Chapter Text
Freya had been at Camp Half-Blood for exactly two days, and she still didn’t know what she was doing here.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true. She knew some things now. She knew that Chiron, the activities director, was a centaur. She knew that her algebra homework didn’t matter anymore because apparently she was a demigod.
What she didn’t know was which god was her father.
“It’s temporary,” Lacy had assured her that morning. The Aphrodite girl had befriended her yesterday, and now she was braiding flowers into her hair.“You’ll get claimed soon. Everyone’s getting claimed lately. It’s so exciting!”
Freya nodded like that made sense. Nothing made sense. Three days ago, her biggest problem was algebra homework. Now she was living in a camp for Greek demigods, sleeping on a bunk between a kid who could pick locks with his mind, and another who had nicked her shoes twice already.
“Just wait for your symbol to show up,” Travis Stoll had explained during her first day. “Glowing hologram above your head. Then you’ll know which cabin you’re in.”
“When does that happen?”
Travis shrugged. “Whenever your godly parent feels like it. Could be today, could be next week. Used to be some kids waited years, but apparently—” He’d gotten distracted by Connor stealing his orange.
Freya was helping scrape dishes after lunch when someone gasped.
She looked up. A girl by the Hermes table had gone completely still, staring at something above her head. A shimmering hologram of an owl floated there, glowing with gray light—
Then it vanished.
An actual owl swooped through the pavilion, weaving between columns, and dropped a sealed envelope directly into the girl’s hands before flying off.
Chiron trotted over, looking mildly surprised. “Hail, Sophie Brown, daughter of Athena, goddess of wisdom and battle strategy.”
The Athena kids got up to collect their new sister, already talking over each other about cabin arrangements.
“Huh,” said a boy next to Freya—dark hair, sea-green eyes. She’d learned his name was Percy. He looked tired. “That’s… different.”
“Is it not supposed to be like that?” Freya asked.
“Usually it’s just the floating symbol. Owl for Athena, lyre for Apollo, that kind of thing.” He scratched his head. “The letter’s new.”
“Mom’s getting creative,” one of the Aphrodite kids said, walking past with her tray. “I love it.”
Percy gave her a weird look but didn’t comment.
It happened again during Arts & Crafts.
Freya was attempting to make a clay bowl—badly—when golden light flooded the entire pavilion.
A little girl near the painting station was illuminated like someone had aimed a theater spotlight at her, a golden lyre spinning above her head. The light didn’t fade. It kept going, getting brighter, an actual beam of sunlight cutting through the air to shine directly on her.
The girl—maybe nine years old, with paint smudges on her cheek—slowly looked up at the light. Then at the growing crowd staring at her. Then back at the light.
“No,” she said.
The light got brighter. Music started—a full orchestra.
“Absolutely not.” She crossed her arms.
The music swelled. The spotlight intensified.
“I’m painting!” the girl yelled at the sky. “I don’t want a spotlight! Turn it OFF!”
A blonde teenager jogged over, trying not to laugh. “Dad. Dad. She’s not an extrovert. Read the room.”
The spotlight somehow got more dramatic.
“I Hate this!” the girl announced to everyone. “This is my worst nightmare! I’m going to have so many words for him later!”
“Okay everyone applaud so we can move on!” the blonde kid—Will, Freya had learned—yelled.
People started clapping. Some were trying not to laugh.
The spotlight cut out immediately. The music stopped.
The girl stood there, paintbrush still in hand, glaring at where the light had been. “RUDE.”
“Hail, Alya Black, daughter of Apollo, god of the sun, archery, music, and poetry,” Chiron said, sounding extremely amused.
“I’m filing a complaint,” Alya muttered, stomping toward Will. “Does he do this to everyone? Is there a feedback form?”
“Uh, not exactly—”
“There should be. This is unacceptable. I was in the MIDDLE of painting a bowl.”
Will was grinning now. “Welcome to the Apollo cabin. You’re gonna fit right in.”
