Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“I don’t like this,” Percy muttered under his breath, adjusting his collar for the fifth time. For once in his bratty little life, he was wearing something sharper than a ratty T-shirt and jeans with beaten-up sneakers.

He had to. They all did.

Luke looked the part—more than that, he owned it. He’d gotten the lead from some monster disguised as a taxi driver. Said monster had been gently persuaded to talk, with repeated threats of being stuffed back into Tartarus. Over and over. Eventually, it had spilled about a place—magical, underground, the kind where demigods, monsters, nymphs, satyrs, all sorts gathered. A neutral zone, where deals were struck and secrets bartered. The kind of place you went if you needed information.

They did need information. Something about a god’s dearest possession being stolen and demigods being sent after it like glorified delivery boys. Not that they had the option to say no—unless suffocating under divine wrath was their thing.

But the part that interested Luke most was the rumor of a figure called the Lady in Red. She was supposed to appear there tonight. No one knew who she really was—only that she was important, always veiled, always hidden behind a wide-brimmed hat.

A perfect cover.

Which was exactly why Luke had gone on a little five-finger shopping spree, studying clothes with the eye of someone casing a heist. Everything red, naturally—the name was a dead giveaway. He picked the pieces with the most Lady in Red vibes, and while he was at it, grabbed outfits for the brats too. Annie and Percy had to look the part. His lackeys.

And now, here they were.

“You don’t have to like it, kid,” Luke said, hand resting casually on his disguised sword. He’d gotten creative—shoved the thing into a stolen red umbrella from his fashion spree. It was flashy. He liked it. He sent Percy a look, the red lipstick he’d applied curling into a faint smirk.

Yeah, maybe he got a little too into character. What of it?

“You just have to follow my lead and not blow our cover until we get what we need and leave.”

“Yeah, Percy,” Annabeth said, already deep in her lackey character, back straight, arms folded behind her. She wore sharp black slacks and a fitted red blouse, her curls pinned back and a hard look in her eye like she’d actually rehearsed this. “We go in, let Luke talk, keep our ears open, and stay close.” She gave Percy a pointed look from the corner of her eye. “We play our part.”

“Our part,” Percy muttered, scowling. “Obeying Luke like little slaves?”

“Not slaves. Lackeys,” Luke corrected without missing a beat, smirking as he sauntered toward the casino entrance.

He ignored the mortal man who nearly tripped over himself trying to get a better look—Luke didn’t even spare him a glance. One hand rested on his hip, the other tapping his red umbrella to the ground as he walked, the heels of his stolen heels clicking in time.

“And I’m the most experienced one here,” he continued, pausing at the door with theatrical flair. His hat tipped low, shadows over his eyes, but his red lips curled up—pretty, smug, and just a little mean. “Also the only one who can actually pull this off.”

He turned slightly, just enough to look at Percy from under the brim. Percy couldn’t see his eyes, but he still went stiff like he’d been stabbed with judgment.

“You’re not pretty enough.”

Percy spluttered, indignant.

“And Annie,” Luke said with a dismissive flick of his fingers, “wouldn’t know how to act the part.”

Annie sighed, clearly annoyed, but kept going like he hadn’t just insulted her acting—or her even worse communication skills. “We keep low, look for the types who might know something, let Luke do his thing, then get out as fast as we can.”

Luke didn’t bother replying. He just turned with a swoosh of red and strolled toward the entrance. The guard took one look at him and stepped aside without a word.

Easy.

He knew this plan had been a good one.

Luke stepped inside with all the ease of someone who’d killed for less, taking in the casino with a glance. It looked exactly like you’d expect from a place crawling with supernatural filth—neon lights casting everything in red and gold, chips clinking, slot machines humming in the shadows, and smoke hanging thick in the air.

Gross. Not his kind of thing. But he kept the smirk on, strutting forward with a sway in his step like he owned the damn place.

Annabeth and Percy trailed after him—perfect little lackeys. Annie was all sharp lines and no-nonsense, like a bodyguard who’d break your nose for breathing wrong. Percy, on the other hand, had no idea what to do with himself, so he shoved his hands in his pockets and trudged along like a grounded brat.

Silly fish brat.

They made a few rounds, slow and casual, Luke ignoring the stares thrown his way and steering clear of the sketchier corners—he didn’t need the brats catching sight of some guy spread out on a couch with half-dressed pretties crawling over him, eyes lingering too long.

Luke had no patience for perverts. He huffed, kept walking, scanning the room for someone loose-lipped enough to fall for a smile.

Naturally, that’s when everything went wrong.

A cyclops stepped right into their path, single eye locked on them—on Luke—narrowed and unblinking. He didn’t move. Not even when Luke cleared his throat and tapped his umbrella against the floor with deliberate, echoing slowness.

Then the dumb creature opened his mouth.

“I know you. Demigod.”

Luke’s brain stalled for a second, but the smile stayed right where it was—painted red and sharp. His hand tightened slightly around the umbrella, fingers calm, controlled. Behind him, the brats tensed, already prepping for a fight.

Luke tilted his head, slow and smooth. “Do you?” he said, like it was mildly interesting gossip. “That’s odd. I don’t remember you at all.”

He blinked once, veil shifting with the movement, mind racing. He’d killed so many over the years—hard to tell which corpse had crawled back looking for round two.

“I know who you are,” the thing said, slow and smug, like it had Luke cornered. “And if you don’t want to be exposed, you’ll do as I say.”

Luke’s eyes flicked around the room from beneath the veil. No one was looking. No one had noticed. Yet. If this idiot blew their cover, half the creatures in this place would be on them in seconds—and in this dress, too.

He couldn’t risk a fight. Not here.

“Mayhaps,” Luke said, voice light and airy, like a sigh over tea, “I’ll humor you, little half-brained creature.”

He smiled, smooth and sharp, as if he wasn’t currently panicking and trying to piece together a dozen escape routes at once.

