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Luke had climbed his fair share of trees as a kid. It had all started with the apple tree in his front yard; whenever his mother would retreat into herself, he would go out and he would go up, shimmying his way up the trunk until his house was hidden behind the thick, wild, untended branches, and he would wait there until she had calmed herself down. A little cold, perhaps, but it was better than hiding in his bedroom. Later on, he graduated to low hanging roofs, which gave him a better vantage point on the monster or the cop that had been following them, so no, Luke was not afraid of heights—not any more than anyone else.

Thalia, by some twist of fate, had been absolutely terrified of heights. You could not have gotten her up on a roof even if you had paid her. It wasn’t like she needed the tactical advantage, though. When he was feeling more charitable towards the gods, Luke had found the whole thing hilarious. Daughter of Zeus, afraid of heights. The irony almost made up for the constant homelessness. 

It was less funny one memorable night years ago, somewhere in central Vermont, when the two of them had been hiking up a glorified hill in an attempt to outrun a manticore that had caught their scent. They had been fighting—about what, Luke couldn’t even begin to say, but he had been so pissed off he decided to clamber up the old fire tower at the top of the hill to make camp for the night. Thalia had taken one look at the metal scaffolding and, after some choice insults to his friendship and his masculinity, had spent the rest of the night crouched there on the granite rock beneath the structure, spear in hand, and Luke hadn’t been able to sleep, too keyed up to relax. He kept time by the flickering of Thalia’s flashlight on the pine trees, every half hour lighting up with some of the only Morse code they knew: OK. OK. OK.

That night had been beautiful, though, and so peaceful. That far out in the countryside, the nighttime noises melted away into a fuzzy drone of crickets and owls, and the sky had been so heavy with stars, he thought it might fall down right on top of them. 

More than anything in the world, he wished she had been up there with him to see it. More than anything in the world, he wished she was here with him now.

Luke greeted dawn on the first day of camp the way he always had, by paying his respects to her tree. The weather had been so violent these past few months, blizzards and wildfires and random flooding plaguing the unsuspecting mortals of New York state, but still she stood, defiant, untouched by her father’s anger. She stood like a beacon, five hundred years old rather than five, leaves thick and branches sturdy, like arms outstretched in an embrace, or a shield. “Soon,” he promised the silent bark, his fingers tapping out old codes on the rough whorls and knots. “Soon.”

“Hey,” came the soft voice of Annabeth behind him, appearing from thin air—literally. She plopped down next to him, unceremoniously, rubbing sleep out of her eyes with one hand, the other wrinkling the fabric of her magic hat.

“You’re up early,” he said.

She shrugged. “Bad dream.”

“Are you okay?”

She lifted her hand to join him, wrapping her fingers around a protruding root. “Yeah,” she said, ducking her head. “It was just a dream.”

The morning mist wrapped around them, grey and cool, diffused with a faint scent of rust and salt, but something warm bubbled up in his chest, and he couldn’t help but smile. Years later, and she still couldn’t come out directly and ask him for help. “Do you want to talk about it?”

They sat there a while, until Annabeth looked up at him, her mist-grey eyes wide and fearful. “I think my mom is trying to warn me about something.”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Last night, I dreamt I was drowning.”

So had he. The wind blew, cold and sudden, and she shivered, curling into herself.

“Something big is coming this summer,” she mumbled. “All the satyrs are talking about it, and Chiron is gone, and the weather is all crazy—it’s felt like a storm has been brewing for months, ever since our field trip.”

“It’s probably nothing,” he said. Years later, and prophetic talk still made him itch.

“Can’t you feel it?”

He slung an arm around her shoulder, and that shut her up real quick, red blooming on her face. Her mouth snapped shut with an audible click. “I think you may just be worried about the first day of camp,” Luke said, kindly. “Chiron’s given you a lot more responsibility this year, right? A little stress dream is totally normal.”

“But I really think—”

“It looks like we’re going to have a lot of new arrivals this year,” he said, quietly cutting her off, “and I’m going to need your help if we’re going to get them all settled in okay. Can I count on you?”

She nodded, determined. Annabeth may have been desperately trying to build a reputation as some kind of no nonsense, twelve-year-old hard-ass, but her fierce expression only softened her back into the little girl they had found in that alleyway in Richmond, and he loved her for it. “There’s a few more hours until breakfast. Why don’t you try to get some more sleep, okay? I’m going to need you in top form when the summer campers start coming in.”

“Okay,” she agreed. Cheeks still pink, she scrambled to her feet, giving a quick hug to Thalia’s tree, then she darted off down the hill, sneakers leaving wet prints in the morning dew. She was getting quieter, he noted absently. Ever since she got that hat of hers, she’d been working on stealth and speed, and with a little more practice, she’d make for an excellent spy. The biggest obstacle right now, of course, was her faith in her mother. Annabeth trusted him, of that he had no doubt, but she had a stubborn streak a mile wide and a godly parent with a demonstrated interest in her well-being. That belief was going to be hard to shake—not impossible, but hard. Though, as he recalled the blush on her face, Luke felt distinctly up for the challenge.

He got up too, a slow, laborious stretch that seemed to ripple through every joint in his body. Most days, Luke couldn’t believe he was only nineteen. He felt old, ancient, weathered, a ruined temple exposed to time and a merciless sun.

It was going to be a long, long summer. 

***

Describe being a demigod in two words? Easy: it sucked. 

Between the ADHD, dyslexia, the constant threat of death at the hands of any number of mythological monsters, the parental abandonment, it wasn’t exactly a cakewalk. Of the many, many curses his godly father had saddled him with, ADHD might have been the worst of them. Dyslexia could be accommodated, monsters could be fought and killed, at least for a while, and parents… well, there wasn’t any point whining about things that couldn’t change. The ADHD, though; Chiron called it their “battlefield reflexes,” which was cute, he guessed. Their parents had bred them for a kind of war which no longer existed. Dread followed them like an iron weight around their necks. Meanwhile, the world beyond had marched on without them. Slowly, inevitably, they were becoming obsolete.

His ADHD was continuing to work overdrive, as it had for the last several months, every detail magnified a hundredfold, and each one impossible to ignore. The wet red of the strawberry fields, the low and foreboding noises of the monsters in the woods, the subterranean thrumof the Master Bolt hidden in the Myrmekes’ anthill, they filled his senses, threatening to overwhelm him with every breath. If it hadn’t been for his prolonged exposure to a divine nuclear reactor, he guessed he probably wouldn’t have lasted this long without completely losing his mind.

Time didn’t—change around him, per se, but he sure felt it differently. Before, time could easily slip by him, running out of his hands like water. He had absolutely lost minutes, hours, even days of his time to ADHD, too intently focused to notice little things like the passage of time. After, the days stretched on, interminable, languid and sluggish. Every second felt like an hour, every day a lifetime, and he could feel each one passing, his heart keeping time like a watch face, infinitely ticking beats, and in each moment, the Crooked One whispered in his ear. Luke did his best to drown out the noise with the clang of swords, the shouts of campers, but like a glacier, he crept in, inevitable. He is coming, whispered his lord, sickly sweet joy dripping from every syllable. He is coming.

Helpful as ever, Lord Kronos.

Maybe he was talking about one of the campers? But, honestly, he didn’t think there was much to see in the kids that arrived this year, all of them scared and confused. Luke offered his doors to the unclaimed and unrepresented, as a good son of his father must, and he was happy to help, really… but if he was being charitable, none of them really stood out. No dramatic entrances, no special powers, no secrets waiting to be uncovered. He catalogued his first impressions, then filed them away for future reference, though he didn’t necessarily think he’d need them later.

Two days later, he catalogued Percy Jackson the same way in an instant: the kid was small, scared, and woefully out of his depth, most likely good for numbers and not much else, but the desperate clutch of his fingers on his spoil of war spoke to a vast anger, buried deep beneath the shock and grief. The rumor mill was already running rampant, and Luke was having a hard time believing that his kid really did kill the Bull-man. If he had defeated Pasiphae’s son—and that was a big “if”—it was probably by accident. A stroke of luck. A brief, powerful moment of adrenaline. That anger, though, that rage, boiling just beneath the surface—Luke could use that. He slotted Percy into his mental “kids to talk to later” column.

His friendly, camp counselor face slid on as easily as an old jacket, and the kiddos were pacified by the newcomer for the time being. Percy stumbled out after Annabeth, and Luke let the laughter of Cabin Eleven ring out just a hair longer than was probably appropriate, before rounding up his kids for the first activity of the day.

As they so often did, his instincts were to prove themselves right over the next few days. The Jackson kid unfortunately fell flat as they searched for a special talent: archery, athletics, arts and crafts, all busts, and his mood soured with each failure. Luke reevaluated. He reconsidered.

Anger was a useful tool, but, by itself, it could do very little. Perhaps he had been mistaken.

Before he knew it, it was time for the first sword fighting session of the summer—the best kind of litmus test.

“Okay, everybody circle up!” he called. “If Percy doesn’t mind, I want to give you a little demo.” From the corner of his better eye, he saw Percy scowl. Quiet, breathless giggles floated in from the crowd, and he scowled harder.

“This move is difficult,” Luke said, casting his eyes to their audience, “No laughing at Percy, now.”

Leading sword class was one of the last camp activities he still actually enjoyed, and it helped that he had become legitimately really good at it. Thalia had been a prodigy, equally proficient in swords, spears, daggers, street brawls, you name it. Battle came naturally to her, far more than it had to him. Luke, by contrast, had poured years of his blood, sweat, and tears into his sword work, but in the end, he had made something of a name for himself as the best swordsman at Camp Half-Blood in three hundred years because of it. It had become his refuge, when his anger and his grief made it so he couldn’t sit still. 

Slowing himself down was second nature by now. Sometimes he slipped up, especially while fighting, but hey, he had a reputation to uphold, and he had been talented before he started taking celestial steroids, anyway. It was no problem to walk Percy through the move, slow enough that everyone could follow, and utterly painful for him. The striking of the blades—the slide to the hilt—the twist and downward thrust against the enemy’s weapon—the clatter as it fell to the floor, it all felt like he was moving in the slowest of possible motions.

“Now in real time,” he said. “We keep sparring until one of us pulls it off. Ready, Percy?”

Percy nodded. They began.

Immediately, something was wrong.

Their blades met, and met again, and Luke couldn’t get a strike in. His slashes were deflected at every turn. The kid, impossibly, was holding his own. Against him. His eyes narrowed, and he pressed harder. He pressed faster. A stab, a slash, and—Percy knocked the sword right out of his hand. Perfectly.

Their audience was silent.

“Um… sorry,” Percy mumbled.

Real time. That had been real time. He hadn’t seen fighting like that since—

Luke smiled, stretching the skin around his scar. “Sorry? By the gods, Percy, why are you sorry? Show me that again!”

So they went again. The sword fell from the boy’s hand as if he had been barely holding it. Percy stared at the ground, crestfallen.

“Beginner’s luck?” someone said in the crowd.

“Maybe,” Luke murmured, but wheels turned in his head. Possibilities unfolded. Maybe he had been too hasty. “But I wonder what you could do with a balanced sword…”

Perhaps he was someone to watch after all. 

The first capture the flag match of the summer was tonight, and Luke had been tasked with making it a big one. Annabeth had been running around all week, striking deals and securing alliances. Her strategy was solid, edging on vicious—using Percy as bait for the Ares cabin was inspired, if supremely risky, as Clarisse and her friends weren’t exactly known for abiding by the honor system. On the diplomatic side, she had had him cozy up to Lee Fletcher, who had barely needed convincing to join their alliance, and just like that, Annabeth had whipped together quite the powerful army. He was weirdly proud. She was shaping up to be a real asset.

Then just before dinner, Luke slipped into the forest, for a few preparations of his own.

Going into the rock was always risky. He was pretty sure that he wouldn’t be caught up in the time dilation, that Kronos’ power over him was stronger than the Labyrinth’s, but you could never be too careful. He tethered himself outside anyway, tying a rope to a nearby root to keep the doors from closing on him all the way. Magic was not his strong suit by any stretch of the imagination, but basic stuff like this—this, he could do. “Clarisse,” he whispered to the forming shadow. He focused his thoughts on the daughter of Ares, on her rage and fury, her power and her presence, pouring all of his intent into the ritual. “Go for Clarisse.” If he timed it right—and he most certainly had—the hound would pop out right in the middle of the game. Everyone would be geared up, battle-ready, adrenaline flying and senses sharp. Clarisse was one of their strongest campers by far; the hellhound wouldn’t be able to resist her scent. She could more than hold her own against a single monster, and if the first line fell, then Chiron, Lee, and the Apollo campers would take care of it handily. No one would get hurt, not seriously, not anymore than usual. They would be fine. A little shaken up, maybe, but fine.

If it had been up to Luke, this was not how he would have done it. Surely, there must have been another way to get Chiron to authorize a quest. If Luke hadn’t flamed out so spectacularly on his own quest, it probably would have been even easier. But Lord Kronos was insistent; moreover, he was right, as much as Luke hated to admit it. This was how they would force Chiron’s hand.

Her strategic thinking may have been maturing, but Annabeth had nothing on the Crooked One.

Certain sacrifices must be made, echoed Kronos’ voice in the dark corners of his mind, smoke in his eardrums. He shook his head. They would be fine. The hound would attack Clarisse, but she would be able to hold it off. No one would get hurt.

He emerged from the rock, heaving a sigh of relief at the setting sun. Getting trapped in the Labyrinth was one of the worst fates imaginable. He wouldn’t wish that on anyone.

The night dragged its heels. Darkness fell, reluctant, and then it was time.