“I want a spotlight-free zone in writing.”
That night, Freya cornered Travis Stoll, who at least seemed marginally less likely to nick her things than his brother.
“Is the glowing spotlight thing normal?” she asked.
Travis looked up from whatever he was cobbling together with duct tape and wire. “For Apollo? I mean, sun god, so—”
“No, I mean—” Freya gestured helplessly. “The letter. The spotlight from the sun. Is that how this is supposed to work?”
“Oh.” Travis considered this. “Normally it’s just the symbol. Floats over your head, glows for a minute, then fades. Chiron says the thing. "You move cabins, done.”
“So the letter and the spotlight…”
“Yeah, those were extra.” He grinned. “Fancy. Although wait’ll you see if any of the minor gods claim anyone. I heard Hypnos’s kid last week had this whole thing where—”
“There’s more gods?”
Travis blinked. “Oh, right. You’re new-new. Okay, so there’s the twelve Olympians, but there’s also like… a lot of other ones. Hypnos, Hecate, Iris, bunch of wind gods, basically if it exists there’s probably a god for it.”
Freya’s brain was starting to hurt.
“Anyway,” Travis continued, “used to be only the Olympians’ kids got claimed. Minor gods’ kids just stayed in Hermes cabin forever. But Percy—” he jerked his thumb toward the sea-green-eyed boy, currently sitting by the campfire, “—made the gods promise to claim everyone by thirteen. So now we’ve got, like, kids getting claimed left and right. It’s great! Cabin’s way less crowded.”
“But why are they doing it like this?”
Travis shrugged. “Gods are weird? Maybe they’re trying to make up for lost time. Maybe they think it’s supposed to be special. I dunno, I’m just happy I don’t have to share a bathroom with thirty people anymore.”
Freya supposed that was fair.
She didn’t get an answer until two days later, when Lacy showed up during breakfast again.
“Did you hear?” Lacy slid onto the bench beside her, eyes bright. “Iris claimed someone yesterday with a whole rainbow care package. It had R.O.F.L. merch and everything.”
“What’s R.O.F.L.?”
“Her company. Rainbow Organic Foods & Lifestyles.” Lacy waved this away like it wasn’t important. “But the rainbow, Freya. It arced right over the cabin and left a trail of glitter. Glitter! Mom would be so proud.”
“Why would your mom be proud?”
“Because it’s romantic.” Lacy said this like it was obvious. “A grand gesture! Making your child feel special and seen! That’s what claiming should be.”
Freya was starting to suspect Lacy had very specific ideas about what claiming should be like.
“Is that… why they’re all doing different things?”
“Well, obviously every god has their own style,” Lacy said. “But yes, I think they’re finally realizing claims should be memorable. Meaningful. Not just—” she wrinkled her nose, “—a glowing symbol and done.”
That seemed reasonable, maybe. Freya still wasn’t sure.
But then the Hecate thing happened.
Freya was sitting by the lake, getting a crash course on Greek mythology, when the sky turned purple.
Not sunset purple. A purple so dark that it felt like looking into the void.
Everyone stopped what they were doing.
A massive holographic image materialized above the camp—a woman in dark robes, flickering like a projection, easily three stories tall. She held a clipboard.
“Attention Camp Half-Blood,” the giant Hecate said, her voice echoing across the valley. “The following children are mine. Please report to Cabin Twenty for orientation.”
She cleared her throat.
“ Nightingale, Maya. Ashcroft, Merlin. She paused, squinting at her clipboard. "Seriously? Merlin Ashcroft? Do mortals not understand irony?" She shook her head and continued. Chen—wait, no, that’s Tyche’s. Scratch that.” The goddess actually crossed something off her clipboard. “Davis, Harry. Lovelace, Luna. Gómez, Gandalf. And Winters, Raven.”
She looked up from her clipboard with mild bemusement. "Why are so many of you named like this? Is there a pattern I'm missing?"