Then the thing leaned in and whispered something so absurd, Luke’s brain just… stopped. Half a second. Blank.

Then came the fury. And the disgust. A crawling kind of horror.

What did this filthy thing just say?

He didn’t give himself time to think.

Luke stepped forward with perfect poise—then kicked the cyclops out of his path without warning, heel slamming into its side with brutal force.

“Get out of my way,” he said coldly, lifting his chin as he stepped right over the creature, pressing down on its back with the sharp point of his heel.

And recoiling instantly when the thing actually moaned.

Luke nearly gagged. “Vile little pig,” he spat. “You should be rotting in Tartarus.”

“Yes, I should!” the cyclops agreed, a little too eagerly.

Fuck.

In front of the kids, too. Luke glanced back—Percy had the expression of someone who had just witnessed something deeply wrong and had no clue how to file it in his brain.

Annabeth, though—

She wasn’t looking at the cyclops.

She was staring past him.

Luke followed her gaze, slow, calm.

The pervert from earlier—the one draped in half-dressed things like a king in a den of sin—was standing now. Heading their way.

Something was off. The way he moved. The way the air shifted.

Aura curling around him like a snake about to strike.

Wait.

Aura?

Luke’s smile froze in place. A slow, cold shiver slid down his spine.

A god?

Then Luke started to recognize him.

Button-up silk shirt, deep red, unbuttoned enough to show off his chest and abs like he knew exactly what he was doing. Slacks, sharp and dark, dress shoes too clean, too polished. Gold chains resting against his collarbones, hat low over artfully messy black curls. He looked like the kind of man who didn’t just belong here—he ran it.

He stopped in front of them, arms crossed, aura blazing. Blue eyes locked on Luke, furious and bright, not even blinking.

Then, slowly, his gaze dropped to the cyclops on the ground—still and quiet, like he’d just realized what kind of predator was standing in front of him.

And he was right.

Hermes.

Luke’s dad.

Here. Of all places.

“Lord Her—” Percy started, already spluttering like someone with a long, tragic history of being cursed by gods for breathing wrong.

Hermes snapped his fingers.

The cyclops turned to golden dust without a sound.

Percy shut up instantly.

Hermes turned back to them, slow, measured. That smile was still there—but too perfect, too smooth. Luke saw it for what it was. A warning dressed up in charm.

“What a surprise, son,” Hermes said, voice light. Too light. His eyes flicked down—dress, hat, umbrella—then back up, sharp and bright. “Dressed like this. In here.”

“Dad,” Luke said, tone even—neutral, measured. Just controlled enough. “We’re on a quest. We needed information. This seemed like the most efficient place to find it.”

“I see,” Hermes answered, flat, though his eyes sharpened as they flicked to Percy—too intense for the smile he was still wearing. “I wonder which one of you brilliant minds suggested this.”

“It wasn’t me—” Percy started.

“It was me,” Luke cut in, smooth and steady. Hands folded over his umbrella, posture perfect. Controlled. “I heard rumors about a woman. Thought it smart to take on her look and come here. In and out. Quick.”

Hermes hummed, gaze locked on him now—lingering, unreadable. His eyes drifted down, taking in the dress, the veil, the heels. The smile on his face didn’t move, but something behind it shifted.

Then it changed. Warmer. Too smooth.

He stepped forward.

Luke forced himself not to flinch.

“Of course, son,” Hermes said, soft. Almost fond. His fingers brushed the veil, adjusting it slightly like he had every right. “You’ve always been clever.”

There was a look on his face—smug, almost pleased—and Luke didn’t know what to do with it.

He tried to smile, but it came out stiff, wrong. The kids behind him said nothing. Holding their breath.

And then—

“Lord Hermes,” came a voice. Sweet. Theatrical. The kind of tone that clung to perfume and too many nights spent being wanted, used, and wanting to be used again.

His dad didn’t even look. Fingers still lightly adjusting the brim of Luke’s hat, like it was a piece of art that belonged to him. He just hummed—unbothered, uninterested.

“Come back,” came another voice, this time a boy. Barely dressed like the others, tone playful, needy.

Jesus. Luke hoped the kids weren’t looking. That was extremely inappropriate.

He knew his father was a whore—he’d figured that out by the sheer number of half-siblings—but seeing it?

Yeah, that was different.

Godly or not, distant or not, watching your dad surrounded by a bunch of half-naked sex workers was just… weird.

“Sorry, dearest,” Hermes said, breezy and distant, hand sliding from the hat to clamp around Luke’s neck like it belonged there. His grip was casual. His smile lazy. “I’m occupied now.”

He didn’t look at the boy again.

“You can find someone else to play with.”

The boy pouted, theatrical, throwing Luke a once-over like he was sizing up the competition. “I see we’ve been supplanted,” he said, voice dripping. “This one’s pretty.”

Hermes didn’t bother to answer. Just waved a hand dismissively in their direction, still focused on Luke.

A blink later, the sex workers were gone.

“Well,” Hermes said brightly, as if none of that had happened, leaning in and throwing an arm over Luke’s shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Let’s find your information then, son.”

Luke tensed, but his dad either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

“I know all the usuals here,” Hermes went on, already steering him forward. “That one talks too much over wine. That one’s insecure about his wings. That one? Always lies, unless you compliment his shoes first.”

The kids followed—because what else could they do? Hermes didn’t spare them a glance, too busy keeping a firm hand on Luke and glaring down anyone who got too close.

Luke followed—more like got dragged—nodding when needed, his whole plan overturned the second his dad decided to crash it.

Jesus. I want to go home.

Still. Maybe it’d help. Maybe. Hermes was giving tips.

If he’d just let go and let Luke do the charming part—

“Dad,” Luke said, spotting a potential lead, “I can talk to that one.”

“Of course,” Hermes nodded.

Luke stepped away.

Hermes followed.