By some miracle, he managed to keep his head during the game, with one ear turned out for the telltale growl. In truth, he had been hoping that he wouldn’t be needed; these days, glory tasted like ash in his mouth, and he didn’t… he would rather stay on the sidelines for this one. He didn’t really want to be in the thick of it, not tonight. But Annabeth had blushed so sweetly when she had offered him the point position, and his siblings’ eyes had been so bright and hopeful, yearning for even a taste of what he had been offered and what he had failed to achieve, and he found that he just couldn’t turn her down.

They cheered for him as they crossed the boundary line, flag in hand, so joyful for something so small. Luke’s cheeks were hot.

As the blue team celebrated their handy victory, he took the time to do a headcount. There was Annabeth, pleased as punch, smugness radiating out of her tiny frame. There was Clarisse and her gang, on the ground, clutching their heads or their stomachs. There was Percy in the creek, fuming, clearly unhappy with his role as their bait. The plan had gone off flawlessly.

But they had won the game too early. Where…

Then, from the darkness, came the sound: a foul, reverberating snarl, a low, shaking growl that vibrated down to the very bone.

Patience, boy, bade the Crooked One.

The hound, huge and darker than the shadows between the stars, emerged from trees, casting its bloody eyes over the children assembled. Clarisse , Luke begged silently, even as he drew his sword at Chiron’s command. Please. Clarisse. She’s the strongest kid here.

Nostrils flaring, seeking its prey, it turned its eyes to the creek, and the small boy who stood there.

Nobody moved except Annabeth, who yelled: “Percy, run!”

He saw that night, five years ago. He saw Thalia then, in one eye, and Percy now, in his better one, and in both he saw the hellhound descending, claws ripping into the soft earth, and the softer metal of his chest plate, and he shook, a tree in a storm. Like roots, he was chained to the earth, powerless, only to watch as the dog fell, limp and steaming on top of the child in the dirt, as his shirt grew dark and sticky with blood.

“What the hell was that?” someone asked.

“That’s a hellhound from the Fields of Punishment,” said Annabeth, voice trembling. “They don’t… they’re not supposed to…” She looked at Luke, panicked and helpless.

“Someone summoned it,” Chiron said, like he couldn’t believe it himself. “Someone inside the camp.”

Suddenly unfrozen, he forced himself to move towards the creek, banner clutched in his white-knuckled grip, his moment of glory forgotten. He forced himself to look. I’m so sorry caught in his throat, choking him. This was my fault burned a hole in his lungs. It was supposed to attack Clarisse stuck to the roof of his mouth, as though any of those thoughts would have absolved him.

But it was supposed to have gone after Clarisse. The hound would have attacked the most powerful demigod present. And it had made a beeline straight for Percy.

“You’re wounded,” Annabeth told Percy, who had somehow staggered to his knees. “Quick, Percy, get in the water.”

“I’m okay,” he wheezed, unusually pale hands pressed to his midsection.

“No you’re not,” she said. “Chiron, watch this.”

Don’t look away, whispered Kronos. You’ll want to see this.

On unsteady feet, Percy lurched backwards, into the creek, and he began to shine. He was golden, lit from within, then he was cast in blue-green, the color of Long Island Sound in the sunshine, from the shape forming above his head.

Luke couldn’t breathe.

“Look, I—I don’t know why,” Percy stammered, arms spread so helplessly. “I’m sorry…”

“Percy,” said Annabeth, pointing up. “Um…”

He looked above himself at the sign of the trident, at his father’s favor, mouth open in nothing less than perfect wonder, and Luke’s blood boiled.

“It is determined,” Chiron announced, gravely.

All around him, campers sank to their knees. Luke followed suit, crashing to the ground gracelessly, the banner in his hands threatening to tear.

“My father?” Percy asked, bewildered.

“Poseidon: Earthshaker, Stormbringer, Father of Horses. Hail, Perseus Jackson, son of the Sea God,” said Chiron, and the campers took up the salute in chorus.

Kronos merely laughed, tucked away inside of his heart, and Luke nearly vomited. 

***

The waning afternoon offered no relief from the scorching hot June day, even as the shadows crept across the almost empty training arena. Luke usually held an advanced class at this time, but had had to scramble for some creative rescheduling, as no one wanted to test their mettle against the newly minted son of Poseidon. No one wanted to even go near him. The only people who still hung around him were Grover (no surprise there), Annabeth (weird, but he figured she’d do anything for a quest at this point), and himself, ostensibly to give him some crash courses in sword fighting. But honestly, Percy didn’t need too much instruction there, anyway. The kid was a natural, just like Thalia.

Thalia’s best weapon had been her spear, or maybe her smart mouth. So far, Percy did best with the slightly less-than-nice xiphos that Luke had given him, which was simultaneously surprising and not at all. It was a classic for a reason, a universal, jack-of-all-trades type of weapon, balanced and versatile and deadly in the right hands. But it was also kind of boring. “And you’re sure you didn’t see a trident in the shed?” called Luke from his seat in the stands.

Percy sighed, rolling his eyes, a pretty impressive feat since he was also drilling his sideways thrust. “I’m sure. Plenty of spears, though.”

“Nah,” said Luke, thoughtful. “They wouldn’t have the same weight to it. The balance would be totally off.” Monthly weapons inventory was his job, ever since Kassandra from the Ares cabin had gone off to ISU two years earlier, and she had beaten into him a certain kind of fastidiousness. He knew for a fact that their only tridents had had their heads melted down into emergency arrowheads as of last summer, but the concept of Percy's weapons specialization was curious. Call it a thought experiment. “I could get Beckendorf in Hephaestus to whip something up for you if you wanted.”

Percy made a face. Luke decided to press the issue, just to see what happened next.

“Come on, Beck’s great! He’s really stepped up his game; you should see the repair job he did on Lee’s bow after Clarisse snapped it in half. It’d probably take him, like forty-five minutes, tops—”

“I don’t want a freaking trident,” he snapped.

Luke raised an eyebrow. Percy wouldn’t look at him, chin stubbornly set. “Let’s take five,” said Luke, after a second or two.

With their drill done for now, Percy switched the sword to his left hand, shaking out his arm, flexing his fingers to loosen them up. Luke hopped down from his perch, loping over to Percy and offering him his water bottle, which he gladly accepted. Halfway to pouring it over his head though, the kid grimaced and took a long drink instead.

It was kind of hard to avoid water, but Percy had certainly been trying his best, he thought. “Are you okay?” Luke asked.

“Fine,” said Percy, wiping his mouth with his knuckles. “I’m great. Why wouldn’t I be?”

He kept pushing. Just to see. “What happened at the creek—”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Luke was struck, suddenly, by a particularly strong sense of déjà vu. She used to do the exact same thing, Thalia. Actually, a lot about Percy reminded him of Thalia. He had the same kind of natural grace as she did, the same sharp, Greek features, the same sudden, spitting anger. She hated being reminded of her father, too—that was why the two of them had gotten along so well. And whenever she would get in a mood, she’d clam up, until the moment had passed and they could get back to business, so Luke had to choose his next words with great care.

“I think you should.” He bit his lip. He considered. He reconsidered. “Let me see if I can guess—you’re scared that the hellhound almost got you. You’re feeling lonely now that you’re all by yourself in your own cabin. But…” He rolled the dice. “You’re kind of happy, too.”

Percy gaped. “How did you—”

“I’ve seen a lot of claimings over the years,” said Luke, letting himself smile. “Usually they’re not as dramatic as yours, but it’s nice to finally know where you come from, right?”

He hesitated, for only a second. “Yeah,” said Percy. Suddenly, he was unable to look Luke in the eye.

There.

“Isn’t it?”

“No, it is,” he said. “It’s… I mean, it’s great. All this time, I thought my dad was a deadbeat, but it turns out he’s a god! It’s great. It should be great.”

Luke let the silence stretch, two seconds, three seconds, allowing Percy to stew in it. “But?” he prompted, gentle and soft. Inviting. Beguiling.

“But… I dunno. He ignores me for twelve years, and then he decides that the perfect time to let me know that he’s out there is when I’m about to die?”

If his experience with Thalia was anything to go by, by now Percy would likely automatically take the opposite of whatever he said. So, he suggested, “Maybe he wanted to be sure that you knew about him, you know, just in case the worst had happened.”

Percy scowled. “Well, he had plenty of time to say something beforehand. Instead, he just fucked off and left us with—” His eyes darted to Luke, as quick as a flinch. “Uh, never mind,” he stammered. “Sorry.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” said Luke. “I get it. Everyone here feels that way at some point.” He pressed the advantage. “It’s okay to feel weird about your dad. After what you’ve been through, I’d be surprised if you weren’t feeling weird about it.”

“Really?” Percy asked. This, too, was familiar, this wide-eyed fear giving way to something like comfort. Luke had seen it plenty of times before, having helped tons of campers work their way through this strangest of phenomenons. It tended to follow certain patterns.  

“Of course,” he said. And—“And it’s okay to be scared. I’m not going to lie to you; the monsters are going to be able to sniff you out a mile away now, and you won’t always be able to count on your dad to get you out of it. But,” and here he smiled a little at Percy’s panicked stare, “you can always count on me. On your friends here at camp. We’ve got your back—I promise.”

Percy smiled back, mouth unsteady, but his eyes shone.

Hook, line, and sinker. He hoped Lord Kronos would forgive him the terrible pun.

“In the meantime,” said Luke, going over to snag a pair of torches. He passed one to Percy, lighting it with the lighter he still had in his pocket. That had been a Thalia thing, too, insisting that they both always kept a lighter on them. Lightning couldn’t always be trusted to make a simple campfire, and sometimes, you just had to do things the mortal way. “You’re going to need all the training you can get. Now, let’s try that viper-beheading strike again. Fifty more repetitions.”

But instead of taking up his sword, Percy said, “Thank you,” so earnest and sincere.

Luke blinked. “What for?”

“For being so cool, and for hanging out with me, and—and even just talking to me. Sometimes, I just feel like you’re the only one I can talk to.”

“Now, that can’t be right,” said Luke, tsking. “I see you with Grover all the time. And Annabeth—” He fixed Percy with a look that he usually reserved for some of the older kids, the ones who he had caught sneaking off with a partner after dinner. “You know she’s your dad’s rival’s kid, right? Do I need to sit you down for a talk?”

Percy blushed. “No, that’s not—I just mean,” he shook his head, and Luke grinned. “I mean, sometimes it feels like… like they’re hiding stuff from me. Like there’s something everyone else knows, but they’re not allowed to tell me.”

Ah. Chiron’s big prophecy. “Well, I don’t know about them,” he hedged, wanting to get off this topic, “but I promise, if there’s anything you ever need to talk about, you can always come and find me. Sound good?”

He nodded. “Thank you,” he said, switching his grip back to his dominant hand. “You’re a really good friend.”

Luke felt warm, from the tips of his toes up through his chest, like a sunbeam had just come through a cloud. “Aw, kid… Don’t think this will get you out of drills, though.”

“Dang it,” said Percy, surly expression twisted by an easy grin. 

***

The Lord of Time would know if he dragged his feet, somehow, so, feeling as heavy as a stone in water, Luke forced himself to run up the hill after the kids, shouting ahead of him, “Hey!”

Chiron and Argus were there at the top of the hill, which was… manageable. He would have preferred to catch Percy alone, but he could work around this. “Glad I caught you.”

Grover straightened up, beaming. Percy looked up at him, his hands fidgeting with the straps of his backpack. Annabeth blushed straight to the roots of her hair when she caught his eye.

Oh, kiddo.

“Just wanted to say good luck,” he told the first Camp Half-Blood questers in three years. “And I thought…” he trailed off. The shoes clutched in his hands were heavy. He swallowed, picking up his train of thought. “Um, maybe you could use these,” he finished, weak, and he handed Percy the corrupted gift. “Maia,” he commanded, and white bird’s wings sprouted from the heels. Startled, Percy dropped them on the ground, where they rolled around, limp and floppy like a pair of dismembered limbs, until the wings folded up and disappeared.

Not the most auspicious start to the plan.

“Awesome,” breathed Grover.

“Those served me well when I was on my quest—a gift from Dad,” said Luke, each word perfectly preselected, perfectly said, without even the slightest hint of bitterness. Hermes hadn’t even bothered to deliver them in person, content to simply drop them on the front steps of Cabin Eleven, in plain view of the rest of his thieving, conniving children. “Of course,” he went on, allowing his expression to turn sad. “I don’t use them much these days…”

Percy blushed almost as much as Annabeth had. “Hey, man,” he said awkwardly, unable to look him in the eye, “Thanks.”

Interesting. Automatically, Luke filed that away for later. That is, if they were able to have a later. “Listen, Percy…”

Percy, Annabeth, and Grover stared up at him, squeaky clean and expectant, about to head off on their impossible quest. If Luke had played his cards correctly, by this time next week, they would be in the hands of the psychotic god of time, and the end of the world would be upon them. If he cooperated, Percy would likely be the only one to be spared—and that was a big damn “if.” Luke simply hadn’t had enough time with him to guarantee it.

Thalia would have said yes. Luke could feel it in his bones. He just had to hope that Percy was enough like her to do the same.

“A lot of hopes are riding on you. So just… kill some monsters for me, okay?” he asked, lamely.

They shook hands, Percy’s grip deceptively strong. Luke patted Grover’s head between his horns, then, after a moment, swooped down for Annabeth’s goodbye hug. She squeezed him tight, and he held her close, squeezing back just as hard, hoping he could imprint his apology into her bones. With a little luck, she would never know it was him, and he would find a way to be okay with that. Then he released her, and with a final salute, turned to head back down the hill, leaving the rest up to the Fates. 

He hadn’t meant to keep track of the time. Obsessively counting the seconds until Doomsday? That was something a crazy person did. Luke didn’t think of himself as a crazy person, but the lord of time had different ideas, apparently.