"Maybe stop having kids with fantasy nerds!" one of the newly-claimed kids—Gandalf, judging by his mortified expression—called up.
Hecate blinked. "That's... actually a fair point. Noted." She made a mark on her clipboard. "Moving on. That’s six of you. If anyone’s missing, please see me during office hours. Also, Lou Ellen, please make sure they know where everything is.”
A girl near the front—Lou Ellen, apparently—gave a thumbs up to the sky.
“Excellent. Homework is introduction to Basic Magical Theory, chapters one through three. Due Thursday. Class dismissed.”
“HOMEWORK?!” several voices screamed.
The giant Hecate vanished.
Lou Ellen was already herding the new kids toward Cabin Twenty, looking resigned. “Yes, there’s homework. Yes, she’s serious. No, complaining won’t help. Come on.”
“A goddess just assigned us homework,” one of the new kids said faintly.
“Welcome to Hecate cabin,” Lou Ellen said. “It gets weirder.”
“Leave it to Hecate to turn claiming into a class roster,” someone muttered nearby.
"I can't believe I have to introduce myself as Gandalf for the rest of my life," Gandalf Gómez said miserably.
"At least your dad didn’t name you Merlin," Merlin muttered.
The next day, Freya learned it could get weirder.
She was walking to archery practice when a kid in front of her—Alice, maybe?—suddenly froze mid-step.
A glowing symbol appeared above her head. A caduceus.
“Oh!” someone said. “Hermes—”
A box fell out of the sky and landed at Alice’s feet.
Then another box.
Then six more boxes, tumbling down like someone had upended a delivery truck.
“SPECIAL DELIVERY!” a voice boomed from nowhere.
The boxes kept coming. They had labels:
“HANDLE WITH CARE (LOL)”
“FRAGILE (NOT REALLY)”
“THIS SIDE UP (DOES IT MATTER?)”
“RETURN TO SENDER (JK HE’S MINE)”
One box bounced off Alice’s head. She yelped.
A final package dropped, wrapped in gold paper with a bow. The tag read: “THIS ONE’S MINE - H”
Then the boxes all popped open at once, releasing a cloud of packing peanuts that went everywhere.
Chiron cantered over, now covered in styrofoam. “Hail, Alice Miyazawa, daughter of Hermes, god of travelers, thieves, and messengers.”
“Why are there so many boxes?!” Alice looked around wildly.
“Dad’s got a sense of humor,” one of the Stoll brothers said, appearing from nowhere to clap Alice on the shoulder. “Welcome to the family! You’re gonna fit right in.”
Freya picked a packing peanut out of her hair.
Percy stood nearby, head in his hands.
“It’s fine,” Annabeth said, though she was also plucking styrofoam from her curls. “They’re acknowledging their children. This is what you wanted.”
“I didn’t want—” Percy gestured helplessly at the sea of packing peanuts now drifting across camp like weird snow. “—this.”
“Well,” Annabeth said. “At least they’re keeping to their promise.”
Freya decided she was getting used to all the weird claims.
Then it started raining cereal.
She was crossing the common area when Cheerios began falling from a clear blue sky. Then Fruit Loops. Then what looked like organic granola.
“Demeter!” someone yelled, diving for cover.
A girl stood in the middle of the cereal storm, completely bewildered, as various breakfast foods pelted down around her. A box of cornflakes bounced off her shoulder.
“Hail, Billie Ng, daughter of Demeter, goddess of agriculture and the harvest!” Chiron called from under an awning, brushing Lucky Charms from his flanks.
The cereal stopped. The ground was buried in breakfast food.
“At least it wasn’t locusts,” one of the Demeter kids said cheerfully, wading through Frosted Flakes to collect their new sister.
“Why would it be locusts?!” Billie looked horrified.
“Wrong mythology. You’re good.”
Freya crunched her way back to the Hermes cabin through a layer of granola, wondering if this was just her life now.
The Morpheus claiming happened during lunch.
Everyone fell asleep.
