Paranoia, Annabeth called it once, and you'd said survival instinct.
Same thing, really.
By midnight, you've reached a small town. The kind with one traffic light, a gas station that closes at ten, and a diner called something folksy like Millie's or The Rusty Spoon. You don't stop. Towns mean mortals, and mortals mean questions, and you don't have time for either. You've got a map and a destination, even if that destination is still three thousand miles away.
Los Angeles. The Underworld entrance. You remember it from last year—the recording studio, the security guard, Charon, the elevator that dropped you so quick, your stomach had felt like it was on a rollercoaster. The memory makes your stomach clench. You don't know if the entrance is still there. You don't know if Hades will even let you in.
But you have to try.
You walk until your legs ache and the sky starts to lighten in the east. Pink and gold, bleeding up from the horizon like a wound. Dawn is always beautiful in this part of New York—mist rising off the fields, birds waking in the trees—but it makes you nervous. Monsters are less active during the day, but mortals are more active. And a fourteen-year-old girl walking alone with a bow and a quiver of arrows tends to attract attention. Maybe the Mist will cover you, maybe it won't.
You need transportation. A bus, maybe. Or a train.
You definitely need coffee.
The diner is called The Blue Hen. You find it on the outskirts of a town you don't bother naming, a squat little building with a neon sign that flickers and buzzes. Inside, it smells like bacon grease and burnt toast. An old man in a trucker hat sits at the counter, nursing a cup of coffee. A waitress with tired eyes and a name tag that says Brenda is wiping down menus.
You slide into a booth near the back, where you can see the door. Your bow is wrapped in a hoodie at the bottom of your bag, but you keep the bag close.
Brenda comes over. She looks at you for a beat too long—taking in the dirt on your jeans, the shadows under your eyes, the way you're gripping your backpack like it might bite her.
"You okay, hon?" she asks.
"Fine," you say. "Just coffee. Black."
She hesitates. You're fourteen and ordering black coffee at six in the morning. You probably look like a runaway. Which, technically, you are.
"You got money?"
You pull a crumpled ten-dollar bill from your jacket pocket. Leftover from the quest, when Percy had insisted on splitting the emergency cash four ways. Just in case, he'd said, pressing the money into your hand. Don't tell Annabeth I gave you extra.
You'd rolled your eyes at the time. Now you want to hug him.
Brenda takes the ten and brings you coffee in a chipped ceramic mug. You wrap your cold fingers around it and let the warmth seep into your bones.
The old man at the counter is staring at you. Not in a creepy way—more like he's trying to place your face. You meet his eyes, and he looks away fast.
Mortals always look away fast.
You drink your coffee too quickly and burn your tongue. It doesn't matter. You've had worse.
The train station is a mile down the road. You find it easily enough—another stroke of luck, or maybe the Fates throwing you a bone for once in your life. The station is small, just a concrete platform and a ticket machine that looks like it hasn't been updated since the 1980s. A schedule is posted on the wall behind smudged glass.
You study it. There's a train heading south in forty minutes. It'll take you as far as Philadelphia, and from there you can figure out the next leg. You don't have enough money for a ticket all the way to California, but you'll cross that bridge when you come to it.
You buy a ticket with the last of Percy's emergency cash. The machine spits out a flimsy paper stub, and you tuck it into your jacket pocket like it's made of gold.
The train arrives right on time. It's old and rattly, with tinted windows and a smell that's equal parts stale cigarettes and industrial cleaner. The fare inspector is a middle-aged woman with a braid of gray hair and an expression that suggests she's seen everything and nothing surprises her anymore. She glances at your bag, at your too-serious face, at the way you flinch when the fluorescent bus lights flicker.
"Got a ticket, kid?"
You hand it over. She punches a hole in it and gestures toward the back.
"Find a seat. We're not making many stops."
The bus is mostly empty. A few tired-looking travelers scattered across the seats, headphones in, eyes glazed. An old woman knitting something that glitters faintly gold—you squint at her, but she just smiles and keeps knitting. A man in a rumpled suit with a briefcase clutched to his chest like a shield.