Exactly eight hundred and fifty thousand, six hundred and thirty-two seconds after the kids had departed for the Underworld, Luke decided he had enough time to head back to his cabin for a quick nap. It had been another hot, heavy morning at camp, but not altogether unproductive: Lila from Cabin Four had finally figured out her optimal javelin angle, and Luke had made some good headway with Anthony, an unclaimed kid with a serious left hook. Another soul for the cause, in the bag. Possibly. Well, he’d made a good start, and he had all summer to work on him.

He'd been exhausted enough to be hopeful that he’d simply fall asleep for thirty minutes. But when have the gods ever given him what he’d wanted?

Luke found himself in a place he knew all too well in his dream, at the edge of the pit, a deep, jagged gash in the lifeless soil, oozing smoke and mist and magic. He fell to his knees, weak fingers scrabbling for purchase in the tough, packed dirt, and he prostrated himself before his lord.

Luke , said the voice from the gaping maw, a sound like tectonic plates, grinding together. Your little gambit with the cursed shoes has failed.

Ice swept through him, through the tips of his fingers, frozen blood trailing up towards his heart with deadly precision. “My lord,” he gasped, in cold and fear and horror, “please, forgive me.” 

Luke had failed. How could he have thought one as weak and piteous as himself could ever amount to something great? How could he have ever imagined himself a hero? How could he think that—

Your feeble skills with magic have cost us a great deal, boy. What is more, the son of Poseidon has escaped the halls of Hades—has escaped me —and refused the god’s offer of trade. The voice throbbed against his temples, his sternum, his spine. Even now he goes to meet our friend in battle on the Santa Monica beach. Your plan is unraveling.

Luke was unraveling, his boundaries blurring, the thick, cloying stench of old blood and gravedirt choking his senses, pouring into him until he nearly burst at his seams.

There is but one avenue left to us, said the titan, but he did not sound displeased. The son of the sea god is an unreliable weapon, one which must be replaced.

“What must I do, my lord?” asked Luke, shaking, small and unworthy as he was.

Kill the boy, boomed the voice from below. Kill him, and we shall seek a new champion.

Then the pit was a black hole, a sucking, inescapable void, and it grasped at Luke, pulling him down bones first as they tried to burst free the confines of his skin. He could not even think to fight it as the Crooked One dragged him down, down into the tear between worlds, into the thick, suffocating nothingness—

And then, suddenly, it was evening. The late, weak sunlight streamed through the window, directly into his eyes, and Luke shot up out of his bed, nearly braining himself on the top bunk in the process. “Woah!” said someone to his left, a hand pulling itself out of his vision.

“Wha—” he gasped, flailing wildly. “Who—”

“Calm down, man,” said the voice—no, not the voice, not that voice, it was someone else, someone he knew, it was—

Luke squinted. “Chris?”

Chris Rodriguez stood over him, brow furrowed in concern. “Yeah,” he said, “it’s just me.”

The sleep fog dissipated with each throb of his pounding heart, until Luke could string two brain cells together to think. “What—” he glanced out the window, at the orange glow over the camp. He didn’t know what time it was, he didn’t know how much time he had lost, he didn’t—

“The time? Um,” Chris glanced outside. “About seven? I don’t know. You missed lunch.”

He—he had missed lunch. That was it. His stomach gurgled in agreement. “I—I’m sorry,” he said, shaking the last of his dream from his mind, for that was what it was, right? Just a dream. “I guess I was more tired than I thought.”

“I’ll say,” Chris snorted. “We tried to wake you up earlier, but you were out like a light. Percy and Annabeth made it back, by the way.”

It took him a second.

“That’s—that’s great!” he said. Somehow, he remembered to smile. “That’s—good!”

“Yeah,” said Chris. “Anyway, it’s just about time for dinner, and we thought you should eat something.”

Luke felt himself nod, heard himself agree. “Yeah,” came the voice from his mouth, “yeah, thanks. I’ll be down in a minute.”

Satisfied, Chris nodded, and headed out.

Alone at last, Luke’s heart thudded in his throat, threatening to pop right out of him. He had failed. He had failed, Ares had failed—Percy had delivered the weapon to its master and averted the war. 

And now Luke had to kill him. 

***

Funny how easy it was to waste five million seconds. It was the last day of summer, Percy was still alive, and Luke, coward that he was, was down at the arena, avoiding his directive. He had spent too much time waiting for the opportune moment, but it was almost impossible to get the kid alone, now that he was the big star of the summer. Everyone who had shunned him just two months ago was suddenly crawling all over themselves to get super chummy with the conquering hero; everyone wanted a piece of the great Percy Jackson.

Luke growled, striking at the straw dummy with his new weapon, slicing open its cloth stomach with a razor-sharp flick. He had had to rebuild his reputation inch by excruciating inch after he returned from the West, and meanwhile, Percy had blundered his way all over Luke’s master plan, stumbling ass-first into undeserved glory.

“Hey, Luke?”

He whipped around. For a second, stuck in battle-mode, he only saw an enemy. Blood roared in his ears, and his grip tightened around his blade.

Then he blinked, and it was just Percy, who looked up at him, eyes wide and full of fear. Luke breathed.

“Um,” Percy said, uncharacteristically subdued, “sorry. I just—"

“It’s okay,” Luke said. He lowered his sword, slowly, deliberately, watched Percy’s eyes track it. “Just doing some last-minute practice.”

But Percy’s eyes stuck to the sword, fixed beyond simple curiosity. There was… there was hunger, in that gaze. “Where did you get that?” he asked.

That morning, he had woken up, compelled to head into the Labyrinth, for some reason. The sword had been left for him there, beneath the rock—this double-edged blade. It was strong, but violent, shuddering in his hand like two magnet poles forcibly bound together. “A gift from a friend. This is Backbiter.”

Percy tilted his head. “Backbiter?”

“One side is celestial bronze. The other is tempered steel. Works on mortals and immortals both.” The message from Kronos had been excruciatingly clear. He had no more time to spare. He had to act, today, and without any room for error.

The sunlight shifted across each color, back and forth, and Luke saw Percy’s eyes follow it. “I didn’t know they could make weapons like that,” he said, softly, dazedly.

“They probably can’t,” Luke agreed, but he was frowning anyway. Something felt wrong, here. “It’s one of a kind.” He slid the sword back into the scabbard at his waist, and the spell broke. Percy blinked, like coming out of a dream.

Now or never.

“Listen, I was going to—”

“I need to talk to you,” Percy interrupted. His face was ashen, eyes like a storming sea. “You told me I could talk to you about anything, and I—I really need your help.” His mouth trembled, throat bobbing as he swallowed. He looked—really freaked out.

The sword at his hip was heavy, but Luke ignored it. He could play camp counselor a little longer. “Okay,” he said, soft, like he was speaking to a spooked animal. “What do you say we go down to the woods, look for a quiet spot, and we can talk. Does that sound good to you?”

Percy nodded, relieved, and Luke couldn’t believe his luck.

They walked through the woods in silence, Luke leading him to the bend in the creek where he had nearly died just weeks earlier. Not for any grander symbolic reason—it was quiet, out of the way, and the entrance to the Labyrinth was nearby. Luke figured he’d need a quick getaway after what he was about to do. He handed Percy a Coke he had nabbed from his bag before they left, and the kid downed it nearly in one go, fiddling with the metal tab. After a while, Percy said, “I think I made a mistake.”

“What do you mean?”

He rubbed his thumbs up and down the sides of the can, the condensation chasing the pads of his fingers. “I killed my stepdad.”

Uh.

Okay.

He definitely had not been expecting that. He hadn’t even considered that Percy might still have a tether to the mortal world beyond his mother. Percy had never even mentioned a stepdad. “Like,” Luke blurted, floundering, “by accident?”

Percy laughed, short and wet and dark. “I killed him. I took Medusa’s head, and I killed him.”

“Percy, that’s—wait, how did you get—”

“This whole time,” he barreled forward, panic rising in his voice, “he’d been hitting her this whole time, for years, and I had no idea, so when I found out, I just—I don’t know what came over me—”

“Wait,” said Luke, out of his depth, “back up. How did you get Medusa’s head?”

“I killed her in New Jersey,” he admitted, “and I—I sent the head to Olympus, because I was pissed off and I wanted my dad to notice, and then when I talked to him he told me that I would have a choice to make, so when I got to our apartment and saw that he had sent it back to me I just—” he cut himself off, then, dropping the can in the dirt, burying his fingers in his hair. His skin was stretched thin over his knuckles, almost white against his dark curls. “I was so angry,” he whispered. “My mom is the nicest, most wonderful, most amazing person who ever lived, and she just let him walk all over her, to protect me. To keep the monsters away from me. But I couldn’t leave her there, not with him.”

On his hip, Backbiter burned, cold, insistent. Now, boy , he imagined his lord saying. Do it now.

“Percy,” said Luke, pitching his voice down, soft and low, trying to draw him out of the ball he had rolled himself into. “I’m so sorry about your mom.” His shoulders hitched on a sob that didn’t make it out of his throat. “Is she… I mean, is your mom okay?”

Percy nodded, miserable.

“And your dad,” Luke said. He took a second to choose his next words. “He… told you to kill your stepdad?”

“I…” That stopped his spiral in its tracks. He uncurled, a little, spine straightening, raising his head. “I don’t… I mean, I don’t think so—”

“But he sent you Medusa’s head and told you that you had an important choice to make. I mean,” he said, “what else did he expect you to do?”

Percy was silent.

And Luke was angry all over again. “This is why,” said Luke, through gritted teeth, “this is why I hate the gods.” Percy stilled beside him. “Using us for their dirty work. The gods forced you to go on this life-threatening quest, to clear your name for something you didn’t even do, and for what? A pat on the head? Not even an apology for leaving you alone with that man for all those years? Where do they get off, anyway?”

“Luke,” he said, quietly stunned. “Those are our parents.”

Luke shook his head. “No. Your father forced you to kill for him. No actual parent would ever do that to their child.”

He had no response.

“And it’s not just you, Percy,” he went on, picking up steam. “Everyone here has a sob story. Annabeth? Her mom dumped her on her dad’s doorstep when she was a baby, and he resented her for her whole life because of it. Clarisse? Her father refuses to give her the time of day, just because she’s a girl, no matter how hard she trains or how many fights she wins. Castor and Pollux? Their dad actually lives here, but I guess he can’t be bothered to come down from the Big House every once in a while for a quick hello. Even Thalia—she gave her life to save the camp, and what does her father do? Turn her into a damn tree.” He would never forget that night, as long as he lived, not the glassy look in her eyes, or the sound of her bones snapping, the trunk of the tree punching its way through her ribcage as it lifted her up in perfect sacrifice, or the weight of Annabeth in his arms as she kicked and scratched at him, begging, pleading, screaming to be let go. “All that power, and he couldn’t have stepped in a little sooner? Maybe even saved her life? At the very least, he could have made sure she got to Elysium safely, not left her trapped in there for the rest of time.” He was aware that he was breathing hard. His nails dug into his palms, sharp constellations. “Enough is enough.”

From the corner of his better eye, he saw Percy turn to face him, no longer afraid. “What do you mean?”

Luke stood, dusted his hands on the front of his shorts. “This world is rotten to its core, Percy. It's built on ancient, decrepit patterns, on old and irrelevant myths repeating themselves, over and over again. Everything that we’ve ever done has been done before, a hundred times, and it always ends the same way: the gods have their stupid little fights, and us half-bloods get screwed over. I say, let’s screw them right back. Let’s break the pattern.” He turned to Percy then, who met his gaze with wide, open eyes. “My lord Kronos has promised me the power to defeat our parents, and he can give that to you, too. Together, we can make things right. Together, we can bring about the new Golden Age: the age of heroes. So, what do you say?” And he held out his hand.

A second passed. Then another. The world held its breath. 

On the third, Percy took it.

 “I’m in.”

Another night, another nameless beach, a small spit of sand at the edge of civilization. Percy spoke at their campfire, and their audience listened, enraptured. These little fireside chats of theirs had been more successful than Luke could have hoped for, and it was all due to Percy. He was a real firecracker, charismatic and charming, and surprisingly persuasive when he needed to be. People were drawn to him, whether they realized it or not.

“There’s a better world for us,” said Percy with the words that Luke had put into his mouth, “one where we don’t have to live and die at the will of the gods.”

“That’s rich, coming from you,” said one of tonight’s guests: Phoebe, a daughter of Eris, if Luke remembered correctly. As long as he had known her, she had been a skeptic, and tonight she was no different. “Your father gave you a cabin, a quest, recognition, and you expect us to believe you want to give that all up?”

Percy scowled. The tide pulled out like someone had yanked it. “My father,” he said, “called me a mistake to my face, and told me he was sorry that I was born. He used me to clear his name, then he sent me away without so much as a thank you. He left me and my mom alone with a monster for years, and only bothered to let me know he was out there when I was dying, and now he wants me to fulfill some stupid prophecy for him? To make him look good? To save Olympus? Well, that’s too bad. This is my life, and I’m living it for myself—not for him.”

They all cheered, even Phoebe, a begrudging smile on her face. 

***

He found Percy where he always found Percy: on the bow deck of the Princess Andromeda. Percy ate here, took watch here—Luke was starting to suspect Percy slept out here, too.

“Morning, captain!” He shouted. The waves thundered distantly against the sides of the ship, far below, and Percy’s answering grin glinted like the sun on the water. Ever since they had picked him up from Miami Beach, tied to a stray bike rack and practically spitting fire, he had been in a real foul mood, stomping around the decks, crushing his opponents during training, and all around being a general dick. But today he looked good, more alive than he had in days, eyes sparkling, hair whipping in the sea breeze. 

Luke tossed him a Diet Coke, courtesy of the cruise ship galley. “Smooth sailing?”

“Pretty good,” said Percy, popping open the tab. “I thought I saw a giant octopus around midnight.”