One second Freya was eating a sandwich, the next second she was standing in a dream that looked like a game show set made of clouds. Sparkly. Kind of tacky. A banner read “CLAIM YOUR PRIZE!”
A man dressed all in black walked out like a game show host. Every camper was somehow in the audience.
“Welcome to the Morpheus claiming spectacular! Today’s lucky winner is—Rigel Black!”
A small kid—maybe ten, dark hair—appeared in a contestant chair, looking completely unimpressed.
“So, Rigel! How does it feel?”
“Took you long enough,” Rigel said. “I’ve been waiting since I was seven.”
“Well, you know, divine scheduling—”
“You promised last summer.”
“I was busy—”
“Busy napping?”
Someone in the dream audience snorted.
Morpheus coughed. “I’m the god of dreams, not naps—”
“You literally sent me a dream last month that was just you sleeping,” Rigel said. “Like, that was the whole dream. You sleeping. Very meta. Not helpful.”
“That was symbolic—”
“Of you forgetting to claim me? Yeah, I got that.”
“I’m claiming you right now—”
“Three years late.”
“Anyway!” Morpheus clapped his hands loudly. “Here’s your pillow! And your Cabin Assignment! Cabin Fifteen! Sweet dreams!”
“I’m keeping a list of grievances,” Rigel said, accepting the pillow. “We’re discussing this next time.”
“I love you, you’re perfect, bye!” The dream started dissolving.
“Dad—”
“Can’t hear you, dream’s ending, love you—”
Everything went black.
Everyone woke up. Three minutes had passed.
Rigel sat on the grass, holding a very real, very fluffy pillow, looking exasperated.
“Hail, Rigel Black, son of Morpheus, shaper of dreams,” Chiron said.
“He’s ridiculous,” Rigel announced to anyone listening. “I’m related to a ridiculous person.”
“Join the club,” Percy muttered.
Alya Black appeared from the Apollo cabin. “Cuz! Did he seriously do a whole dream sequence?”
“Your dad did a spotlight. My dad did a game show. We’re both suffering.”
“At least yours gave you a pillow. Mine gave me anxiety.”
“I’m starting a support group for dramatic god claims.”
“I’m in.”
The Nike claiming happened during dinner, and it was immediately obvious something was different because there were two glowing symbols.
Twin girls sitting at the Hermes table both had winged victory symbols floating above their heads.
“Oh no,” Percy said preemptively.
“Hail, Holly and Laurel Victor—” Chiron began.
“STOP!” a voice thundered.
A golden trophy materialized in front of Holly. “WINNER: HOLLY VICTOR. CATEGORY: BEING CLAIMED FIRST!”
Holly’s eyes lit up. “YES!”
“OBJECTION!” Another trophy appeared in front of Laurel. “WINNER: LAUREL VICTOR. CATEGORY: BEING CLAIMED BETTER!”
“WHAT?! Mom, that’s not even a real category!”
“WINNER: HOLLY VICTOR. CATEGORY: MOST VALID COMPLAINTS!”
“WINNER: LAUREL VICTOR. CATEGORY: SUPERIOR ARGUING TECHNIQUE!”
The trophies were multiplying. Fast.
“WINNER: HOLLY VICTOR. CATEGORY: SITTING UP STRAIGHTER!”
“I AM NOT—” Holly immediately sat up straighter.
“WINNER: LAUREL VICTOR. CATEGORY: BETTER POSTURE AWARENESS!”
“Oh come ON—”
“WINNER: HOLLY VICTOR. CATEGORY: MOST JUSTIFIED INDIGNATION!”
“WINNER: LAUREL VICTOR. CATEGORY: BREATHING COMPETITION, PAST TWENTY-FOUR HOURS!”
“We’ve been breathing the SAME AMOUNT—”
“WINNER: HOLLY VICTOR. CATEGORY: MATHEMATICAL ACCURACY!”
Trophies clattered to the ground around both of them. They were now competing over who could stack theirs faster.