Luke blinked. “Dad—I need to do this alone. You know gods aren’t supposed to interfere—”

Hermes made a face, mild and displeased. His eyes glowed faintly as they scanned the casino. Then he looked back at Luke, all smiles again, mood snapping like a rubber band.

“Nonsense,” he said. “This kind of place isn’t for you. You’re much too innocent. And dressed like this—” His gaze flicked down, pausing a beat too long.

“No. I’ll come with you.”

Luke stared.

Hermes smiled wider, then tilted his head toward the target with a go on look.

Luke sighed, deeply, full of regret.

And then—

“Is it just me,” Percy whispered—not low enough—“or does your dad act like an unhinged, jealous ex?”

Hermes paused. Luke froze.

No. No no no, fish brat, shut up—

Annabeth jabbed Percy hard in the ribs, eyes wide. Percy immediately paled, like he’d watched his life flash before his eyes in real time.

Hermes was still smiling, but Luke could hear the shift in his voice. Calm. Smooth. Dangerous.

“You, Poseidon’s boy,” he said, eyes on Percy now, “are quite lucky to have the father you do.”

The smile stayed.

“Be grateful for it.”

Chapter Text

They’d left Circe’s island, and in theory, things were supposed to be safe—or at least, there was less risk of sprouting a curly tail. Sure, Luke had kept undercover, but—

He cast a side glance at the other two: one formerly a guinea pig, the other a wolf. One still squeaked occasionally, the other twitched like he was craving raw meat.

Yeah. Not everyone was so lucky. But it wasn’t Luke’s fault he was gorgeous and could blend in while they couldn’t.

In any case, it was supposed to be safe.

Until it wasn’t.

Because, in one blindingly bright, split-second flash (seriously, where the fuck had that light even come from?), everything went to shit.

Then, just as suddenly, the light vanished, and Luke could see again. He promptly chose to ignore the noise from the brats around him—Annabeth’s muttering, Percy’s squeaking, and Clarisse’s over-the-top “this is nothing” grumbles.

What caught his attention was the shoreline ahead. They were near an island—and not just any island. They had just left Aeaea. So why did those trees look so damn familiar?

Luke squinted.

Suspicious.

Very suspicious.

“…Luke,” came Dean’s voice beside him.

Luke turned slowly, but Dean wasn’t looking at him—he was staring out at the sea.

“Are you seeing what I’m seeing?”

“And what exactly are you seeing?” Luke muttered, eyes narrowed as he glanced back at the shore. “Because I see suspiciously tasty fruit that I know way too well.”

Circe’s island. Again. Just his goddamn luck.

“What? No,” Dean said, eyebrows scrunching as he pointed. “That ship. There. Y’know—a Greek ship. A penteconter. A ship that… no one uses anymore.”

He gave a nervous little laugh. “Just pointing out the thousand-year-old live relic. Not implying anything. Not panicking.”

Dean’s eyes widened—his pupils goat-shaped, Luke noticed—as he clutched his bag tight and hugged it to his chest.

“Please don’t actually be anything,” Dean whispered, like a prayer to the gods who lived to be entertained by their suffering.

Luke whipped his head around. And yeah. Right there on the horizon, just like Dean said, was a Greek ship—exactly like the little illustrations in Camp’s textbooks or Chiron’s replicas. From what he could see through his squinted eyes, it was accurate down to the last detail.

He was so tired of this bullshit.

“…Go change course so we’re out of view of that ghost ship. This isn’t good news.” He dragged a hand down his face. “Looks like we have to land on the island again. Just my luck.”

“Ghost ship?” Dean yelped. “Is it a curse? A god’s curse? Are we going to get cursed? By the Dread Queen—I’m pious! I’m obedient!”

Luke gave him a long, withering look.

“Go. Change. Course. Or do you want to turn into a shade just like them?” He pointed toward one of the shades still clinging to the deck, its skin flickering like a faulty bulb, bones flashing through in bursts.

“Can I?” Dean whispered, face gone pale. He stumbled toward the helm, muttering, “Satyrs turn into plants after death—but… oh, Dread Queen, have mercy on me.”

Stupid goat.

But at least he listened. The ship began to turn, circling Aeaea until the ghost ship was just a blur behind them. It slowed near a patch of rocky shoreline and stopped.

Right on cue, the ex-guinea pig squeaked like a startled rodent and appeared at Luke’s side, staring toward the trees with wide, sea-green eyes. Then he turned to Luke with a look of utter betrayal.

“Aeaea again? I got turned into a guinea pig just for breathing, and now she’s mad because we stomped all over her island!” Percy ran his hands through his hair in panic. “She’s totally gonna turn me into a fish next and just watch me flop around until I suffocate—wait, can fish drown? On land?”

“Relax, fish brat,” Luke said, sounding far calmer than he felt—just a blob of normalcy, steady and still. Nice thoughts. Think nice thoughts. “If she does, I’ll toss you into the sea. You’ll live up to your name, at least.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

Luke didn’t respond. Let the brat complain—it wouldn’t change anything. He had bigger concerns. His gaze flicked to the other former fluffball (far too cute in wolf form; Riri had been so… fluffy—but Luke would never, ever say it aloud), who was now eyeing Dean like he was genuinely considering whether satyrs tasted like goat.

Yeah. Definitely more pressing problems.

Like the fact they were somehow back at Aeaea. Luke wasn’t stupid—they’d been farther out, drifting away from the island. Then, somehow, they’d been dragged back into range, like something had reached out and reeled them in. And now there was a bonus Greek ship hanging off the coast.

Knowing his luck? Full of ghosts.

He’d only said that to spook Dean into moving, but now… now there was a real chance it was like that cursed ship from Pirates of the Caribbean, except older, worse, and Greek. Luke wouldn’t put it past the Sea of Monsters. Nothing in this place ever worked like it was supposed to.