Luke repressed a shudder. “Oh really?”

“Mmhmm,” he said, taking a sip. “Actually, now that I think about it, I think it might have been Cetus.”

Luke frowned. Was that a god he should be worried about? “Cetus?”

“Sea monster, sent from… you know,” he waved vaguely downwards, “to harass Cassiopeia after she said that she was prettier than the Nereids.”

“Right,” said Luke, sitting down next to him on the hard, flat wood of the deck. “Because that’s totally a reasonable response.”

“Don’t you know? You disrespect a nymph, you have to sacrifice your daughter to a sea monster.”

Luke rolled his eyes, holding out his own can. “Typical gods,” he muttered. Percy grunted in response, tapping his can against Luke’s, looking out on the wide open ocean. 

It was a beautiful, sunny day northeast of Bermuda, and they were chugging away at a steady pace, much faster than any normal cruise ship could travel, he suspected. Percy would be able to tell him exactly how many knots they were burning, or whatever the metric they used at sea was, as well as a whole host of other maritime facts. As it turned out, the kid was pretty handy to have on a boat. He’d been able to steer them through several apocalyptic storms that threatened to capsize the entire vessel, leading them safely from port to port as they hunted for half-blood recruits. The sea really was his arena, Luke had realized—a little obvious in retrospect, but certainly advantageous. He took to sailing like he’d been born for it, which, of course, he kind of had been. 

Crazy to think that this time last year, they had both been stuck on Long Island. Sometimes, Luke couldn’t quite believe they had been at this for a whole year already. Even now, his five years at Camp Half-Blood were starting to fade, like watercolor paints, soft and blurred and non-descript, and he found that he was okay with that. It wasn’t that he didn’t have fond memories of Camp, but if he thought about the people he’d left behind for long enough, it got too hard to focus on the big picture. Truthfully, he had been more worried about Percy—in all likelihood, the kid would have been a year-rounder, and pulling him away from his peer group like that could have had some seriously disastrous consequences, but he had Luke, and his friends in Kronos’ army, so he was doing pretty well, all things considered.

“Hey,” said Luke, as an idea popped into his head, trying to reel Percy’s attention back in. “Do you think we could catch it? We could use some more sea power.”

Percy took a long drink off his soda, then shook his head. “He turned tail as soon as he saw me. He’s probably halfway to the Arctic Ocean by now.”

“What,” Luke laughed, “little sea monster afraid of the big bad son of the sea god?”

“No, just—” Percy huffed, embarrassed. “The original Perseus killed him for trying to eat Andromeda, so I don’t think he likes me too much.” He trailed off, frowning.

“Hey,” said Luke, nudging Percy with his shoulder. “What’s up?”

Biting his lip, Percy glanced at the figurehead. From this angle, you couldn’t really see much of her, just the tips of her wavy hair, lovingly and expertly carved, but on the other side, he knew, her face was fixed in a permanent scream. “It just—I dunno, does she have to look like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like that.” He shuddered, despite the sun. “It’s creepy.”

“Hey, I didn’t carve her. She was like that when we got her.”

“I know, I know, I just…” His fingers tapped out a tuneless rhythm on the sides of the can.

He had to admit, the kid did have a point. The face was kind of unsettling. “Think of it this way,” Luke said. “Andromeda represents everything that we’re trying to do here. This is about justice for everyone who was wronged by the gods: us, their kids that they just toss aside, and the mortals whose lives they ruined.”

“Andromeda was rescued by Perseus,” Percy pointed out, “and they lived happily ever after.”

“But she wouldn’t have needed rescuing in the first place if it weren’t for the gods.”

“I guess,” Percy grumbled.

Luke rolled his eyes. Teenagers. “Okay, what’s eating you?”

He shrugged.

“Percy.”

He shrank, almost before Luke’s eyes, shoulders slumping, eyes cast down to the soda in his lap, demure. “It’s nothing.”

“Come on, kid, that’s not how this works,” he said. “If something’s bothering you, you tell me so we can fix it.”

So he wasn’t at all surprised when Percy whispered, shamefully, “I can’t stop thinking about her.”

Even though he was expecting it, he couldn’t help the spear of ice that lanced through his stomach. 

For a while now, Percy had been like this—subdued, deflated, a general melancholy that even the sea couldn’t chase away. And Luke wasn’t an idiot. He could read the room. He knew letting him go off to chase Annabeth through the Bermuda Triangle hadn’t been without certain risks. But she had made it clear in no uncertain terms when they had found her hiding belowdecks that she would refuse to listen to whatever he had to say, any respect she used to have for them vanishing when they did.

That had hurt.

Unwilling to let that hypothesis go untested, though, Percy, being the reckless moron that he was, had run after her, swearing up and down that he could convince her into joining the cause, and clearly the kid had far too much leeway over him, because he let him go without too much of a fuss. That had been his first mistake.

Sighing, he set down his Coke can. Percy flinched. “Look, man,” said Luke, ignoring that, “I know she probably said a lot of things that sounded good, but you know you can’t trust her, right?”

“She said the same thing about you.”

“I’m sure she did.” Luke leaned back onto his elbows, turning his face up into the sun. Off in the distance, clouds were beginning to form, shockingly gray against the pale blue sky. “For a strategist, Annabeth doesn’t always see the big picture. I mean,” he conceded, tipping his head, “don’t get me wrong, when that girl puts her mind to it, there’s almost nothing she can’t do. But she’s so stubborn, you know? You shake up her worldview a little bit, and she just about crumbles.”

He could feel Percy hanging on his every word, like… well, like a fish on a line. He felt a little guilty about that, the metaphor. Something about being on the ocean—it was like he couldn’t stop making bad fishing puns. 

“What did she mean,” Percy said, “when she said Thalia would be on her side?”

Luke frowned, willing away Annabeth’s angry, betrayed expression from his memory. “She was wrong.”

“You don’t sound too sure.”

He turned to fix Percy with a glare, but it died at the apprehensive look in his eyes. He sighed. “You know,” Luke said instead, changing tactics, “you remind me a lot of her.”

“Of Annabeth?”

“Thalia.”

He blinked, sitting up a little straighter. “Really?” he asked, like he wasn’t sure whether or not he should take it as a compliment.

“Yeah, absolutely. You guys are so alike it’s a little bit scary. Brave, powerful, loyal—I think she would have really liked you.” If they hadn’t strangled each other first, anyway. They were very similar; that much stubbornness and ego in one room could cause a small explosion. “You wanna know how I know she’d be on our side? You’re here. Simple as that.”

Percy huffed, trying to fight a smile. “I still wish she were here,” he admitted.

“She’ll come around soon enough.” he said. Privately, he wasn’t so sure. And besides, at this point did they really need her? It’d be great to have her skills, yeah, but they had Percy, and he was a one-man army. Kronos’ army was doing just fine without her.

Percy shook his head. “You don’t understand,” he said, “she’s my best friend.”

“You’ve only really known her, what, for a few weeks? A couple months at a summer camp?” said Luke, as gently as he possibly could. “I’ve known Annabeth for years. When she gets an idea in her head, it’s almost impossible to get her to budge, even if she’s wrong. And besides,” he felt he had to point out, “her mom hates your dad. She’s basically programmed to hate you, too.”

He shook his head, glassy-eyed. “She promised she’d fight beside me. She told me I was her friend.”

“She made you bait for capture the flag the first week she met you,” he reminded him, “knowing full well that Clarisse was out for your blood. She could have gotten you killed.”

Percy was silent at that. His frown deepened, scarring his face, hands gripping his Coke can so tightly it began to dent. The Princess Andromeda lurched, like she had just chugged straight into a strong current, equal and opposite in force.

Luke sighed, but shuffled closer, ducking his head to practically whisper in Percy’s ear. “I know how hard this must be. Annabeth is my friend, too—she’s practically my little sister. I miss her like crazy,” he confessed, and it wasn’t even untrue. “I miss everyone at camp. We were a family—big, weird, and overly complicated, but a family all the same. And sometimes, families fight, and it sucks to be caught in the middle. But they’re going to come around.”

“I don’t know…”

“Hey. Listen to me,” and here he finally caught Percy’s eye, fear and dread churning like the tides underneath them, “You’re part of this family, too. And that means that I’m going to take care of you. No matter what, I won’t let anyone hurt you, not even a fellow camper. Alright?”

Around them, the sun darkened, disappearing behind storm clouds, and Luke shivered as the wind picked up.

“Storm’s coming in,” Luke said, mildly. “Let’s get you below decks, go a couple of rounds in the ring. How does that sound?”

He nodded, chewing his lip. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

Oh no, he wasn’t about to let Percy sink back down into whatever teenage depression moment he had going on, not after all his hard work pulling him back out. “What, you need some time to get ready before I kick your ass? Come on.” Luke took Percy’s arm and hauled him to his feet without any resistance. “The sooner we get down there, the sooner you can get it over with, and then you can have something real to mope about for the rest of the day.”

Never one to back down from a challenge, even implied, Percy narrowed his eyes. “I’m gonna make you eat those words.” But he was smiling, faintly, and the winds didn’t feel as harsh.

“Sure, kid. I’ll believe it when I see it.”

***

He should have gagged her, or knocked her out. He should have made Percy come with him to get the rope. What he nevershould have done is left Percy alone with the prisoner. Annabeth was crafty, of course, but more importantly, Percy was still susceptible to her. And yet, when he heard them talking, he decided to hang back around the corner and listen. Gathering intel, he told himself. Annabeth was too well-guarded against Luke, but maybe she was susceptible, too. Maybe with Percy she’d let something slip.

“I told you,” she growled, hoarse but unyielding. “I have nothing to say to you.”

“Annabeth,” Percy pleaded, “if you knew what was coming, you’d understand what we’re trying to do here.”

“I understand you want to destroy Olympus, and you’re going to start with Camp. You’re insane!”

“Why would I want to destroy Camp? I loved it there.”

“Yeah, well you’ve got a real funny way of showing it.”

He could picture it, could see Percy’s face hardening, bright eyes turning so serious and dark, pulling himself up to his full height. “Everything that I’ve done, everything that we’re doing here—I’m doing it for you.”

“I never asked you to do anything for me.”

“Then I’m doing it for everyone at Camp. Come on, Annabeth. The quests, the fighting, the monsters… aren’t you tired of it all? Aren’t you tired of being ignored by our parents? Aren’t you tired of being stuck at Camp, day in and day out, because gods forbid you just want to take a walk down Fifth Ave without being jumped by monsters?”

“And you think this is going to help?”

“I think that we can’t rely on our parents to save our skins anymore.”

“Are you even listening to yourself?” said Annabeth. With every word, her voice grew stronger. “How many times did your father save your ass on our quest?”

“Oh yeah? And where was he when Hades kidnapped my mom? Or when we had no money for food? Or when my stepdad would hit her? For that matter, where was your mom when you were living on the streets in Richmond, or constantly chased by spiders?”

“How the hell do you know about—”

“The gods don’t care about us, Annabeth, but that’s okay, because we don’t need them anymore! All we need is each other. And we could really use someone like you.” There was a shuffling, a faint clang, like a metal bar lightly touched. “You’re one of the smartest, bravest people I have ever met in my entire life. You deserve better than everything you’ve been given.”

He sounded so sincere, so genuine, there was no way Annabeth wouldn’t at least be thrown for a loop, he thought.

“If you want me so bad, why did you trick me into holding up the sky?”

“That wasn’t my idea,” said Percy, shortly. “I’m sorry.”

“If you were really sorry, you would have stopped it.”

“I wanted to, but Luke wouldn’t—”

“And since when do you listen to Luke?” She went on. “Percy, Luke is not on your side. He’s just using you for his stupid revenge fantasy.”

“That’s not true.”

“When he and Thalia found me in that alleyway in Virginia, he promised me that I was his family, that he would take care of me, that he wouldn’t let me get hurt. What did he say to you?”

Silence. Luke counted four seconds.  

“If you let me go,” said Annabeth, pressing the advantage, and Luke really needed to step in, they weren’t going to get anything out of her at this rate—“if you come back to camp with me, we can work this out. We still have time to fix this.”

“I can’t,” he whispered.

“You can. Please, Percy. You’re my best friend.” A quiet shing, like a hand sliding up a metal bar. “If I don’t deserve this, neither do you.”

“You’re wrong. I can’t go back. Annabeth, you—you don’t know what I’ve done.”

“I know what you did to your step-father.”

There was an inhale, glass-sharp. A step in the dirt. The air grew heavy, thick, suffocating.

“When you disappeared, I went with Chiron to talk to your mom. Do you know what she told me?”

“Stop—”

“She told me she loved you, and she was worried about you. She told me that she didn’t care what you had done, as long as you made it back home.”

“Shut up!” Like a bell, the clangof a palm striking metal rang out, echoing down the corridors of the prison, nearly covering up Percy’s heavy footfalls. Luke pressed himself into the shadows of the hallway, but Percy stormed right past him without even realizing he was there, knuckles pale, glaring murderously. He gave himself ninety seconds before he rounded the corner himself.

The gray streak in her blonde hair matched his own, matched the color of her eyes. She looked just as haggard as she had days ago, deep lines of pain still creased on her forehead like the bent pages of an old book. “What, here for another round of good cop, bad cop?” She grinned, bloody and triumphant. “Because I think I just made your good cop cry.”

“Get up,” he said. “Some friends of yours are coming. We should go greet them, don’t you think?”

She rose like the weight of the sky was still on her shoulders, clutching the bars for balance as she unwound her spine. “When she sees what you did to me, she’ll kill you herself.”

“You only knew her for two weeks,” he snapped. His hands felt clammy, clutching the rope like it was about to slip from his grasp. “I ran with her for five years. Now, come on.” He brandished the rope at her. “Don’t make this any harder than it needs to be.”