“WINNER: LAUREL VICTOR. CATEGORY: TROPHY STACKING SPEED!”
“THAT’S IT, I’M GONNA—”
“WINNER: HOLLY VICTOR. CATEGORY: COMPETITIVE SPIRIT!”
Percy had his head on the table.
“Mom, we get it!” they both yelled at the sky simultaneously.
“TIE: HOLLY AND LAUREL VICTOR. CATEGORY: SYNCHRONIZED FRUSTRATION!”
A final trophy appeared between them, larger than the others: “WINNERS: BEST DAUGHTERS (TIED).”
The girls looked at it, looked at each other, and immediately started arguing about who got to hold it.
“Cabin Seventeen,” Chiron said tiredly. “Both of you.”
“Do they always—” Freya started.
“Yes,” three people answered at once.
Tyche’s claiming answered the question of “can it get weirder” with “chaos.”
A boy named Oliver was walking to the armory when coins started appearing mid-air and falling around him. Everywhere he stepped, flowers sprouted from the ground. A weapon rack nearby transformed into a rack of pool noodles.
“What—”
Outside the camp borders, a roar cut off abruptly. Then another. Monsters were apparently stubbing their toes and leaving.
Then it started raining chocolate.
Just over Oliver. Nowhere else.
A pegasus landed nearby and gave Oliver a winning lottery ticket in its mouth before flying away.
“HAIL, OLIVER CHEN, SON OF TYCHE, GODDESS OF FORTUNE AND LUCK!” Chiron had to yell over the sound of chocolate pattering on the ground.
Everything stopped at once. Oliver stood there, covered in chocolate, surrounded by flowers and coins, holding a lottery ticket and looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.
“Cabin Nineteen!” one of his new siblings called. “Also, you’re going to want to shower. The chocolate thing happens sometimes.”
“How is this luck?!”
“Good luck! You’re lucky! The monsters are unlucky! It’s a whole thing!”
Percy looked like he was going to cry.
Annabeth had filled three notebooks.
Freya was walking by when she heard voices coming from the Big House.
“—so the packing peanuts are still everywhere—”
That was Percy.
Freya probably shouldn’t eavesdrop. She was definitely going to eavesdrop.
She crept closer to the window.
Inside, there was a shimmering rainbow in the air—an Iris message. Mr. D’s face floated in it, looking like he’d rather be literally anywhere else.
“Johnson, why are you telling me about packing peanuts?”
“Because Hermes claimed someone with approximately seven thousand boxes and now there are packing peanuts in the lake. The lake, Mr. D. They don’t even dissolve.”
“Sounds like a you problem.”
“One of them said ‘THIS ONE’S MINE - H’ in glitter pen!”
Mr. D took a long sip of his Diet Coke. “And?”
“And yesterday Morpheus claimed his kid via dream talk show! The kid roasted him in front of the entire camp!”
“Good for the kid.”
“And Apollo did a spotlight that wouldn’t turn off until people clapped—”
“Typical.”
“—and it rained cereal—”
“Demeter’s always been weird about breakfast.”
“—and Nike gave someone trophies for existing—"
Annabeth flipped a page in her notebook. “Breathing competition. Best Tuesday. Superior posture awareness—”
“My point,” Percy said, looking tired, “is that this is getting out of hand.”
“You asked them to claim their kids.” Mr. D looked entirely unsympathetic. “Congratulations. They’re claiming their kids.”
“I meant normally!”
“You should have been more specific.”
“I didn’t think I needed to specify ‘please don’t turn it into a circus’!”
“First time dealing with gods?” Mr. D asked dryly.
Percy gave him a look.
“Besides, this isn’t my problem. I’ve been stuck at Olympus for two weeks listening to Apollo brag about his ‘theatrical vision’ and Aphrodite going on about romance.”
“Aphrodite’s involved?” Annabeth looked up sharply.