Creepy, unnatural place. He hated it.

“Okay,” Luke clapped his hands—once, then again for emphasis—to get everyone’s attention. Hands on his hips, he leveled a sharp look at the group, pausing long enough to make Clarisse and Annabeth break apart like they hadn’t just been two seconds away from throwing punches.

“We—” he gestured at the troublesome duo, “—are going ashore. Since the curly tail curse doesn’t apply to us.”

Then he turned to the remaining four: Tyson, very obviously a cyclops; Dean, who was doing a terrible job hiding his horns; Ryan, twitching like he needed to be muzzled; and Percy, practically vibrating with indignation. “You four stay and guard the ship.”

“Castellan,” came that voice—Ryan’s. Luke reminded himself that, unfortunately, the fluffy wolf was now a man again. A shame. His voice was still half-growl, half pompous lecture, the kind of tone that made Luke want to punch him straight in the jaw just to make it stop. “I will accompany you. I remained on that island far longer than any of you.”

“No,” Luke said flatly, shooting him a dry look. Ryan bristled, practically snarling, but Luke went on, unimpressed. “I was there as a student. I know the layout. I know where to hide. You…” Luke paused, searching for the right words—then gave up and said them anyway, too tired to care. “…were too busy terrorizing the girls and beasts to bother with stealth.”

“They smelled like intruders,” Ryan sniffed, indignant. “And you need a guard.”

“A guard dog?” Percy muttered, edging away like Ryan might bite. “More like a pit bull with rabies and a god complex.”

“I don’t need a guard,” Luke said, stepping between the former wolf and the former guinea pig before the wolf got any ideas about testing whether his carnivore instincts were still in working order. “I can handle myself—and besides, I’ve got Clarisse and Annabeth.”

Both girls straightened with pride. Clarisse looked ready to punch a monster in the face just for the compliment; Annabeth’s reaction was subtler, a lift of her chin, a flicker of smug satisfaction. Perfect. Luke had said it mostly to keep them cooperative.

“Annabeth is young. Still a pup,” Ryan cut in, then paused, blinking slowly. His brow furrowed as if something about the word didn’t sit right. “Not… a pup. A kid. Yes. Still a kid.”

“I’m not a kid,” Annabeth snapped, the edge of a sulk creeping into her voice—conveniently ignoring the fact that she absolutely was still a kid.

“You’re thirteen,” Ryan said, raising a brow and making a low, wolfish huff that might’ve been a laugh. “I’m twenty… six?” He tilted his head, then nodded. “Older than Luke.”

“Yeah, yeah, old, experienced, and jaded,” Luke sighed. But then his tone shifted—lashes fluttering just slightly. “But Riri—”

“My name is Ryan.”

Luke ignored him. “Riri.”

A beat.

“…You may call me that.”

Luke smiled, sweet and radiant. “Then you stay here and protect the vulnerable members of our group.” He batted his lashes again, like he wasn’t blatantly tugging at Ryan’s wolf instincts, or that pride of his that hadn’t gone anywhere—just warped now, tangled with animalistic loyalty. “You’re very good at that, aren’t you?”

He let the pause hang just long enough.

“My hero.”

Ryan stared at him—silent, unreadable—then slowly, very slowly, nodded. “Yes. I’m very good at protecting.”

“Then you’ll stay here, won’t you?” Luke asked, voice soft, sweet, with just the right touch of trust.

“I will,” Ryan said, stronger this time. His gray eyes widened, catching the light with a strange, eager shine—almost puppy-like. He nodded again, more to himself than anyone else, and turned sharply, ushering Percy toward Tyson and Dean. Dean was shaking his head, staring at Luke like he couldn’t decide whether to be impressed or deeply concerned.

Goat boy should really count his blessings—if Luke hadn’t learned how to handle the wolf, his life would’ve been way more complicated.

Luke caught the low mutter as Ryan passed, barely audible: “I’m a good boy.”

That was definitely his cue to go.

He turned without a word, placed a hand on each girl’s back, and guided them away. Annabeth was already muttering about dog-handling and weird powers under her breath, staring at him without blinking like he’d pulled some unholy magic trick. Clarisse was—well, Clarisse, stomping along like the ground had personally offended her.

He ignored them both.

Soon enough, they were on the shore.

“You two follow me. If any of that witch’s people spot us, you keep your mouths shut,” Luke said sharply, hands on his hips as he gave both girls a pointed look.

Clarisse groaned, rolling her eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn’t fall out of her head. She crossed her arms and kicked a pebble with her boot, clearly not impressed.

Annabeth didn’t even pretend to listen. She scanned the tree line, sharp eyes narrowing like she could see something hidden in the green that none of them could.

“We know where her spa is,” she said, ignoring his order entirely. “We can swing wide of it—keep to the trees, not too close, but close enough that it cuts our time getting to the ship. We’re just scouting anyway. And we don’t know if she’s mad at us after…”

Annabeth trailed off.

She turned to glance back toward the shop, jaw clenched for just a second, like some thought she didn’t want to say almost got out. Then she looked at Luke again. “You know. Everything.”

Luke exhaled hard, rubbing at his temple before giving a sharp nod anyway. “We’ll follow your plan.”

He shot a look at Clarisse, already halfway into the trees. “And don’t start fights. We’re scouting. Scouting. That means no charging, no yelling, and no getting us killed. We don’t want attention.”

Clarisse snorted, grip tightening on her spear—the weird, floating demon-thing crackling with sparks, maybe feeding off her mood. She threw it up onto her shoulder with a sharp jerk, too pointed not to mean something.

“Yeah, yeah, I hear you,” she muttered, low and sulky. Brat. Then, not quite under her breath, “Still bossy as ever.”

Luke didn’t bother turning around, just said flatly, “Still listening.”