Annabeth only glared at him, unflinching and immovable like a statue of her mother, and Luke made a promise to himself right then and there, as soon as this was over, to send a monster to see about blowing the Hoover Dam wide open. 

***

War councils always made him feel like his head had been shoved through a meat grinder, and this one was no exception. Maybe it was the endless, mind-numbing flattery, all the sycophantic suck-ups doing their damnedest to kiss the non-existent ass of the god in the sarcophagus, falling over each other in ecstatic, overblown supplication. Maybe it was the constant stench of monsters that permeated every single thread of his clothing and wouldn’t fade for days, no matter how hard Percy blasted them. Or maybe it was just how everyone assembled would categorically and systematically refuse to listen to his ideas. “We should put more effort into finding Daedalus’ workshop,” Luke said for what had to be the millionth time today. “We need Ariadne’s thread to survive down there.”

“You need the thread to survive down there,” an empousa airily corrected him. “We don’t need help from any more of your kind.”

The phantom weight of Backbiter still hung heavy on his empty hip, taunting him, when all he wanted to do was take it out and strike that sickly-sweet smile right off her face. “ We need to be able to navigate the Labyrinth, or none of us will make it out of there in one piece, much less to the invasion.”

She sniffed, like she had gotten a whiff of her own perfume.

“The boy is right,” rasped the voice from the coffin. “The inventor’s choice of ally cannot be left up to Fate.”

Luke didn’t even try to stop himself from smirking, triumphant, as she huffed. “Of course, my lord.”

“Luke,” said Kronos, turning his attention. “Go and prepare your force. And do not return until you have done what I have asked.”

He nodded his head, then practically skipped out of there. Anything to get away from that smell. As soon as he closed the stateroom door, it was like emerging from a fog, and he took a deep breath of clean air, just because he could. His heart settled back down to its normal pace.

So of course, that was when Percy trotted up to him, cornering him against the wall. “Any news?” He asked. The kid was getting a little old for the big, watery eyes thing, but he had pulled them out anyway. Too bad for him, Luke was definitely no longer affected.

“Sorry, kid,” he said. “Still no word.” Better for him right now to think that Chris was still lost, rather than tell him he had ended up at Camp, or Percy would launch his own rescue mission right there and then.

He tried to slide past him, but Percy wouldn’t be moved. “You never should have sent him down there in the first place.”

Luke pressed his lips together. “Chris knew the risks. He knew that he might not come back, and he went in willingly anyway.”

“That doesn’t matter!” Those big eyes were narrowed, raging and stormy, Luke had to fight the urge to take a step back. “We shouldn’t be sending people down there at all!”

“We’ve been over this: the magical barrier is just too strong for a frontal assault. If we have even a hope of pulling off this invasion, we have to go through the Labyrinth.”

“But why are we invading? Weren’t we trying to do this non-violently?”

“We were, but—”

“Why can’t we just talk to them?”

Luke drew himself up to his full height. Percy had gone through a growth spurt or several, but Luke still had a few inches on him for now. “Because it’s well past the time for talk. Everyone at that camp? They’re our enemies now.”

“How can you say that? Those are our friends!” He jabbed a finger at Luke’s chest like it was a sword. “You promised me that we wouldn’t have to hurt any of them.”

“Well, Percy, if you have any other ideas, I’m sure Lord Kronos would absolutely love to hear them.” 

That stopped him in his tracks. He pulled up short, deflating like sails without wind, and he seemed to shrink before Luke’s very eyes. “I… I don’t…” He swallowed, glancing behind Luke at the large black doors. “I…”

“They’re just wrapping up a council,” said Luke, cheerfully. “Why don’t we go in, and you can tell all the generals that you think their plan sucks. Kronos was in a pretty terrible mood before, I’m sure this would cheer him right up.”

“I’m not going in there,” he said in a rush. “I’m not—you can’t make me go in there.” 

Aw, hell. “Hey,” Luke said, softly, pivoting, “it’s okay. He can be pretty scary.”

Percy shook his head, eyes wild. “He—when he—he shows me these things, Luke, and he wants to do all these, horrible things, and I feel him inside of my head, and I just—I just—”

Telegraphing each inch, he put a hand on Percy’s shoulder, squeezing. The muscle was taught, tighter than Odysseus’ bow. “I know. He tells me things, too. Sometimes, the things he asks of us are really, really hard, but you have to know it’s all for the best.”

He raised his head. This close, Luke could see that his pupils had shrunk to almost nothing, lost in the stormy sea that surrounded them. Percy licked his lips, jaw working. “Do you know what he wants me to do?” he asked, after a moment. “Do you even know what he has planned for me?”

Percy’s heartbeat thudded through his fingers. Luke felt like he was at the edge of the pit again, the cold wind pulling at him, stomach-first. 

Something shifted in Percy’s gaze. “You don’t know,” he said, quiet. 

“I—”

Percy ran his hands through his hair, over his face, rough and frantic. “He—he wants me to—” He barked a laugh, brittle, bare. “I can’t even fucking say it.”

Luke squeezed Percy’s shoulder again, giving it the smallest of shakes. Time for a redirection. “I know you’re scared, but you have got to pull yourself together.” With as much reluctance as he could muster, he sighed. “I didn’t want to tell you this, but Chris is being held at Camp Half-Blood. I didn’t tell you,” he said over Percy’s bubbling protest, “because I knew you would want to rush in to get him. We’re just not strong enough yet. But once we get Ariadne’s thread, we’ll be that much closer to rescuing Chris. In the meantime, you’ve got a mission in Washington.”

“Take the blade to Mount St. Helens,” he said, shakily. “I know.”

“I know it seems like busy work, but you should take this time to go blow off a little steam, because I’m going to need you at the top of your game for the invasion. Can you do that for me?”

He took a shuddering breath, but he nodded. “Yes. You can count on me,” he said, so serious and determined, barely any hint of the child underneath the soldier that Luke had forged him into. Watching Percy go, though, Luke couldn’t help feeling a strange sense of relief, like an arrow had just barely missed his heart. 

Luke peered down at the hole in Central Park, open like a gaping maw in the earth, a yawning chasm leading down into the impenetrable blackness. The steep, stone stairs of Orpheus’ secret route to the Underworld were bleached white in the moonlight, like teeth, or tombstones. “Appropriately ominous,” Luke muttered, rolling his eyes. He really, really hated this plan.

“Shall we?” He asked Percy, who he knew would be behind him.

When he didn’t hear a response, he looked back, but whatever order he was coming up with died in his mouth.

Above him, the light pollution had cleared away like morning mist, and the whole night sky spread out before them. The Milky Way ran through the inky purple sky like a seam through fabric, and there were so many stars—thousands, tens of thousands of stars, scattered carelessly, a latticework of light just barely holding back the heavy, velvet darkness. In the center of that open air temple, there was Percy, his head tilted back as he stood, open-mouthed and gaping, taking it all in. “I’ve never seen so many stars in my life,” he murmured. “Not even at…” he trailed off, swallowing.

It was a single, perfect, crystalline moment, a bubble, a snow globe, frozen in time, stretching to infinity. Without meaning to, Luke thought of granite rocks, pine trees, flickering Morse code.

“Percy,” said Luke, quiet voice loud enough to shatter glass. “We should go.”

All at once, the spell broke. The grey fog of New York City rolled in like thunderclouds, the silence suddenly replaced with rumbling engines, blaring horns, laughter and rustling trees.

Percy looked vaguely green, staring down into the abyss. “Have I mentioned how much I hate going underground?”

The stairs went on forever, narrow, steep, and slippery. Percy led them through it, the light off his sword throwing weak shadows on the walls. Every sound was swallowed up by the dark stone; Luke couldn’t even hear his own footsteps in front of him. “Hey,” said Luke, “you okay?”

Percy didn’t answer. Or maybe he just couldn’t hear him.

After about an hour of walking, Percy perked up. “Can you hear that?” he asked.

It was like Luke was wearing a pair of heavy-duty earmuffs. “What?”

“We’re getting close.”

A little white later, they emerged at the bottom, onto a great, ragged cliff, overlooking a beach of black sand. The River Styx flowed before them, wide and serene, little souls like white water caps cresting every so often. Without waiting to see if Luke was following, Percy strode off to the shore, shoes crunching over the volcanic rock, fast enough that Luke had to actually jog a little to keep up with him. He reached out and grabbed his shirt before the kid could do something stupid, like cannonball straight into the deadly river. “Hey! Did you talk to your mom?”

Percy made a face at him. In the light of his sword, the bags under his eyes stood out even more prominently, the grey streak in his hair ghostly pale. That night on the mountain with Thalia and the Hunters, Zoë Nightshade had tricked Percy, feinting and kicking him into the goddess that held the weight of the sky, trapping him under there and freeing her mistress. Luke had only been able to convince Atlas to relieve Percy of his burden by threatening him with Kronos’ displeasure. Percy had stumbled out from under the dome, shivering and sick, looking like he had aged a hundred years. He looked that way now, shadows flickering like phantom wrinkles on his face. “Do you think I’d be here if I didn’t?”

“Did you?”

He nodded, jaw set in that grim frown that had been permanently fixed to his face since he'd returned from blowing up a volcano. “Yes. She understands—I’m doing this for her.”

Only his hands gave him away, clenching and unclenching over and over again to the gentle, hypnotic tide of the river.

“You don’t have to do this,” he blurted out. Momentarily stunned, Percy blinked. “I mean, you don’t have to go in there. I can do it.” Percy scoffed. Anger, cold and burning, crept up through his stomach. “I can!”

“I’m sure you could,” Percy said, “but it’s not you he wants.”

“I know, but—”

“Luke,” he interrupted, eyes shining. "This is my destiny. This is what I was meant to do.”

Hal Green had known that Luke would turn on the gods. His sister’s spirit, the Oracle, she had known the fate of Luke’s questing companions, that Odessa would fall, gutted open by Ladon the dragon, that Alexios would follow her soon after, driven to a blinding rage by his grief. The gods had known that their day of reckoning was coming, and had done their absolute damnedest to stop it, but here was the proof beneath his fingertips, that destiny had a funny way of coming true. That was the fate of kings and slaves, gods and heroes alike.

His grip on Percy’s shoulder tightened, and like lightning, it struck him suddenly that he no longer had to crouch down or bend over to look him in the eye. This shoulder, it was all at once broader and fuller, lean, corded muscle like a bronze statue where there had once been nothing but skin and bones. His jaw had grown sharper when Luke wasn’t looking, his cheekbones more prominent, beneath a princely brow, a face like a marble bust: dignified, noble, commanding. He looked… he had always been a cute kid, but Luke had to admit, he was starting to become seriously handsome. He rubbed his thumb against the fabric of Percy’s shirt, smiling ruefully. “When did you grow up on me, kid,” he said. Percy tried to smile, and Luke knew there was no stopping this. “Alright. You can do this.”

“Yeah,” he bobbed his head, smile vanishing. “Yeah. I got this.”

“Pick a place on your body and picture a rope.”

“A rope,” he repeated. “Okay.”

Then, with one last squeeze, he let Percy go, and the son of the sea god walked towards the water, his head held high. Luke had just a second to idly wonder if Percy could even get wet, before his head disappeared beneath the surface.

A minute passed, sixty seconds of silence. The water showed no signs that it had been disturbed at all in the slightest. Luke scrubbed a hand over his face.

Another minute went, another sixty seconds. The river made almost no noise as it flowed on, unhurried and eternal. The shores of the Styx were silent, save for Luke tapping his foot against a particularly big rock.

A third minute, and then just as Luke was about to get in the damn river himself, Percy crawled back out on his hands and knees, skin red and blistering, chest heaving with great, gasping breaths. “Percy!” Luke crashed to his knees before the shivering, shuddering body. “Are you okay? Percy!”

Percy’s fingers scratched great, deep welts into the soil of the Underworld. Reaching blindly with his hand, he grabbed onto Luke’s arm, and squeezed so hard, Luke knew there would be a bruise in a few minutes. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out but a wet, hacking cough, and he spat Styx-water into the dirt. “Luke,” he wheezed, eyes wild and haunted, “we have to—we have to—”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” said Luke, peeling the kid’s fingers off him, wrapping his hand around his. “Just take it easy.”

Percy shook his head, droplets flinging from his hair. “No time. We have to get out of here before—"

In the distance, there was a sound like glass shattering, and a terrible, ear-splitting wail. Somehow the weak light grew even dimmer, and against the darkness, Luke thought he could make out three pairs of great, black wings.

With all the force of a tsunami, Percy grabbed his wrist and pulled, nearly sending Luke off his feet. “Come on!” He shouted, and they ran for it.

Riptide in hand, Percy was about to leap over the stands when Luke grabbed him by the collar of his shirt. Amazingly, Percy let him. “Easy, kid,” he said. “Let the monsters take care of them. We’ve got somewhere else to be.”

“But—Annabeth—” he sputtered.

Luke growled. Every time he took his eyes off Percy, she was there, like a bad penny, undoing all of Luke’s hard work, and he was sick of it. He liked the girl, too, but Percy’s little crush was really starting to grate on his nerves. He fisted his hands in Percy’s shirt, pulling him in by the collar. “Enough,” he said through gritted teeth. “You have got to let this girl go. I get that you two have a thing going on—”

“They’re outmatched,” Percy said over him, “She’s going to get away—she’ll warn the others—”

“We have the string,” Luke pressed, “they’ll never find their way back in time, even with the mortal—”

“You don’t understand!” Beneath the skin, he swore he could feel Percy’s grip on his bones, grinding them together. The kid could rip him apart, limb by limb, without even breaking a sweat. “You don’t understand, I—”

“I do!” In the dull roar of the arena, Luke’s shout rang out like a trumpet. “I do understand,” he said again, and he did, because of course he did. The army was more monsters than mortals, they were hemorrhaging demigods left and right, and with each passing day, it was becoming more and more abundantly clear that they wouldn’t be getting any more. “I know how much you wanted her here with you. But she made her choice.”