“Oh, she’s very involved. Keeps saying claims should be ‘meaningful moments’ and ‘grand gestures.’ Half of Olympus is eating it up. The other half—Athena, Hephaestus, Hades, myself—are staying out of it.”
“Zeus must love that,” Percy muttered.
“Zeus,” Mr. D said with feeling, “is developing a stress migraine. Which means everyone else is developing a survival migraine. Do you know what he does when he’s annoyed?”
“Lightning?”
“So much lightning. Hera’s been complaining about scorch marks on the throne room floor for over a week.”
There was a pause.
“So… no one’s going to make them stop?” Percy asked.
“Oh, it’ll stop. Apollo will get bored. Hermes will find something shinier to focus on. Aphrodite will move on to meddling in someone’s love life. Just give it time.”
“How much time?”
“How should I know? I’m not omniscient.” Mr. D checked something off-screen. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting with Athena about ‘damage control’ in five minutes. Which is code for ‘listen to her complaint about the oracle getting buried in Lucky Charms.’”
“The oracle—what?”
“Demeter’s aim was off. Bye, Jordan.”
The Iris message dissolved.
Percy and Annabeth stared at the empty air.
“Rachel got buried in Lucky Charms,” Percy said slowly.
“I’m writing that down,” Annabeth said, already scribbling.
“Why are you writing everything down?”
“Because in five years this is either going to be really funny or really important for my research on divine behavior patterns.”
“It’s not funny now?”
“Oh it’s hilarious now. I’m just multitasking.”
Chiron, who’d been silent this whole time, sighed deeply. “I’m getting too old for this.”
“You’re immortal,” Percy pointed out.
“Exactly. I’ve been alive for thousands of years and this is still somehow the weirdest two weeks I’ve experienced.”
Freya decided to back away from the window before someone noticed her.
The oracle was buried in breakfast food.
She was just going to… accept that information and move on with her life.
The Nemesis claiming was the weirdest one yet, and that was saying something.
A boy—maybe fourteen or fifteen—was walking across the commons when everything around him just… balanced.
A kid carrying too many books suddenly had exactly the right amount. Someone who’d taken three desserts at lunch found themselves with one. The Aphrodite table, which had been way too crowded, suddenly had exactly enough seats. The Ares table, which had too few, gained two chairs.
Perfectly balanced scales appeared above the boy’s head, glowing silver.
Then every single person who was sitting down stood up. Every single person who was standing sat down.
Complete chaos.
“WHAT—”
“WHY AM I STANDING—”
“I WAS IN THE MIDDLE OF—”
The scales tipped. Everyone who’d just stood up sat down. Everyone who’d just sat down stood up again.
“MAKE IT STOP!”
The boy in the middle looked around at the pandemonium, then up at the scales. “Seriously?”
Everything went back to normal. Everyone was back to what they were doing. Except now the camp was perfectly symmetrical—even number of people on each side of the pavilion, even weight distribution, even the clouds looked balanced.
“Hail, Damien White, son of Nemesis, goddess of retribution and balance,” Chiron called over the confused shouting.
“This is what I get for complaining about unfairness?” Damien asked the sky.
The scales glowed smugly before fading.
“Cabin Sixteen,” one of his new siblings said. “Don’t worry, she has a sense of humor about it.”
“Does she though?” Damien looked around at the perfectly balanced camp. “Does she really?”
Freya made it another three days before something else happened.
The wind picked up during breakfast—gentle at first, then increasingly specific. It swirled around one kid, lifting his napkin, ruffling his hair, and then the clouds overhead began to move.
They spelled out: “JACOB WILLIAMS - SON OF AEOLUS”
Then the clouds rearranged: “GOD OF THE WINDS”
Then: “IN CASE YOU WERE WONDERING”
A paper airplane made of clouds drifted down and landed in Jacob’s orange juice.
At this point, Chiron didn’t even bother to look up from his coffee. “Hail, Jacob Williams, son of Aeolus, master of the winds. Cabin—” He paused. “Which cabin is Aeolus?”