You choose a seat near the emergency exit. You stow your bag under the seat, within easy reach, and lean your forehead against the cold glass of the window.
The engine rumbles to life. The bus pulls out of the station, and the town slides past in a blur of brick buildings and empty sidewalks.
You're on your way.
Three hours later, you're somewhere in Pennsylvania.
The landscape has changed—less farmland, more trees, rolling hills that blur green and gray through the tinted windows. You've been drifting in and out of sleep, your head bouncing against the glass every time the bus hits a pothole. Every time you close your eyes, you dream of bones. Not nightmares, exactly. Just bones. Scattered across dark earth, half-buried, waiting.
Waiting for what? You don't know.
You wake up fully when the bus lurches to a stop. Not a scheduled stop—there's no station, no sign, just a stretch of empty highway bordered by dense forest on both sides. The other passengers are stirring, looking around with confusion.
"What's going on?" the man in the rumpled suit asks.
The driver doesn't answer. She's sitting perfectly still, hands on the wheel, staring straight ahead.
A prickle of unease runs down your spine.
You reach under your seat and pull your bow free from your bag. You don't string it yet—not yet—but you keep it close. The bat skull is still in your pocket, and you press your fingers against it without thinking.
The bus doors hiss open.
No one gets on.
But the air changes. It gets heavier, colder, carrying a smell you recognize immediately. Rot. Wet earth. The faint, sweet-sour tang of decay.
The knitting woman looks up from her work. Her eyes meet yours across the aisle, and for just a moment, they flash solid black. No whites. No pupils. Just black, like your own.
She smiles. Slow and knowing.
"Child of the Underworld," she says, and her voice is not an old woman's voice anymore. It's deeper, older, the sound of stone grinding against stone. "You walk a dangerous road."
You're on your feet before you can think, arrow nocked, bowstring taut. The other passengers don't react. They're frozen—mid-blink, mid-breath, like someone pressed pause on a video.
"Who are you?" you demand. "What do you want?"
The old woman sets down her knitting. The golden thread unravels on its own, coiling around her fingers like a living thing.
"I am a friend," she says. "Or I could be. If you survive long enough to need one."
"I don't need friends."
"Everyone needs friends." She tilts her head, studying you with those black-hole eyes. "Especially daughters who go looking for fathers who don't want to be found."
Your grip tightens on the bow. "You don't know anything about me."
"I know you carry the skull of a bat in your pocket and the blood of the dead in your veins. I know you shadow-traveled three miles in your sleep when you were eleven and woke up screaming because you'd felt the river Styx lapping at your feet." She pauses. "I know you're afraid. Not of monsters. Not of death. You're afraid of what you might become if someone doesn't teach you how to control it."
The words hit you like a physical blow. You don't lower the bow.
"Who are you?"
The old woman stands. The golden thread slithers up her arm and disappears into her sleeve.
"I am someone who has been watching you for a very long time," she says. "Your father is not the only one with an interest in the dead. Or the living."
She steps closer. You don't move. You don't breathe.
"I can give you answers," she says softly. "Not all of them. Not yet. But enough to keep you alive on the road ahead. In exchange, I ask only one thing."
"What?"
"When you reach your father—if you reach him—tell him the Fates remember what he owes."
The word Fates sends ice water through your veins. You want to ask what she means, what debt, what game she's playing—but the bus engine rumbles again, and the world snaps back into motion.
The frozen passengers blink. The man in the rumpled suit yawns. The knitting woman is just a knitting woman again, her eyes blue and watery, her thread a normal shade of yellow.
"What are you—" you start.
But the old woman is already gathering her things. She gets off at the next stop, a tiny station in the middle of nowhere, and disappears into the trees without looking back.
You sit in your seat, bow still in your hands, heart hammering against your ribs.
The bat skull feels heavy in your pocket. Heavier than it should.
You don't sleep for the rest of the ride.
Philadelphia is loud and bright and too much.