Whatever Clarisse answered, Luke didn’t catch it—and didn’t try to. He just kept walking, parting the leaves with flicks of his hands, not once slowing down. The image was absurd enough already: him and the girls, tramping through enchanted underbrush like some deranged little troop of scout girls selling cookies to forest spirits.

Never mind that the wilderness they were braving belonged to a very pissed-off witch.

Or that Luke was a man. But he passed well enough, and he had been a girl in the before, so it counted. Maybe.

It was… quiet.

Too quiet.

And Luke had the very annoying, crawly feeling that he didn’t know where he was. Which was stupid, because if he turned here, he should’ve seen Circe’s spa by now—but all he got were more fruit trees.

No sign of the plains.

Weird, he thought, brow twitching as he shook his head, hard. We’re not heading for the spa anyway, he reminded himself. Just scouting. Checking if the area’s clear—

Then a noise cut him off.

A… snort?

Luke turned—and yeah.

Pigs. Dozens of them. Loud, bristling, squealing their heads off just past the trees, trotting back and forth like idiots who’d missed rehearsal for the sacrificial dance.

A bunch of headless chickens, Luke thought, blinking like that might help.

Nope. Still there.

“Damn,” Clarisse muttered, stepping up beside him, spear digging into the dirt. “Let’s hope Miss Princess’ older bro doesn’t see this. He’ll think it’s a buffet.”

“Hey!” Annabeth hissed, face twisting into righteous indignation. “Don’t talk about my brother like that!”

Clarisse shot her a look dripping with backhanded sympathy—eyebrows tilted just so, mouth curved with that particular kind of pity that was actually mockery. Luke knew that look. Knew it way too well.

And—yeah, no. He needed to shut this down fast before it turned into a full-blown spat and got the pigs shrieking. Or worse, got them caught. He had no intention of joining the sorry bastards snorting around in the bushes.

Because let’s be honest: those were probably men.

Maybe Circe kept them here on purpose? Like her own personal pork farm? Luke shuddered and kicked the thought out of his head. Absolutely not. No mental images, please.

“You two,” he whispered, sharp and low, pressing a finger to his lips and shooting them a wide-eyed, unblinking stare that screamed shut up or get grounded for eternity.

Annabeth huffed. Clarisse rolled her eyes. But they quieted.

Children, Luke thought, exasperated, before turning his attention back to the pigs, narrowing his eyes.

Something felt… off.

And, because the universe had a cruel sense of humor, Luke was right. Of course he was. Always right—especially when he really didn’t want to be.

“Servants of the Witch,” a voice snarled behind them. Deep. Male. Barely repressed fury laced in every syllable. And—yep. Ancient Greek.

Luke’s brain stuttered. What.

He turned—slowly—to find a very large, very angry man stomping into view, sword raised like he was just waiting for an excuse to use it. The guy looked like he bench-pressed wild boars for fun. And he was glaring, the kind of glare that didn’t care that Annabeth was visibly a kid or that Clarisse radiated teenage moodiness like a war drum.

“…Did we accidentally rescue a millennia-old man-turned-pig when we trashed the place?” Annabeth whispered.

Clarisse growled at him, but Luke caught the confused tilt of her head even as she twirled her spear with practiced flair. Very intimidating. Very theatrical.

“Doesn’t matter,” she said, eyes locked on the guy. “We beat up the old fart then ask questions.”

Luke stepped in front of the girls with a smile—sweet at first glance, but stiff at the edges if you looked too close. His lashes fluttered, all innocent charm, as he muttered to Clarisse through clenched teeth, “No beating up anyone.”

Clarisse huffed, scowled, posture still locked and loaded.

“Not yet,” he amended, his smile sharpening as he turned it on the man.

Clarisse relaxed. Barely. But enough to not go full Ares-child on sight.

The guy, meanwhile, looked at Luke like he was a feral cat about to leap at his throat and rip it out with his teeth. Which, considering Luke’s build, was impressive. The man was huge—easily twice Luke’s size and probably three times the weight—and still he kept his gaze locked on him, not Annabeth, not Clarisse. Just Luke.

Which made sense, Luke guessed. He was the oldest. And the prettiest. Probably the most dangerous, too, depending on who you asked.

“…Did your mistress send you after me?” the man asked, sword still raised. Still ancient Greek.

Still very much ready to swing.

“I’m afraid I’m unaware of what you mean by mistress,” Luke said smoothly, matching the ancient Greek with a practiced ease that didn’t quite sit right on his tongue. But Camp had drilled them well, and—may Jesus help him—his father was the god of language, even if Luke hated acknowledging that particular fact.

He let out a soft giggle behind his hand, delicate, almost coquettish, even going so far as to crinkle his eyes just so. He knew how to make it look pretty.

It only made the man recoil like he’d been slapped. His grip on the sword tightened, blade lifting higher, as if Luke were a cursed spirit sent to drag him into the underworld.

“Don’t play games with me!” the man snapped. “Your mistress turned my companions into pigs the moment we set foot in that cursed palace!”

He took a step forward. Luke didn’t move.

“She probably sent you after me when she realized there was one pig fewer than expected—and didn’t want me rescuing them.”

Luke blinked.

What.

Circe had been too busy shrieking and throwing potions when they’d nearly torn her spa apart—this guy was talking like the pig-transformation happened yesterday.

“…I’m afraid I’m still not sure what you’re speaking of, sir,” Luke said politely, lowering his hand and folding them in front of him like he wasn’t shielding two extremely unpredictable teenage girls. His tone stayed honey-smooth, but his eyes were sharper now, scanning the man with more care.

Tall. Broad. Sure. But that wasn’t uncommon. What mattered were the details.

The chiton.

The plain bronze sword—definitely not celestial bronze; it didn’t shine right.

And, most damning of all, the language he spoke.

The pieces clicked together in Luke’s mind, and none of them formed a picture he liked.

“And may I ask the name of the man making these accusations?” he asked, tone softening just a little, but firm now. He saw Clarisse shift in the corner of his eye, the tip of her spear sparking—lightning dancing eagerly up the shaft.