His face tried to crumple. Maybe the Curse didn’t let him cry anymore. “You don’t understand,” he whispered, as though the words would have new meaning the more he said them.

“She made her choice.” Bright eyes sparking with anger, with power, glared at him from beneath wild, dark hair. “You have to let her go if we’re going to pull this off.”

“The invasion—”

“Forget the invasion,” he said. “We need to move.”

Percy snarled, then pushed him so hard, Luke nearly went flying. He stumbled backwards, tripping over the seats, landing hard on his ass.

“Wh—” he spluttered, flailing. “Hey! The hell was that!”

But Percy had already stalked off, towards the tunnel that led to the great hall.

When Luke finally caught up to him, Kelli, for whatever sick, psycho reason she could come up with, had found him first, leading him on and humming a tuneless song that echoed off the dirt walls. Before too long, the tunnel opened up to a dark foyer, then the main hall, where the floor shone like a mahogany piano—pure black, reflecting what little light it could pull into itself. At the end of the room, between two huge, bronze braziers, was a dais, and there, raised up, was the golden sarcophagus, shining sickly yellow and incongruously bright in the blackness of the room. Hecate was there, smoking faintly, her entourage of vampires and other mist-manipulating monsters leering with hungry eyes and predatory grins.

“Well,” Kelli purred, running her hand along the open coffin. Long fingers traced the figure of a warrior holding aloft a head—human or monster or god, he couldn’t tell. “Get in.”

Percy didn’t move, staring at the coffin. He stood there, for four seconds, and he still didn’t move. “Just,” said Luke, stepping in front of him, between him and the monsters. “Give us a second.”

Percy’s face was unreadable, shuttered and closed off. His eyes were open, but they went right through him.

“Hey,” Luke said. His hands twitched, wanting, desperate to reach out. “Percy.”

“What’s going to happen to me?” he asked, eyes still unseeing.

“I don’t know,” Luke admitted. “Hecate will do the ritual, and then…”

“Will you stay with me?” 

Luke nodded. “Of course.” And he stepped aside.

Percy stepped up to the coffin, swung one leg in, then the other, looking bizarrely like he was stepping into the world’s most golden bathtub. He lay down, and Luke bounded up after him, taking his proffered hand. In return, Percy gave his weakest smile, and Luke had to come clean before it was too late. “I have to tell you something.”

“Right now?” said Hecate, her hands and eyes glowing. “May I begin?”

“Go ahead,” said Percy.

Hecate began her chant, an ancient language that rattled him down to his bones. Tongue heavy, Luke forced himself to speak. “Your first quest, for the Bolt,” he said, and gods, wasn’t that just a whole lifetime ago, a bright and beautiful chapter of endless possibility and hope, lost to time. “The shoes… I—”

“I know,” said Percy.

Luke was speechless.

“Did you think I was stupid?”

“Why,” he licked his lips, mouth dry. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Percy shrugged, eyes struggling to stay open. With every labored breath, his chest rose less and less, Percy’s grip on his hand weaker and weaker. “I’m still here, aren’t I?” He swallowed, like the movement was too painful and too exhausting to be borne. “Luke,” he whispered. His skin was already so cold. “I need… I…”

In his hands, his pulse slowed to a halt. His chest stilled. Those eyes closed, and didn’t open again.

It was done. He—the body was ready. Now all they needed was Ethan.

Kelli shot him a nasty grin as she escorted Hecate out of the hall. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” she tittered.

The ritual complete, one by one the monsters shuffled out of the room, lumbering off to their various tasks, until only Luke remained. He still held Percy’s hand. As gently as he could, he laid it back down on the body, the limp, clammy hand slipping easily from his grasp.

Luke sat down heavily on the steps, resting his back against the golden friezes of the coffin, and resisted the urge to cry. He dug his fingernails into his palms, focusing on the ridges and bumps of the sarcophagus that pressed into his spine. The air grew colder as he waited, his breath steaming in the dim light.

It was just a dead body, he told himself. He’d seen plenty before—hell, he’d made a few himself. That was what Kronos required, to rise to power: sacrifices, of word, of deed, of flesh and blood. Luke knew the price he had to pay to change the world. He had made his peace with it a long time ago..

Seven thousand seconds later, Ethan arrived, melting out of the darkness, accompanied by the telkhines who bore the new and improved Backbiter, and Luke scrambled to his feet. Even from here, he could see they had re-forged it well.  They were indeed experts in their craft. Even lying immobile on the ceremonial cloth, Luke could almost feel the blade carve the very air, splitting molecules, slicing atoms. Two of the monsters shuffled forward and knelt, presenting the gift to the coffin. “My lord,” one said, “your symbol of power, remade.”

The coffin, predictably, said nothing.

“You fool,” the other telkhine muttered. “He requires the half-blood first.”

“Whoa,” said Ethan, stepping back. “What do you mean, he requires me?”

“Kronos only requires your allegiance,” Luke said. “Pledge him your service, and renounce the gods.”

Ethan raised his single eyebrow. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“Hurry, boy,” hissed one of the dog-faced monsters.

Ignoring his escort, Ethan stepped up the dais, and went down on one knee. “I, Ethan Nakamura, son of Nemesis, renounce the gods of Olympus. Before you all as witnesses, I pledge my sword and my service to Kronos, the Titan lord.”

“No!” came a girl’s scream from the air.

The building rumbled, the very foundations shivering, as a wisp of blue light rose from the floor at Ethan’s feet. It spun through the air, then shimmered, descending into the golden casket. There was a heavy, deep groan, like a rock rolled over the entrance to a tomb, sealing it shut.

A hand emerged from the golden box. Long fingers blindly felt for the edges, wrapping around the sharp corners, knuckle by knuckle. Slowly, as though it were pulled by a string tied to his belly button, a torso lifted itself up, the head hanging back on the neck as though it were attached by only a single vertebra. Its eyes were closed, but the skin was sallow and sick, when just an hour ago it had been healthy and flushed. Like a spider, the body heaved itself up and out of its resting place, clutching the lip for the support, the torso carried forward by skittering limbs. Where its feet touched the floor, the marble froze, fractals of ice spiraling endlessly outward. That hand came up to grip at its face, the mouth twisted in a pained grimace. Then he blinked his eyes open—no longer green, but gold, the same sickly yellow as the coffin.

He looked at Ethan and the telkhines almost confusedly, like he wasn’t quite sure what he was seeing. Then his gaze drifted to Luke, and a smile of recognition crept across his mouth. “Well done, boy,” intoned the voice of the newly resurrected Lord Kronos.

“Thank you, my lord,” he stammered, dropping into a half-bow.

Kronos straightened, vertebrae locking into place, then ran a hand over his chest, slowly, from his clavicle down to his stomach, feeling, learning the stretch and shape of each muscle and sinew. “This body has been very well prepared,” he said, voice like a razor blade over Luke’s skin. It was Percy’s, but—but it wasn’t. Another voice lurked just beneath the surface, ancient and cold, like metal scraped across a rock. “Don’t you think so, Annabeth Chase?”

He swiveled his gaze to an empty patch of air, between Ethan and the telkhines, and one of the monsters pounced. With a shimmer, she reappeared on the floor, magical hat knocked off her head.

“Annabeth,” Luke breathed.

She grappled with the telkhine holding her down, trying in vain to kick it off, as Kronos took his first steps down from the dais. He reached for the handle of the scythe, curving the knuckles deliberately around the polished wood. “Hmm,” he hummed, stroking it lightly with his other hand. “Much better. What was it you had named it, Luke?”

“Backbiter, my lord.”

“An appropriate name,” he mused, feeling along the flat of the blade with his thumb. “Now that it is re-forged completely, it shall indeed bite back.”

“What have you done to him?!” Annabeth roared. Her dirty face was streaked with tears.

Kronos regarded the girl prone on the ground before him with a detached curiosity. “Nothing he did not agree to. He serves me with his whole body, as I had asked him to do.” One-handed, he twirled the heavy blade, bringing it right up to her face. Every muscle in Luke’s body twitched. It was as though he were being held in place by one of the hecatonchires, a million hands keeping him in place, even as he strained to break free. But, Kronos wouldn’t—he wouldn’t—

The Crooked One tensed his shoulders, both hands gripping the wooden shaft. “Wait,” Luke burst, an explosion in his mouth, “my lord, wait—”

Kronos pulled back, preparing to strike.

Then from below, another earthquake ripped through the great hall. Even Kronos was momentarily thrown off balance, as he took a step back to steady himself.

Annabeth threw the telkhine off her, scrambling to her feet as she lurched towards the cave entrance, sprinting. Ethan made to follow her, hand on his sword, but his path was blocked by the sudden appearance of a chunk of rock which fell from the ceiling, nearly crushing him. Luke, stumbling forward, caught a glimpse of a boy in the tunnel, his hands outstretched, face screwed up in concentration, next to a girl with flaming red hair. “Nico!” The girl yelled, hand on his shoulder. “We gotta move!”

“Don’t let them get away!” Luke shouted.

Annabeth darted into the tunnel, and the boy clapped his hands together. A jagged spire of rock the size of an eighteen-wheeler erupted from the ground right in front of the tunnel, piercing the front columns of the great hall. When the dust cleared, there was no trace of them.

“What the hell was that?” Ethan spluttered. The dust in his hair made him look like an old man.

“It is no matter,” said Kronos, apparently unbothered. Slow and precise, he raised a hand to his shoulder, and flicked off an offending speck of dirt which had made the grave mistake of landing there. “Let them run back to their camp. We shall see them soon enough.” He closed his eyes, breathing in deep through his nose. “Luke,” he said, the word dropping like a stone from his mouth. “Come here.”

On wobbly legs, he stepped closer to Per—to his master. To Kronos. The god of time.

Kronos tried to smile, the lips curling up at the edges. “Do not look so distraught, boy,” he said. “Is this not what you wanted?” The Crooked One asked with Percy’s voice, smiling with Percy’s mouth. “When you gave him to me? When you presented me with the most powerful sacrifice I could ask for? Congratulations are in order, child. Despite your previous failures, in this instance you have succeeded quite admirably. This body…” Kronos caressed his own face, like a lover would, running his fingers over the hinge of his jawline, brushing his knuckles across the high ridge of his cheekbones. “There is much power to be found in this form. I have seen it, ever since he defeated our friend on the Santa Monica beach.” He sighed, almost in pleasure.

“What,” Luke swallowed, tasting bile. “What is your command, my lord?”

His eyes snapped to him, golden gaze pinning him in place, like a butterfly. Luke shivered, a chill going down his spine like someone was walking on his grave. “Prepare my army,” he commanded. That face never changed, but his voice, it was full to the brim with malice and venom. “It is time to put an end to my son and his little band of heroes, once and for all.”

Luke had never really understood Thalia’s fear of heights until the last time he had visited Olympus, like it had known what he was there to do. The stone bridge connecting the Empire State Building and the land of the gods had wobbled beneath his feet, thinning and shifting seemingly at random, revealing the whole of New York City below him between the stones. One false move, and he would end up a red dent in Times Square, fifty thousand feet below. He remembered fighting off the feeling of lightheadedness, praying to the god of time to give him a few extra seconds just to pull himself together, before he was found out.

Othrys made him feel the same way, but in reverse.

The fortress had been cut from the mountain in huge gashes, like a giant claw had ripped the landscape wide open, but only the throne room was exposed to the air. The rest of it ran through Mount Tam in tunnels, like veins shooting into the Labyrinth at various points. Atlas hurled insults from beneath the dome of the sky, and screamed so mightily that the walls often shook with his rage. One false move, and they’d all be buried alive.

So when he wasn’t needed at the various war councils or at Kronos’ side, his yes-man and human pet, Luke spent most of his time camped outside of the great big black temple. Most nights he could be found on the mountainside, ostensibly patrolling for as long as he could stand it, but the vastness of the night sky would inevitably chase him back inside, the stars blinking down at him coldly, almost in accusation. Though, when he was exhausted enough to sleep, he did choose the barracks in the heart of the mountain over the hillside, as he'd had more than his fill of camping. The barracks were equally huge, vast and sprawling, enough beds to house all the monsters and demigods and mercenaries that they could find and then some, but unfortunately they were also hot and damp and they smelled so badly of monster guts that it made him seriously nostalgic for the admiral’s suite on the Princess Andromeda . Styx, it made him seriously nostalgic for Cabin Eleven. Cramped and uncomfortable as the Hermes Cabin had been, at least there he had his friends and siblings with him. There, he had known where everyone was, could see and hear that his kids were fine, that they were alive and breathing.

On Mt. Othrys, every morning he found a newly empty bunk.

“Hey.” Ethan Nakamura gave him a nod from his perch on one of the top bunks, idly spinning a knife back and forth. “We lost Marietta last night.”

“What? What happened?”

Ethan shrugged. “She just up and left, middle of the night.”

“The Labyrinth?” When demigods defected, they had two ways of escaping the fortress: either through the Labyrinth, where they would be just as lost as the monsters but they might pop out somewhere far enough away from Othrys to escape, or they would try their luck in the mortal world, running down the mountain to San Francisco with nothing but the clothes on their back.

He shook his head. “The mountain. Ty said she has family in Sacramento.”

“And you didn’t try and stop her?”

“Yeah, because I can totally catch the three-time All-State all-terrain marathon champion.” Then he frowned. “Wait, weren’t you out on patrol last night?”

She had probably run past him and he hadn’t even noticed. “I was in the arena last night,” he lied. “Meeting.”

“Uh huh,” said Ethan.