You stumble off the bus in the late afternoon, disoriented and exhausted. The station is packed with people—businessmen in suits, families with strollers, teenage boys laughing too loudly at their phones. No one looks at you twice. Why would they? You're just another kid in a crowd, nothing special, nothing strange.
You find a corner near the vending machines and slide down against the wall, pulling your knees to your chest. The napkin map is crumpled in your hand. You smooth it out, tracing the route west with a finger.
You've made it maybe two hundred miles. Three thousand to go.
And you're already running on fumes.
The encounter on the bus replays in your head on a loop. The Fates remember what he owes. What did that mean? You know the Fates—every demigod knows the Fates, the three ancient sisters who spin and measure and cut the thread of every life. They're older than the gods. Older than the Titans. They answer to no one.
And apparently, they've been watching you.
You press your palms against your eyes until you see stars. The exhaustion is catching up with you—bone-deep, soul-deep, the kind of tired that ambrosia can't fix. You need to sleep. You need to eat something that isn't convenience store trail mix. You need to find a way across the country without money, without a plan, without anyone to help you.
A shadow falls over you.
"Rough day?"
You look up. A girl about your age is standing there, hands on her hips, head tilted with casual curiosity. She's tall and wiry, with dark brown skin and hair cropped close to her scalp. She's wearing ripped jeans and a faded band t-shirt—Leathermouth—and there's a leather cord around her neck with a charm you can't quite see.
But what catches your attention is the sword at her hip.
It's not a mortal sword. It's celestial bronze, the blade catching the fluorescent station lights in a way that mortal metal never would. She wears it openly, confidently, like she's not worried about anyone noticing.
They don't. Mortals walk right past her, eyes sliding over the weapon like it's not even there.
The Mist.
She's a demigod.
"I know that look," she says, and her voice is warm but wary. "The just escaped something terrible and don't know where to go next look. I've worn it a few times myself."
You don't answer. Your hand inches toward your bow.
She notices. A flicker of something—respect, maybe—crosses her face.
"Relax. I'm not going to attack you in the middle of the Greyhound station. Too many witnesses." She grins. It's a sharp grin, full of teeth. "I'm Mai. Daughter of Hecate. And you look like you could use a shower. And a meal. And someone who knows the way to the nearest safe house."
You should say no. You should get up and walk away and keep going alone, because that's what you do, that's what you've always done.
But the bat skull is warm against your thigh, And she's wearing a Leathermouth shirt, and the old woman's words echo in your head.
Everyone needs friends.
"I'm Y/N," you say finally. "Daughter of Hades."
Mai's eyebrows shoot up. For a moment, she just stares at you.
"Holy shit," she says.
The safe house is a rundown apartment on the south side of the city.
Mai leads you through a maze of back alleys and side streets, past graffiti-covered walls and convenience stores with bars on the windows. The neighborhood is rough—not monster-rough, but mortal-rough, which is sometimes worse. You keep your bow hidden but ready, and you notice Mai does the same with her sword.
"The place belongs to a friend of a friend," Mai explains as she unlocks a rusted metal door. "Some Nemesis kid set it up a few years back. It's not fancy, but it's got running water and no monsters have found it yet."
Inside, it's small but clean. A kitchenette with a mini-fridge and a hot plate. A futon covered in mismatched blankets. A bathroom with a shower that looks like it might actually have hot water. The walls are covered in old concert posters and a calendar from three years ago, still turned to October.
"Make yourself at home," Mai says, dropping her bag on the floor. "I've been crashing here for a couple weeks. Waiting for..."
She trails off, her expression flickering. Something complicated passes over her face, then vanishes.
"Waiting for what?" you ask.
"Nothing. Long story." She opens the mini-fridge and pulls out two cans of soda. "You want the full tour? Bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen. That was it. Tour's over."
Despite everything—the exhaustion, the confusion, the three-thousand-mile journey still ahead—you feel your mouth twitch toward a smile.
"Thanks," you say. "For this. You didn't have to."