Luke didn’t even bother telling her to calm down.

The man flinched like he’d never seen anything like it before. Stared at the crackling spear with wide, horrified eyes, like it was divine retribution incarnate.

Luke tilted his head.

Really? After watching your friends get turned into livestock, a moody girl with a lightning stick is what breaks your sense of reality?

He resisted the urge to sigh. Barely.

The man’s wide, horrified eyes flicked back to Luke—like just looking at him was dangerous—and for a moment too long, he hesitated. Like saying his name aloud might doom him.

Then, finally: “…Eurylochos.”

What.

Annabeth sucked in a sharp gasp behind him, and Luke barely had time to throw a hand back and grab the collar of her shirt before she could step past the invisible Luke-as-a-wall line he’d drawn between them and the guy.

Ancient Greek man.

From the island of Same.

Warrior.

Odysseus’ crewmate. Brother-in-law.

Fuck.

Luke didn’t think this was some poor soul who got turned into a pig and just stuck around until they crashed Circe’s party centuries later. No. He was pretty sure this guy was supposed to be dead. Like, smote-by-Zeus kind of dead.

And yet.

Here he was.

“Luke!” Annabeth twisted in his grip, practically glowing. Glowing. “That’s Eurylochos! The Eurylochos—he traveled with Odysseus!”

“Ended up dead, though,” Clarisse muttered, because of course she did. But even she sounded a little shaken, the crackle on her spear sputtering out like it, too, had second thoughts.

Luke just sighed, tugging Annabeth firmly behind him despite her protests and muffled hisses—because no, they were not getting skewered by a ghost with a sword today, thank you.

Eurylochos stared them down, eyes narrowed, mouth drawn in a suspicious line.

“Are you casting some kind of spell?” he barked suddenly, sword jerking upward. “I’ll cut you down before I share their fate!”

Luke blinked. Long. Slowly. So done.

Clarisse, unfortunately, was not done—he could feel the bloodlust radiating off her as lightning snapped back to life with a sharp crack. She grinned like a girl who really wanted an excuse.

“No one’s cursing you,” Luke cut in fast, voice calm in that barely-holding-it-together way. “We’re speaking in our native tongue.”

Eurylochos flinched slightly. “Barbaroi?” he said, frowning. Then—just a hair less tense—he added, “Then how did you end up in Aeaea?”

Annabeth opened her mouth, but Luke was already speaking—smooth as silk.

“We were traveling by ship,” he said, tone mournful, “and there was… an accident. Sea-storm kind. We washed ashore here.” He sighed, long and dramatic, like a widow recounting a tragic opera. “We were lucky. The others… not so much.”

Eurylochos shuffled. His grip on the sword eased. Just a little. There it was—sympathy. Maybe even pity.

“No men?” he asked.

Luke shook his head, lowering his lashes and placing a hand delicately over his mouth, furrowing his brows like he was holding back tears. A picture of grief. A maiden alone. Tragedy incarnate.

He did not acknowledge the way Clarisse and Annabeth were staring at him like he’d lost his mind.

Nor the fact that he was, technically, a man.

Here, he was a poor, tormented beauty stranded on a witch’s island with two unruly wards and no protection to speak of. Defenseless. Dignified. Too pretty for this kind of suffering.

And Eurylochos was buying it.

Thank the Lord for gender ambiguity and a flair for the dramatic.

“Just us,” Luke said, layering on the tragic tone so thick it practically dripped. He sighed, gesturing wearily toward the girls. “The girls and me. And I’m left looking after them—with only this spear,” he added, nodding at Clarisse, “a keepsake from her father.”

Eurylochos’ expression shifted—softened, maybe. His shoulders dropped, and finally, finally, he slid the sword back into its sheath.

“Her father must’ve been a great warrior,” he said, almost reverent. “To be blessed with such a weapon.”

Luke smiled politely, even as the corner of his mouth twitched.

Yeah, he thought. A great warrior. As in the literal god of bloodlust. You can’t even begin to imagine.

“My father—” Clarisse started, rolling her shoulder with that dangerous glint in her eye that made Luke’s instincts scream abort mission.

He dropped a hand on her shoulder—firm but graceful—and looked up at Eurylochos with mournful eyes that all but begged for pity.

“We all mourn him,” he said theatrically, voice low with grief, but layered with a sharp undertone that clearly meant play along, you brat.

Clarisse muttered something murderous under her breath, but didn’t contradict him. Small mercies.

“A great shame,” Eurylochos said, shaking his head solemnly. “To leave three young ladies unprotected.”

Luke felt his eye twitch but kept his smile soft, demure, grateful. Sure. Fine. Let the patriarchy work this once.

“But the gods are gracious,” Eurylochos continued, “and the lady of this island will not treat you unfairly—at least, not while you are not men.”

He paused. Eyed them like they were delicate flowers in need of a garden wall.

“Perhaps I should accompany you to my ship,” he offered. “We have food.”

Luke barely kept the horror off his face.

Because great—now they had a maybe-ghost from The Odyssey trying to feed them.

“Ah, that won’t—”

He didn’t even get to finish before Annabeth practically sang, “We would be very grateful! Isn’t that right—”

She glanced at him, calculation flashing behind her wide eyes, then finished sweetly, “Lúcia? Come on, let us.”

Luke stared at her. Narrowed his eyes. Brat. She was playing the doe-eyed innocent too well. She never acted like this unless she wanted something.

Which meant: she really, really wanted to meet Odysseus.

He glanced between the looming ghost of Eurylochos, Annabeth’s pleading expression, and Clarisse—who was spinning her spear just slowly enough to be menacing.

Luke sighed. Long. Loud. Suffering.

“Fine,” he said at last. “But let it be known, sir, that if you try anything,” he nodded toward Clarisse, who immediately grinned with just a little too much teeth, “I’ll let her test the divine properties of that spear on your insides.”