Luke quickly did the math in his head. “How many are left?” he asked, hoping beyond hope that Ethan’s answer would be different than his.

“Um,” said Ethan, single eye screwing up in thought. “There’s me, Alabaster… Nadia… the group in Phoenix…”

And no one to spare to send out after her. He couldn’t send a monster; it would just eat her. “Crap.”

Ethan watched him, face impassive. In the flickering torchlight, his eyepatch was dark as a void, a black hole, sucking the life from his face.

Luke frowned. “What?”

He looked away. “Nothing.”

“Ethan. Please.”

The knife stilled in his hand. “She’s going to try for Long Island.”

“I figured as much,” Luke sighed. He leaned back against the wall, tipping his head against the dirt with a soft, muted thunk. “She didn’t happen to say why?”

Ethan didn’t answer, which was all the answer that Luke needed. 

“Guess I have to go and report this,” Luke muttered. That was not a conversation he wanted to have with Kronos. 

“Right,” Ethan snorted, “because he’ll totally care.”

“Hey,” Luke said, chastising, “he does care. We’re part of the team, and he knows he can’t do this without us.”

“Yeah, I’ll be sure to tell that to Marietta. And Emma. And Louis. And—”

Luke gritted his teeth. “Enough.” 

But Ethan wouldn’t be stopped. “Look, man, I know you have your lofty ideals about justice or whatever, but you had to have known that they were going to take a backseat to the destruction of Olympus.”

“I said, enough.”

“I’m just saying, you should have seen this coming, especially after what he did to Per—”

A flash of blind rage, and Luke found his sword in his hand. He snarled, hands shaking around the stiff leather grip. “Shut. Up.”

Ethan only raised an eyebrow.

Luke gave himself five seconds before he turned on his heel and stormed out.

Luke approached the Crooked One, his spine as straight as he dared. The Titan Lord didn’t demand scraping and groveling from his followers, which Luke guessed he should be grateful for. Nevertheless, he did enjoy a certain deference from those in his army. Those lips curled at their corners as Luke cautiously approached his throne, like someone had taken a needle and thread and stitched his mouth wide open.

“My lord,” he murmured, giving a half-bow.

Kronos inclined his borrowed head in return. “What is it, my boy?”

“If I may, my lord, I would like to request a—a favor.”

He raised a dark eyebrow, the muscles shifting in his forehead as it settled into place, step-by-step. Luke had the feeling like he was being put through a radioactive scanner. He thought he could almost sense something wriggling around in his head, like a worm. “That would depend on the favor,” he said, eventually. “Speak. I shall deliberate.”

Luke swallowed, all his fancy words deserting him. “Can I talk to him?”

“To whom?” asked the titan, turning his head ever so slightly.

“To Percy.”

“Ah.” He raised one of his hands, considered the harsh blue lines of his body’s veins, the mound of the palm, the curve of his fingers. “And why, pray tell, would you wish to speak with him?”

“I—”

“In any case,” he said, examining the body’s nails, “I am afraid I will have to decline.” He flicked a golden eye back to Luke, rooting him to the floor. “Our dear Perseus knows that for this arrangement of ours to be successful, we cannot share the same mind. A charioteer cannot allow his horses to run wild, you understand. They must be disciplined, brought under a strong hand, else they may run off the track and hurt themselves. Perseus knows a thing or two about wild horses—he would have made a fine charioteer himself.” Something in Luke’s expression must have been hilarious, because Kronos laughed, high and soft, his face a perfect mask. Luke shivered. “Do not look so dour, my boy. I have not done him any harm, merely put him to sleep. Sometimes, he even dreams.”

“What does he dream about?” Luke asked, unable to stop the question.

“What do any of you dream about?” Sitting back, Kronos looked at him.

This time, Luke felt like he was under a microscope. That gaze traveled up and down his body, those golden eyes wandering lazily from his neck to his chest, and down, and down. “Um,” Luke said, feeling vaguely in need of a shower. “My lord?”

“The things you have done to this child… truly extraordinary,” the Crooked One said, and he almost sounded proud, beneath the mocking veneer. “Possibly your greatest achievement.”

And he was dismissed, with barely a glance.

That night, Luke dreamt.

A rundown, ramshackle cabin crouched on a stormy beach, its battered walls holding fast against the violent, howling wind as lightning sliced through the thick darkness. Inside, the sad crackling of the pitiful hearth did nothing to warm him. A small, dark-haired boy was lying on the moldy blue couch, hands digging trenches into his skull, his head in the lap of an older woman who smiled even as she wept. She sang to him softly as she rubbed her thumb over the white clench of his knuckles, her other hand resting on his back.

Lightning crashed. Instead of the woman, in her place was Annabeth. She looked older than Luke remembered. The gray streak in her hair matched her eyes, dark and angry.

Lightning again. He saw himself. He watched himself card his fingers through Percy’s hair, his hand laid protectively over the dip in his spine.

Thunder boomed overhead, and the fire went out. The room was dark. Still Percy laid there, green eyes cold through his fingers as he stared at Luke. Sea water poured in from the gaps in the floorboards, pooling around his shoes, then his knees, then his chest and his mouth and he was drowning—

Afterwards, when the war council had gone their separate ways and the throne room of the titans had been emptied of monsters, when it was just Luke and the lord of time, Luke could stay silent no longer. He approached his commander. Kronos stood there, like a marble statue; beneath the armor, Luke couldn’t even say whether or not he was breathing. “My lord?” Luke asked. Kronos’ golden eyes snapped to him, the only hint of life in that body. “Far be it from me to question your strategy—”

“And yet question it you do.” He snorted, a gesture so human and so utterly alien for the titan that Luke was thrown for a loop. “Tell me, boy.”

Luke blinked, swallowing a mouthful of spit. He cleared his throat. “Is it… wise to leave Othrys to Krios?”

Kronos looked up at him, head tilted just a little too far to be comfortable. “Your concern for this lump of rock is touching. Will you miss it, when we tear down the stones of Olympus?”

He hated watching Kronos move. Percy had been a born warrior, just like Thalia, with a warrior’s grace that you just didn’t see in many teenage boys. A natural swordfighter, swimmer, all-around athletic kid, with a body bred for battle, his movements had always been quick, clean, and precise, like a dancer. Kronos moved like he was reading a manual on how to control a human body, consciously issuing commands from thought to nerve to muscle and back. He was the world’s most complex puppet, an automaton so advanced, even Hephaestus couldn’t match it.

“I just—” said Luke, struggling to keep himself from turning away. “Such a fortified position—”

He raised a hand, stopping the words in Luke’s throat. Those lips did their best to curl, a grimace stretched to look like a mocking smile. “Have faith, Luke Castellan. Even Krios, dimwitted as he is, can hold the Black Throne against the meager force of Lupa’s war-mongering pups.”

The name sent a shudder down Luke’s spine, like teeth scraping against each other, raw and jarring. “Lupa?”

“Surely, even you have heard of the Mother of Rome?” Kronos asked. “Or does my son still choose to leave them out of his lectures?”

“Them?” His palms felt clammy, his heart pounded, the phantom taste of blood on his lips.

“The Romans, child.” The Crooked One laughed at his gaping, dumbfounded face. “Oh yes, they too have dogged our heels as we have moved throughout the West. Your former friends from Long Island avoid California for more reasons than just ourselves.”

“The Romans? There are Romans here?” Inexplicable anger, blue-hot, lanced through his stomach.

“A whole other camp,” he confirmed, almost with humor. “Just down the road, I believe. Such a pity,” said Kronos, turning to the window. Othrys loomed over the city of San Francisco, a city that Luke had never stepped foot in, a state that set Luke’s teeth on edge. He thought it had just been because of the monsters. “Long have they wandered, ever in our shadow, desperate for new soil, new blood. Alas, they will not be able to enjoy it for much longer.”

“Shouldn’t we try to recruit them?” The words were thick in his throat, and Luke almost had to force them out. Desperate times. “I mean, the Romans were practically a war machine, a fighting force like that would—”

“Romans would never deign to fight alongside outsiders,” the lord of time sneered, the twist of his mouth so ugly on Percy’s face. “Alongside barbarians. As if the Romans invented the phalanx formation. In this as in all things, they are parasites: they steal what is not theirs, then imagine that they have invented fire itself. Rome’s greed knows no bounds, boy. She has stolen peoples, lands, and gods, and all with impunity.”

In the light of the moon, he was pale blue, golden eyes strangely unfocused. The gray streak in his hair shone white, like bleached bone, and he clasped his hands behind his back, looking for all the world like the presiding emperors he had just disdained. “So many dead,” Kronos mused, thoughtful. “So much blood spilled for a single leaf off of the laurels of Augustus.”

“My lord?”

He was silent for a while, for long enough that Luke was sure he had been dismissed, but when he turned then to leave— “The very foundations of Rome are laid with betrayal, you know,” said the titan, almost offhandedly. “The fields of Mars were watered with Roman blood, treachery upon treachery upon treachery, until the beast could no longer sate her hunger with her own citizens, and she turned her eye elsewhere. The greatest empire of the West,” he grinned to himself, indulging in a private joke, “the conquerors of the middle sea, but her gluttony was too great, and before very long, she had run out of things to eat, and turned her teeth back on herself, until she was no more than an ancient, shriveled carcass, taking refuge in a city that was not even hers to begin with. And do you know what happened then?” Kronos turned that grin on him, predatory, pleased. “She was torn to shreds by wolves and eagles and lions, her bones carried off as spoils of war by every man arrogant enough to lust after a cursed crown.”

Kronos turned from the window, and the shadows fell over him. For a split second, Luke could see the years on his face, thousands of them, deep furrows carved into his skin. “But it is no concern of ours. The Italians turned their backs on us, their patrons. They chose instead to throw in their lot with their emperors and their carpenters, and thus was their downfall.” He shook his head, a carefully controlled motion. “A shame, really. I was quite touched by their Saturnaliae—or, rather, I would have been, had I not been languishing in my prison.”

Luke couldn’t summon the power to speak, his mind racing a mile a minute. There were—things he had forgotten, names and faces swallowed up by fog. Thalia had had a brother, once upon a time, he remembered. She had told him, in hushed, angry tones, of a father who had abandoned them and then returned, only he was different this time, and a mother who had incurred the wrath of a goddess. She had confessed, crying, to an unwitting pilgrimage to Sonoma, a price paid in sacrifice and service. He remembered: column-like marks on arms, wolves with eyes too intelligent to be animal, an irrational aversion to the color purple.

“No, my dear boy, Krios can handle the son of Jupiter. And if he cannot, well,” and he lifted a hand to his chest, right over his borrowed heart, “our dear Perseus most certainly will.” 

Ethan slipped through a crack in the sky, and all Luke could do was watch it happen. Crushed beneath the rubble of his father’s throne, Luke couldn’t even pull in the breath to say his name.

Kronos sneered, his beautiful face marred with blood and contempt. “So much for him,” he said, a paltry, pathetic eulogy. “And now for the rest of you.”

The lord of time fought with anger and rage, the weight of millennia in the pit behind every devastating blow, but somewhere along the line Annabeth had gotten good with that old knife of his (that’s my girl, some part of him sang, buried deep), dodging and weaving and striking when she could. She had gotten in a few precision hits, slicing the leather straps of his armor clean off, the pristine white t-shirt underneath almost comically out of place, here in the ancient hall of the gods. But between her and Grover’s nature magic, they were holding him back. They were wearing him down.

Luke scrabbled at the wood that pinned him down, each movement sending licks of hot fire shooting up from his ankle. His teeth ground together with every throb, wounded noises escaping his mouth in hot, labored breaths.

There was a grating shriek of metal on metal, ear splitting, bone chilling, and when Luke looked up, Annabeth had the god at a standstill, Backbiter locked against the hilt of her dagger. “Percy,” she said, gritting her teeth, “I know you can hear me—it doesn’t have to be like this.”

Kronos only laughed, cruel as a broken bone. “Such concern, daughter of Athena. Tell me, does your mother know what you’ve been doing with her rival’s son?” He pushed against her, trying to dislodge his sword, but she held him in check, her arms trembling as he forced the profane blade down towards her neck.

Frantic, like an animal, he pulled, he pushed, he willed the wood to move, fucking move, you stupid piece of—he gained an inch, and howled in pain.

“That night, in the truck to Vegas—do you remember?”

Kronos took a step forward, a rising, unstoppable tide. Annabeth’s shoes skidded backwards towards the ever-crackling hearth. “This body remembers nothing, child, least of all you .”

“I told you that it didn’t matter what our parents had done,” she said, breathless. “I promised I’d fight beside you.”

“Is that what we’re doing?” The titan leered at her, smiling like a shark, and sparks flung as the metal scraped together, bronze and steel.

She tensed, then relaxed, every muscle going limp. Without something to brace against, Kronos stumbled, and Annabeth dropped her knife.

With a sickening pop, Luke pulled himself free, black holes dotting his vision, and through them all he could see was the seven-year-old girl with the hammer and the monster that loomed over her. Weak, useless thing that he was, he stretched out his arm, reaching, pleading, praying.

In her hands, she grasped the Crooked One’s wrists, his sword still clutched in his fist. They stood, frozen in a moment of time, a perfect painting, a Phidian sculpture. Grey eyes shimmered, lightning dancing in the storm clouds. “I am begging you, Percy,” she said, “please, don’t do this.”

And then—and then the sword fell from his hand. Backbiter clattered to the marble floor, rolling away from him. Towards Luke.

“Annabeth?” whispered Percy, voice rough and weak.

Later, when Luke thinks about this day, some things will be clearer than others: the timid, wobbly curve of her smile, the sound as Grover crashed to his knees, the heat of the hearth coursing through Luke’s limbs, erasing the pain in his ankle. The golden glow of Percy’s body, like the birth of a star, bright and blistering. The lift of his shirt in the wind.