“We’re still building it!” someone called.
“Hermes cabin for now, then.”
The wind ruffled everyone’s hair apologetically before dying down.
The Hebe claiming was, somehow, worse(for the kid getting claimed).
A boy named Milo was sitting on the steps of the Hermes cabin when he started shrinking.
Not metaphorically. Actually getting smaller.
“Um,” Milo said, his voice getting higher. “UM?!”
Within thirty seconds he looked about eight years old, drowning in his own t-shirt.
“Hail, Milo Byrd, son of Hebe, goddess of youth!” Chiron called quickly.
Milo—who had apparently been thirteen a minute ago—glared at the sky with the fury of someone who had just lost five years of their life. “Seriously, mom?”
His voice came out in a kid-squeak.
Somewhere, Freya imagined, a goddess was very pleased with herself.
“It’ll wear off,” one of the older campers assured him.
“But when?”
“Uh. Eventually?”
Milo’s glare could have curdled milk.
By the end of her second week at camp, Freya had started to dread her own claiming. What would hers be like? Fireworks? A musical number? Would she shrink? Get buried in trophies? Wake up in a dream court?
She was reading a book one afternoon, carefully not thinking about glowing symbols, when someone tapped her shoulder.
She turned.
Mr. D—who had been at breakfast for some reason—stood there, diet Coke in hand, looking even more exhausted than he did in the iris message.
He pointed at her. “Mine.”
Then he walked away.
Freya stood there, open mouthed, waiting for something else. A sign. A sound. Glowing grapes? A wine fountain? Flying goblets?
Nothing happened.
“Uh,” she said.
Chiron cantered over, looking almost relieved. “Hail, Freya Anderson, daughter of Dionysus, god of wine and madness. Cabin Twelve.”
That was it.
No lightning. No music. No dream sequence or homework or trophies or weather phenomena.
An older boy with blond hair appeared at her elbow. “Yeah, that’s how Dad does it. Come on, I’ll show you the cabin. I’m Pollux, by the way, I’m your half-brother.”
“Pollux,” Freya repeated, still waiting for something dramatic to happen.
“He just got back today,” Pollux said, steering her toward Cabin Twelve.
“Back from where?”
“Olympus. He’s been at some emergency meeting thing for like two weeks.” Pollux lowered his voice. “Between you and me, I think he’s pretty fed up with whatever’s been happening with claims lately.”
“The… everything?”
“Yeah. Dad was complaining about it at breakfast. Something about ‘theatrical nonsense’ and ‘I’m not competing with Apollo’s spotlight fetish.’” Pollux shrugged. “Pretty sure some of the other gods have decided to just do the normal symbol thing and call it a day.”
That… actually explained a lot.
“So he just—”
“Pointed and left? Yeah. That’s his style.” Pollux grinned. “On the bright side, you didn’t get assigned homework, de-aged, or buried in trophies, so really, you won.”
Freya looked back at the dining pavilion, where Mr. D—her father, apparently—was aggressively ignoring everyone while reading a wine magazine.
“Wait,” Freya said, stopping in her tracks. “Why is he at camp?”
"Oh. Yeah." Pollux winced. "He’s the camp director. He's been here as punishment for, like, forever. Zeus thing. It's complicated."
“Our camp director is a god?”
“Yeah, you’ll get used to it.”
Freya looked back at Mr. D, who had just turned someone’s diet Coke into regular Coke out of spite.
She looked at the Athena cabin, where Sophie Brown was probably having a normal time with her letter.
She looked at the arena, where the Victor twins were still arguing about trophies.
She looked at Cabin Twelve, purple curtains and grapevine trim and her apparently-immortal-god-father who she’d have to see every single day at every single meal and every single camp activity for the rest of the summer.
“This is fine,” Freya said.
“It gets weirder,” Pollux said cheerfully.
“How.”
“You’ll see. We’re demigods.”
Freya decided not to ask.