Eurylochos let out something between a startled chuckle and a gasp, then gave a surprisingly elegant bow for a man built like a siege engine. “Of course, my lady. I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

Luke followed him with a growing sense of unreality.

From suspicious near-violence to thinking all three of them were helpless maidens—when Clarisse was clearly two seconds away from exploding—was a choice.

Patriarchy really does rot the brain, Luke thought. But hey, makes it easier to stab him if this goes south.

Hmm, stabbing…

Murderous thoughts really did make the whole hand-holding, scenic stroll more bearable. No one could tell him what to think—and not that anyone could guess what bloodthirsty, unholy fantasies were burning their way behind his lashes anyway.

Luke was smiling. Pretty. Delicate. A waif in desperate need of rescue.

Obviously.

Even if, in his mind, he was calmly imagining Clarisse testing exactly how long it would take to fry a mortal man with her pet Pikachu. Just one long, satisfying zap until the guy crumpled like a roasted chicken.

Probably wouldn’t take long.

Luke giggled—softly, girlishly—behind a hand.

“Weirdo,” Clarisse muttered from somewhere behind him, her boots crunching aggressively through the underbrush. Sulking like she hadn’t just been called a divine spear maiden and offered food.

He didn’t acknowledge it. Just walked.

Through the carefully curated beauty of the forest—trees too symmetrical, too serene, like extras in some orchestrated dream. Luke drifted along at the head of their strange little party, trailing after Eurylochos like a flock of dazed chicks following a too-buff, overconfident head honcho chicken.

Or rather: one dazed chick saddled with a baby boar with rage issues and a wide-eyed, delusional owl who’d sell them all to Homer for a handshake.

The full package.

Luke sighed, casting a long-suffering glance at the two brat-sized headaches trudging behind him.

Annabeth looked very excited, the kind of manic energy he’d expected from her when she was seven, back when he’d tried offering her sweets he’d stolen and only earned the judgmental side-eye of someone who’d already outgrown joy.

Clarisse was side-eyeing her like she wasn’t entirely sure who she was looking at, which—yeah, Luke wasn’t either—but he didn’t think inching away counted as teamwork.

He breathed in deep, feeling fifty years older than he actually was (was he? If he combined both lives…). If the brats started arguing here, it’d be enough to make the Greek buff guy witness the miraculous turning of blonde into white hair in real time.

“We’ve arrived, ladies,” Eurylochos announced, shoulders tense as he breathed in deep, like he was trying to gather what was left of his nerves. Luke wasn’t one to blame him; showing up to your boss with no men when you’d left with at least fifteen (based on Luke’s quick headcount of the pigs, and that was being generous) wasn’t exactly a confidence booster.

The ship was the same one they’d seen earlier—exactly like the little figurines Chiron kept, down to the details. Luke was almost impressed. Who would’ve thought Chiron was that enthusiastic about ancient Greek naval models?

“Once again, we thank you for your kindness,” Luke said sweetly, even going so far as to bat his eyelashes, which Clarisse found appropriately horrifying based on the disgusted look she sent him.

“You were in need,” Eurylochos answered politely, all very mild, very humble, very unlike the man ready to skewer them not an hour ago.

The whiplash was real.

Hm, Luke thought. I don’t trust you, big man, but you could be useful.

"Even so,” he said, lilting, trailing after the living ghost while his brats formed a line behind him, “it’s not everyone who would’ve done such a selfless thing.” He sighed like a maiden in a tragic play, hand fluttering dramatically over his mouth. “Especially when you don’t seem to be in a better situation yourself… truly, you’re too kind, sharing with women you don’t even know.”

Eurylochos opened his mouth to respond, looking almost bashful. Which was a weird sight on a man built like a siege tower. Then a voice cut him off, right alongside Annabeth’s delighted squeal.

“Eurylochos? Where are the others…”

The man who appeared on the deck looked scruffed, like he hadn’t seen a spa day since the Bronze Age. Had Luke been a little less merciful, he might’ve suggested Circe’s place.

The man froze mid-step. Luke watched the moment suspicion hit, visible even from this far down. Of course it did. He only smiled prettily in return, pinching Clarisse to do the same. She did not. She looked like a kid being forced to pose for school pictures, and Luke mentally prepared his resignation from this team.

Annabeth, meanwhile, had stars in her eyes. Luke glanced at her. Yep, gray and glittering, like she was about to faint or propose marriage.

“…and who are our guests?” Odysseus—because it could only be Odysseus—smiled. The thing was almost convincing, if you weren’t Luke Castellan, professional liar and retired child prodigy of pretending everything’s fine.

Eurylochos straightened like he’d just remembered he actually had a job—and a boss waiting for an explanation—instead of fussing over the trio of very modern, very suspicious, definitely-not-witches he’d just offered food to like they were stray dogs with trust issues.

“Odysseus, I found them lost in these woods after a shipwreck,” he said. “They have no men with them, and this place is dangerous. I thought to offer them temporary assistance.”

He delivered it clean, rehearsed, like a man clinging to procedure for dear life. What he didn’t say was the part Luke had noticed, the part where he and Odysseus were exchanging looks like they were both tuned into some secret telepathic radio channel. And maybe they were, because after a long, silent moment, Odysseus gave the smallest nod.

"Hello, ladies,” Odysseus said smoothly, tossing down a rope. “It’s a pleasure, though under less than favorable circumstances.”

“It is ours, truly,” Luke replied in the same pleasant tone, climbing up after Eurylochos.

Once on deck, he crossed his arms over his stomach like a Victorian lady awaiting gossip, smiling pleasantly and—very intentionally—staying near the ropes while his brats climbed up. He and Odysseus were already locked in a silent who-smiles-with-more-grace competition, and Luke hated to admit it, but the man was good.