Mai shrugs, but there's something knowing in her eyes. "Yeah, I did. Kids of the Underworld don't exactly have a lot of allies topside. I figure you could use one."
She hands you a soda. You take it. The can is cold and solid in your hand, grounding.
"Besides," Mai adds, flopping onto the futon, "I was getting bored. You got a mixtape? I've only got a handful of songs on mine."
You don't know what to say to that. You sit down on the floor, your back against the wall, and drink your soda in silence.
Later, when Mai is asleep on the futon and the city lights are painting strange shadows on the ceiling, you pull out the bat skull and hold it in your palm.
It glows faintly. Faintly green.
You think about your father. Somewhere deep underground, in a palace made of obsidian and regret, he's probably sitting on his throne, counting souls or whatever it is he does all day. Does he know you're coming? Does he care?
You did well, he said. For what it's worth.
You close your fingers around the skull.
Maybe it's a clue.
You don't sleep much that night, but when you do, the bones in your dreams are no longer scattered.
They're forming something. Something you can't quite see yet.
The next morning, Mai shakes you awake with a cup of instant coffee and a map of the eastern seaboard.
"So," she says, spreading the map across the floor. "You're going to LA. That's insane. I'm in."
"What?"
"I've got nothing better to do. My quest is stalled. My mom's not answering my prayers—biiiig surprise. And-?" She grins that sharp grin again. "I've always wanted to see the Pacific Ocean."
You stare at her. "I can't ask you to come with me. You don't even know me."
"You're not asking. I'm offering." Her expression softens, just slightly. "Look, I know what it's like to be on your own. To have powers you don't understand and a godly parent who doesn't give a damn. Hecate isn't exactly winning 'Mom of the Year' either."
"But—"
"But nothing. We'll watch each other's backs. I'll help you get to LA. You'll help me figure out my next move." She holds out her hand. "Deal?"
You hesitate.
The bat skull hums in your pocket. The old woman's words echo again. Everyone needs friends.
You shake her hand.
"Deal."
Mai grins. "Great. Now, we've got two problems. One: we're broke. Two: the quickest route west takes us through some seriously nasty monster territory. I'm talking cyclops gangs, maybe a manticore nest, definitely at least one of those freaky fast-food joints that are actually fronts for man-eating giants."
"How do you know all that?"
She taps the charm on her necklace—a twin torches crossed over. "Hecate kid. I can sense these... areas? And they're totally drowning in the Mist. Something's hiding. And it's big."
You snort. "Okay," you say. "What do we do first?"
Mai's grin turns feral.
"First," she says, "we steal a car."
You absolutely, one hundred percent, do not steal a car. You borrow one. Temporarily. From a monster who definitely wasn't using it anymore.
The monster in question is a minor demon—some kind of minor earth-spirit who'd been terrorizing a junkyard on the edge of the city. Mai had heard about it from a satyr contact, and she'd convinced you that liberating its truck was practically a public service. The demon had snarled and hissed and tried to crush you with a rusted car frame. You'd shot an arrow through its shoulder, Mai had slashed its ankle, and the thing had dissolved into a pile of sulfurous ash.
The truck was old—a battered Ford from the 90s with more rust than paint—but it ran. That was what mattered.
"You drive," you said, climbing into the passenger seat. "I don't know how."
"Seriously?"
"I'm fourteen and I grew up at summer camp. When was I supposed to learn?"
Mai had muttered something about "privileged Olympian kids" and "useless life skills," but she'd taken the wheel without further complaint.
Now you're on the highway, windows down, wind whipping through your hair. The Pennsylvania countryside has given way to Ohio, flat and green and endless. The radio works—barely—and Mai has found a classic rock station that crackles through the speakers like a ghost from another decade.
You're making good time. You're heading west.
And for the first time in a long time, you don't feel quite so alone.
But the bat skull is still in your pocket. Still warm. Still waiting.
And somewhere far below the earth, in a throne room made of shadows and silence, Hades, Lord of the Dead, stirs on his throne.
He can feel you coming. He just... doesn't know what to do about it yet.