He didn’t think. He didn’t plan. Backbiter was in his hand, then the blade was in the small of Percy’s back.

It was a deep cut.

Kronos roared. The skin of his closed eyes shone like lava, bright red. Beneath their feet the throne room shook, threatening to fling them right off the top of the mountain, but Luke grabbed hold of Percy’s shoulder, and used the leverage to push the blade in deeper. There was a howl, guttural, visceral, of pain unimaginable, then a blinding light and a force like a nuclear explosion knocking him to the ground.

When Luke opened his eyes again, there was a body on the white marbled floor, burned and blackened, with clear green eyes the color of Long Island Sound.

“You,” he shuddered, blood falling from his lips. “You said we would make it right.”

Luke heaved himself up onto his hands and knees, jarring his injured ankle, crawling his way over to Percy’s prone form. “I’m sorry,” he heaved, gasping for air. “I’m so sorry.”

Annabeth and Grover had beaten him there. Carefully, delicately, she laid Percy’s head in her lap, precious cargo. Grover was a frantic flurry of movement, patting pockets he didn’t have. “We can get you some ambrosia,” he said, like he could speak it into existence by the sheer force of his want, “we can—”

“G-man,” Percy groaned. He coughed, blood and spittle running down his chin. “It’s too late. There’s no…” Another cough, a shuddering breath. “Will you w-watch out for my mom for me?”

“Of course,” Grover said, misty-eyed. “She’ll be just fine.”

Percy nodded, wincing at the movement. He raised his hand, charred fingers twitching, and Annabeth greedily wrapped them in hers. She was crying freely. “Annabeth,” he breathed, trying for a grin. His teeth were stained red. “I n-never told you, but I saw… the sirens’ vision. You can do it. I know you can.”

She sniffled, wiping her tears furiously, like she couldn’t bear to lose sight of him for even one moment. “Not without you,” she whispered, stroking his black hair. “I don’t want to do it without you.”

His voice was a death rattle. “I know. I’m sorry.”

Annabeth stifled a sob, her whole body wracked in grief.

He grasped Luke’s shirt, then. Every drop of life he had left, every spark, every second left to spare, he poured all of it into his piercing stare, eyes cold and full of fury. Luke could feel the heat of his skin, like hearth-fire. “Ethan,” he growled. “Me. The unclaimed. Don’t let it—” he spat, red and angry. “Don’t let it happen again.”

“I won’t,” Luke swore, more binding than the Styx. “I promise.”

His head fell into Annabeth’s hands, and the sea went dark.

Three hundred seconds later, the gods arrived in their full battle regalia, expecting a war with the bane of Olympus. When he saw the three of them huddled there, with a cry like crashing waves on rocks, Poseidon rushed to the body of his son, dropping to his knees and lifting him out of Annabeth’s grasp, into his arms. He held Percy’s limp form against him, pressing their foreheads together and groaning piteously in his grief. “My son, my son,” he moaned, rocking them back and forth. “Oh, my Percy… my boy…”

“Annabeth,” said the goddess of war, subdued by shock. “What has happened here?”

She sat down heavily with a dazed look in her eyes, her hands like rubies. “We need a shroud,” she said, shattered. “A shroud for the son of Poseidon.”

***

Hers was the only door in the hallway with a sign. 

It was driftwood, painted blue, unevenly faded, hung beneath the peephole. In big letters that got thinner towards the end was the word “JACKSON,” white paint dripping down to the bottom in places. Sea shells were haphazardly glued around the edges, slipper shells that reflected rainbows, a scallop cracked down the middle. 

It was a nice apartment building, as far as those things go. The doorman hadn’t been too reluctant to let him through, raising an eyebrow at his scar but relaxing after Luke gave him his patented, good-white-boy smile. The walk up, though. Walking up the hallway to Sally Jackson’s front door had been every bit as difficult as trying to fight against Kronos’ time spell. He wouldn’t even be here if it were up to him, but the hero of Olympus had insisted. “Someone needs to tell Sally Jackson her son is dead,” Annabeth had said, refusing to look at him, and the gods, in their infinite wisdom, had decided that Luke should be the one to do it. Already in hot water, Luke couldn’t have refused.

Steeling himself, he breathed in through his nose, holding it for as long as he could. His heart thudded against his chest, doing its damndest to break out of his very skin. He pressed the edges of his thumbnail into the soft flesh of his fingertip, tiny sharp spikes of feeling keeping time with his heartbeat. His pocket felt heavier than the weight of the sky. 

He knocked, three times. After twelve seconds, a man opened the door. 

“Can I help you?” the man asked. He was a good-looking guy, with salt and pepper hair that leaned a little more towards salt than pepper, and glasses that almost hid the bags under his eyes, keen eyes that reminded him a little of Chiron. 

“Um,” said Luke, intelligently. Percy’s face floated through his head unbidden, tears in his eyes as he confessed to killing his step-father. “I’m looking for Sally Jackson?”

The man looked him up and down. Maybe he was looking for a badge. “May I ask why?”

“I’m…” his voice faltered. Suddenly, he could no longer look this man in the eye. “I’m here to…” To what? Confess? Apologize? “I’m here about Percy,” was all he could say. 

Instantly, the man softened. “Why don’t you come inside,” he said, opening the door. 

The man—Paul, he introduced himself with a firm handshake—clearly had no qualms about inviting a stranger into his house. “Sally went out on an errand a little while ago, but she should be back soon,” he said, handing Luke a glass of water where he sat on the living room couch. “Let me call her, I’ll let her know you’re here—”

“No, it’s okay,” Luke said, quickly, “I can wait,” but Paul was already pulling out his cell phone, stepping out to speak. Luke was left alone.

Gods. When was the last time he had been in someone’s home?

The ceilings were short, and the paint peeled a little, but the space was still cozy. Everything was down low, close to the scuffed, wooden floor, the couch and the loveseat pressed together tightly, opposite the somehow still-functional fireplace. A single window, wide open, looked on the building across the street, and the noise of the city rose up like altar smoke. The walls were chic-cluttered, bits and ends clustered around a few standout pieces: a college diploma, newly-framed and shiny; a poster of a rocky beach and a lighthouse, which Luke recognized instantly as Montauk Point; a photo of a young boy with dark hair and eyes like Long Island Sound at high tide, smiling out at him from years past.

He thought of that house in Connecticut, of that old photo above the fireplace, and Luke tried to suppress a shiver.

“She’ll be home in just a few minutes,” said Paul, reemerging from the kitchen. Luke nodded, tightening his fingers on the glass. Paul looked at him, a sad, sympathetic tilt to his mouth that made Luke’s skin crawl. “It’s not good news, I take it?”

He couldn’t bring himself to speak. 

Paul sighed, hand rubbing his mouth. “I’m going to go put on some coffee.”

Luke tried breathing. He tried to imagine what punishment the gods were cooking up for him at this very moment. He tried thinking about what he would say to Ms. Jackson, how to explain what had happened to her son—anything to distract his brain. But even after death, Kronos had left his mark, and Luke felt every single, interminable second as it passed, like a dripping faucet, torturous, unbearable, eternal, amplifying every pulse of his heart and every synapse in his brain. I can’t do this, he thought, desperate. I can’t do this. But then Sally Jackson arrived one thousand and twenty seven seconds later, closing her door as quietly as she could. She stood tall, despite everything, in a blue dress and smart heels, her beautiful face set in a strangely familiar grim line. The handles of the bulging plastic bag she carried were wrapped so tightly around her fingers that the skin looked white. 

Paul materialized from somewhere, taking her things, and Luke found himself praying for another thousand, million, billion seconds with his thoughts and his shame and his self-hatred; anything instead of looking this woman in the eyes and telling her what he had done.

“Sally,” murmured Paul, “this is, um…” 

With a start, he realized he never introduced himself. “Ms. Jackson,” he said, standing up to face her. “My name is Luke.” Her soft, warm brown eyes rooted him to the earth just as strongly as the Titan Lord’s had, taking him in from top to bottom, settling on his scar, and she frowned, delicately. “I…” he faltered again, the words stuck in this throat, choking him. He flicked his eyes to Paul. 

She understood, of course. “Paul,” she said, softly, “would you mind giving us some privacy?” He pursed his lips, but nodded his head, kissing her on the cheek before he left.

Then they were alone. 

“Ms. Jackson—”

“He told me about you.”

Luke blinked. “Percy?”

“Chiron.” She sighed. Dry-eyed and even-voiced, she lifted her chin, and she asked, “My son is dead, isn’t he?”

He nodded. It was all he could do. 

“Tell me.” She reminded him of Hestia, he thought, her radiant grace, her quiet disapproval. 

“I convinced your son to fight for Kronos. To fight against the gods of Olympus. He died yesterday morning, in the Battle of Manhattan.”

“How?” 

“Kronos needed a—a form, to survive. A body. Percy… gave him his.”

Finally, finally she moved: her eyes widened. “That’s why he came home,” she realized. “But why would he do that?”

The truth was sharp in his mouth, in his throat, on his tongue, and the words spilled out of him like blood. “Because I told him to. Because Kronos had commanded it. I was Kronos’ most loyal servant, and when he told me to bring Percy in, I did. I took him under my wing, I trained him, said whatever I needed to say to turn him against his father and his friends at camp, and—” Sally blurred before him. His eyes stung, and he wanted to wipe his face, but his hand was stuck in his pocket. “I sided with the titans because he promised me the power to take down Olympus, but all I ever wanted was justice—for me, and my friends, and every half-blood who had been abandoned by the gods. But Kronos didn’t care. He didn’t give a shit about us. And I was so caught up in my own anger and pain that I didn’t see it until it was far too late. So when I saw my chance, I took it. I killed Kronos—and his host.” 

She was quiet, for a long, long time. Her soft face, it grew harder with each moment, the warmth drawn out of the air like poison, and he shivered despite the August heat. “I think you should leave now,” she said after a while, voice hoarse. 

“Ms. Jackson, you don’t know how sorry—”

“I said,” she repeated, raising her voice, “I think you should leave.” Paul appeared in the kitchen doorway, summoned by her distress, and he moved to place a hand on Luke’s shoulder.

”Your son was a good kid, and a great friend. He was a hero—”

“I want you out of my house,” she snarled. “Go!”

Slowly, Luke was moved towards the doorway, Paul’s grip on him deceptively strong, but he couldn’t leave yet, not without— “Please, just—at camp, we have this tradition, where the senior campers make beads for the most important thing that happens each summer. Every camper gets a necklace. This was Percy’s.” He pulled the leather cord from his pocket with its lone black bead, and held it out to her. “The summer he came to camp, the choice was unanimous; this bead was for Percy, the first son of the sea god we ever had at camp, and the quest he undertook to the Underworld. Your son was loved by so many, on both sides of the war.”

If anything, that only made her angrier. “Get out,” she spat, eyes stormy. 

Paul pushed him through before he could say anything else, and ushered him out of the apartment. He was still holding Percy’s necklace. “Wait, please,” he said, panic rising in him like bile, “I have to—”

“I think you’ve done enough,” said Paul. And he began to close the door. 

“Wait, sir, please!” His shout echoed down the silent hallway. “I’ll leave, I promise, but, please, just—tell Sally that Percy loved her. She was his whole world. Everything he did, he did it for her.”

Any warmth, any kindness he had previously offered dried up, and he looked at Luke so coldly, so dispassionate, when he said, “That’s not as reassuring as you think it is.” He shut the door in Luke’s face, the “Jackson” sign swinging gently, side to side. 

No one came out to see what was going on. Life continued inside of each room, every endless, interminable second of it. 

“I take it you are finished?” said a voice behind him. Luke turned, and there was his father, tracksuit and all. Hermes looked… well, Luke couldn’t tell if Hermes was pleased to see him. There was no clear sign of approval or disapproval, no love or encouragement, but no hatred or disgust either. He got that sense that Hermes didn’t really know what to think of him, whether or not he was proud of Luke for stopping Kronos, or embarrassed that he’d fallen under his sway in the first place.

“Father,” he said.                                                          

“I’ve come to take you back to Olympus. Are you ready?”

Ready to learn what his eternal punishment was going to be? Sure. “I guess.” At that, Hermes cracked a grin. Luke frowned. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing, nothing,” he said, but he didn’t stop smiling, softly, almost bittersweet. “Luke. I am glad that you are here. Whatever else you may think of me, know this.”

“I wish I weren’t,” admitted Luke.

Hermes’ handsome face pinched, brows drawing together. “Do not say such things. The son of Poseidon’s fate could easily have been yours.”

“It should have been,” said Luke, with a startling clarity he didn’t know he had. “It should have been me.”

“Perhaps. Fate is a tricky thing, my son, and not one so easily conquered or understood.”

Luke shook his head. But he had something else on his mind. “What do you think they’ll do to me?”

Hermes sighed. “I cannot say, for I do not know myself. Knowing my uncle, however, I don’t believe he will be too merciful. He cursed Odysseus to ten years at sea for blinding his son Polyphemus; for the death of his only demigod child in decades…” 

“It won’t be good,” Luke finished. 

Well. He supposed there was no more putting it off. But first, he had one thing left to do.

“Give me one more moment?” he asked. His father nodded.

With steady hands, Luke tied the ends of Percy’s necklace around the door handle. The single black bead glinted at him in the white light of the hallway, like the sun off the surface of the water, the sea-green trident gleaming. He thought of the boy on the prow of the Princess Andromeda, dark hair whipping in the wind, the brooding look on his face gone for the first time in weeks, incandescently happy for that single, breath-taking moment. He found that, even now, the shape of him was still sharp, high contrast against the watercolor pale of his memory, and he knew that it would stay that way, for the rest of his life. 

He thought about saying goodbye, and then he thought better of it.

“Okay,” said Luke, calmly. “Let’s go.”