But alas, he thought, I’m better. His expression didn’t waver, not even when Clarisse snapped, “Look where your feet are stepping, little Smarty-Pants!” and Annabeth fired back with the moral righteousness of someone stepping exactly where she pleased.

Even when they finally gathered in a loose circle—Eurylochos looking like he wanted to resign, Annabeth staring at Odysseus like he’d personally invented intelligence, and Clarisse nursing a hand with a red mark suspiciously shaped like a footprint—Luke held his ground, smiling like this was all going perfectly well.

Eurylochos cleared his throat.

Odysseus blinked slowly, smile still perfectly carved (damn, the man had stamina), and asked, “Where are the rest of our men, Eurylochos?”

“Pigs,” Clarisse answered flatly, her accent thick but her tone clear enough to doom them all, before Luke could even try to stop her. “They grew curly tails.”

Luke considered several options in that moment, chief among them throwing her overboard to see if saltwater could fix bad decisions.

Odysseus blinked, flinched back, and looked to Eurylochos like he needed confirmation.

I win, Luke thought, smug and ridiculous and immediately ashamed of himself for thinking anything but we’re standing in front of two men who should be dead. Maybe his brain was trying to protect him from a full mental breakdown. Lord knew Luke wasn’t a pretty sight when that happened.

“We came across a palace,” Eurylochos said, breathing like he’d run a marathon and survived a funeral. “A voice inside—no malice. But nothing could prepare us for the power that waited.”

“What was it?” Odysseus whispered, his face folding into a look Luke recognized as dread.

“A woman,” Eurylochos said flatly—firstly rude, secondly unhelpful, and thirdly the sort of answer that left Odysseus staring at him like he’d misheard basic grammar.

“A witch, I imagine, considering you called us so—” Luke offered, because someone needed to be a functional narrator.

Both men ignored him. Of course.

“She offered food,” Eurylochos continued, voice steady in that horrible way of someone telling you how the weather started a war. “I stayed outside. The others went in. By the time they ate, it was too late.” He inhaled like he was trying to pull his courage back into his chest. “The meal was a spell. They transformed, slowly and painfully. I followed the pigs to a strange corner of the island, and there I found the ladies—lost as I was.”

At that, Odysseus finally spared them a look. It was the kind of glance that passed for casual if you were bad at casual, like he was silently ticking boxes on an invisible “witch or not” checklist. Luke didn’t like the checklist. He smiled anyway—because apparently he was auditioning for Most Charming Genderbent Man in Ancient Greece—and let the mask do the heavy lifting while Odysseus decided which mythological cliché they fit into.

Maybe it wasn’t dumb—they were found on the island, near the pigs—it made sense, if you squinted. But Luke would die on the hill that ancient men had a collective blind spot the size of Olympus when it came to women. Still, he valued his continued existence, and calling Odysseus “not that bright” in front of Annabeth was a guaranteed trip to concussion city.

The look didn’t last.

“We have to help them,” Odysseus said at last, and Luke swore he could see the imaginary lighting cue. Heroic rays from above, tragic music swelling, truly the cinematic entrance of a man whose resume included war crimes and creative lying.

Annabeth inhaled sharply, probably ready to monologue about destiny or genius or whatever, but Luke placed a hand on her shoulder before she could start a diplomatic incident.

But apparently, they didn’t need Annabeth to say anything, because Odysseus—Luke suddenly remembered, Odysseus of the Thousand Wiles, and Lord, wasn’t this just his luck? A surprise wit contest with the original conman—spoke up, voice slick with the kind of artificial sweetness that made Luke want to slap him purely on principle.

“Perhaps the lady would wish to accompany me to where she was found? Perhaps to where my companions are?”His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “The young ones could remain here, kept safe. The island is… unpredictable.”

He paused, voice lowering a fraction. “Your help would be most appreciated. I’d hate to mistake a friend for something else.”

“We help each other, no?”

Luke smiled back, mentally cursing him with every name he could remember, including a few he might’ve made up on the spot.

Damn chauvinist rat. Keeping the girls as hostages, testing me. Thinks I’m Circe’s lackey and he can outmaneuver me. Luke’s smile widened, eyes crinkling like a porcelain doll’s. Cute.

He dearly wanted to give Clarisse the green light to start throwing punches, but instead he inhaled slowly, clasped his hands, and leaned into the role.

“Oh, of course,” Luke said sweetly, eyes half-lidded, voice dipped in honey. “We always repay kindness with kindness, no?” He tilted his head, lashes fluttering. “But I’m only a poor woman, with two young charges depending on me.” He pressed a delicate fist to his mouth in mock distress, watching Odysseus’s expression like a hawk.

Odysseus’s jaw twitched.

Got him, Luke thought, smug.

“Of course,” Odysseus said tightly. “I cannot, in good conscience, expose you to danger. But do not fear, I’ll accompany you myself. I’m quite capable in a fight. The young ones will remain here with Eurylochos.”

Let’s see if the great Odysseus still remembers how guest rights work.

Luke fluttered his lashes. “How noble. Will they eat while I show you where I found the pigs?”

“They will,” Odysseus said, curt.

Luke clasped his hands tighter, eyes widening, shimmering with well-practiced tears. The effect was immediate—Odysseus looked vaguely uncomfortable.

“And will the gentle sir protect me?” Luke asked, voice trembling just so. “Whatever turned your crew into pigs…” He gave a dramatic turn of his head, like a heroine seconds from fainting beautifully. “Will sir swear to shield me from all harm, however it may appear?”

Odysseus looked as if he’d just bitten into a lemon.

“Lady, you must calm yourself, there will be no—”

“Will you?” Luke pressed, eyes wide and innocent as sin.

A pause. Then through clenched teeth: “…I swear.”

Luke’s smile softened, all radiant gratitude. Inside, he was cackling. And I win yet again. Better poker face, better manipulation. Suck it, old man.