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Meg sneezed into her elbow again.
“Bless you,” said Apollo.
She muttered something derogatory in his direction but he pretended not to hear. “Back in the old days we used to use nigella seeds to cure colds.”
“Do you have any of those right now?” He wished he had a camera. It was sort of adorable in a slightly gross way. Her nose was bright red and the skin under her eyes was all puffy. “Actually did that even work?”
“Well, praying to me or Asclepius was probably more effective, but Galen did what he could. Sometimes I go on holiday, you know how it is, and the common cold is… well-”
“Common,” her eyes were half-shut, and he tried to calculate how much it would be worth it to give her even a little ambrosia. They only had a little left, and the risk of burning up might be too high. He cursed his weak memory for not being able to recall the results of his very detailed experimentation on demigods and ambrosia/nectar intake. It had been a very well run experiment! But all he could think about was the potato dishes he’d tried on his first visit to Peru. Why was he thinking about potatoes?
Did Asclepius like potatoes? He had no doubt his son had been severely warned away from helping at all, like any other godly ally of his, but maybe helping Meg wouldn’t count. He’d see if he could sacrifice something to him at their next stop off for snacks. Not at the gas station though, he wasn’t quite stupid enough to start any fires there, no matter what Artemis might say.
Meg had nodded off next to him, which was good. She hadn’t been sleeping enough and he had noticed. The circles under her eyes reminded him of when Artemis sometimes tried to ruin his course across the sky by running her chariot in front of his and yelling “BOO” and as result, everyone down on the planet got to freak out when the sun got blocked for a few minutes.
Sleeping was good for colds anyway. Tylenol would bring down her fever but it wouldn’t cure her, and it really was more something you slept off.
He woke her up briefly while he filled up the tank, just in case a hydra or something popped up while he was paying, and he bought some fruit in there too. He was a little suspicious of it, but his son was all about eating healthily and probably wouldn’t take too kindly over a bag of maltesers.
Plus the vitamin C could hardly hurt Meg. It wouldn’t cure her, but it would be good for her immune system long term. No one wanted their demigod companion developing scurvy. He so did not need to give Demeter more reasons to hate him. She might make him eat oat bran this time, which he thought might be a good suggestion for Hades to add to the Fields of Punishment when he saw him next.
At their next place to stop, he brought her out the car and built them a small fire, “Hey, son, uh, Asclepius, I mean. How’s it going? Practice going okay?” Meg sneezed again from beside him. “Listen, if you have a minute, would you mind helping out my demigod companion here, Meg? She’s very cool, I think you guys would get on together, I’ll introduce you when I’m back to normal, okay? Thanks, son.”
The air wafted away, and he heard the hiss of snakes and the faint smell of antiseptics in the air, and a pressing of honey to his forehead, and when he touched it, his hand came away a little sticky.
Meg sneezed again, louder this time, and it might have been a normal Demeter child thing or her powers were mutating while she was sick, but he screamed in pain.
Where he’d been standing before, at the side of a quiet country road with nothing around them except corn fields plus corn plus somehow extra nothing whatsoever, was a blooming rose bush. Huge tea rose blooms were spreading out, all mucusy-yellow which was a little disgusting to think about the implications of, but worse than that were the thorns, at least twenty of which were pressed and stuck into his skin up until his mid thigh.
“They’re not thorns,” Meg said, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. Lester made a mental note to make sure she washed her hands before she touched anything , before realising he’d probably said that part before out loud.
“You’re saying all of this out loud, Lester. Also they’re prickles.”
Maybe he was an idiot.
“Not up for debate. I already knew that.” She sounded fine now, all the gunk-y sound gone from her voice. Her eyes were already brighter and the red skin (from being rubbed too many times) at her nose was fading back to its usual colour. He promised himself that when they had the resources, he’d sacrifice an entire salad bar and organic chicken to Asclepius.
“Can you make this move at least?” He struggled a little but that only made the thorns, sorry, prickles dig deeper into his skin. He swore. “I’m worried they’re going to get my femoral artery.”
“Now you’re just making up words.”
“I am not making up the existence of the femoral artery. I was the god of healing, do you think I just make up anatomy?”
“You make up things all the time.”
“Are you thinking of Hermes? Hermes loves lying. I don’t. I was God of Truth, Meg.”
“Can you lie, or could you when you were being God of Narcs then?”
“Not the God of Narcs.” He thought for a minute, and then realised calling Athena a narc might result in her cursing them. “Doesn’t matter, can you move the bush?”
She frowned, like she was negotiating with it, and a second later it split in half, allowing him to step out of it. Most of the prickles remained within the bush, but some of them came with him, stuck into his clothes, and his shoes too.
He stomped over to the fire, and threw in some chocolate, mourning it as it melted into the flames, “Hey Asclepius, could you do me a solid?”
His injuries were completely healed in the morning, and when he checked the dashboard, there was a sticky note with a tub of vitamin D supplements, You have a deficiency.
He internally cursed his father again. There was something absolutely humiliating about the former god of the sun having a vitamin D deficiency of all things.