The Son of Neptune

disappeared.’

‘Which put us back at square one,’ Hazel said bitterly. ‘Made us look cursed all over again. I’m sorry, Percy. Now you know what you’ve got yourself into.’

Percy sipped his blue soda and gazed thoughtfully across the dining hall. ‘I don’t even know where I come from … but I’ve got a feeling this isn’t the first time I’ve been an underdog.’ He focused on Hazel and managed a smile. ‘Besides, joining the legion is better than being chased through the wilderness by monsters. I’ve got myself some new friends. Maybe together we can turn things around for the Fifth Cohort, huh?’

A horn blew at the end of the hall. The officers at the praetor’s table got to their feet – even Dakota, his mouth vampire-red from Kool-Aid.

‘The games begin!’ Reyna announced. The campers cheered and rushed to collect their equipment from the stacks along the walls.

‘So we’re the attacking team?’ Percy asked over the noise. ‘Is that good?’

Hazel shrugged. ‘Good news: we get the elephant. Bad news -’

‘Let me guess,’ said Percy. ‘The Fifth Cohort always loses.’

Frank slapped Percy on the shoulder. ‘I love this guy. Come on, new friend. Let’s go chalk up my thirteenth defeat in a row!’

IX Frank

AS HE MARCHED TO THE WAR GAMES, Frank replayed the day in his mind. He couldn’t believe how close he’d come to death.

That morning on sentry duty, before Percy showed up, Frank had almost told Hazel his secret. The two of them had been standing for hours in the chilly fog, watching the commuter traffic on Highway 24. Hazel had been complaining about the cold.

‘I’d give anything to be warm,’ she said, her teeth chattering. ‘I wish we had a fire.’

Even with her armour on, she looked great. Frank liked the way her cinnamon-toast-coloured hair curled around the edges of her helmet, and the way her chin dimpled when she frowned. She was tiny compared to Frank, which made him feel like a big clumsy ox. He wanted to put his arms round her to warm her up, but he’d never do that. She’d probably hit him, and he’d lose the only friend he had at camp.

I could make a really impressive fire, he thought. Of course, it would only burn for a few minutes, and then I’d die …

It was scary that he even considered it. Hazel had that effect on him. Whenever she wanted something, he had the irrational urge to provide it. He wanted to be the old-fashioned knight riding to her rescue, which was stupid, as she was way more capable at everything than he was.

He imagined what his grandmother would say: Frank Zhang riding to the rescue? Ha! He’d fall off his horse and break his neck.

Hard to believe it had been only six weeks since he’d left his grandmother’s house – six weeks since his mom’s funeral.

Everything had happened since then: wolves arriving at his grandmother’s door, the journey to Camp Jupiter, the weeks he’d spent in the Fifth Cohort trying not to be a complete failure. Through it all, he’d kept the half-burnt piece of firewood wrapped in a cloth in his coat pocket.

Keep it close, his grandmother had warned. As long as it is safe, you are safe.

The problem was that it burned so easily. He remembered the trip south from Vancouver. When the temperature dropped below freezing near Mount Hood, Frank had brought out the piece of tinder and held it in his hands, imagining how nice it would be to have some fire. Immediately, the charred end blazed with a searing yellow flame. It lit up the night and warmed Frank to the bone, but he could feel his life slipping away, as if he were being consumed rather than the wood. He’d thrust the flame into a snowbank. For a horrible moment it kept burning. When it finally went out, Frank got his panic under control. He wrapped the piece of wood and put it back in his coat pocket, determined not to bring it out again. But he couldn’t forget it.

It was as though someone had said, ‘Whatever you do, don’t think about that stick bursting into flame!’

So, of course, that’s all he thought about.

On sentry duty with Hazel, he would try to take his mind off it. He loved spending time with her. He asked her about growing up in New Orleans, but she got edgy at his questions, so they made small talk instead. Just for fun, they tried to speak French to each other. Hazel had some Creole blood on her mother’s side. Frank had taken French in school. Neither of them was very fluent, and Louisiana French was so different from Canadian French it was almost impossible to converse. When Frank asked Hazel how her beef was feeling today, and she replied that his shoe was green, they decided to give up.

Then Percy Jackson had arrived.

Sure, Frank had seen kids fight monsters before. He’d fought plenty of them himself on his journey from Vancouver. But he’d never seen gorgons. He’d never seen a goddess in person. And the way Percy had controlled the Little Tiber – wow. Frank wished he had powers like that.

He could still feel the gorgons’ claws pressing into his arms and smell their snaky breath – like dead mice and poison. If not for Percy, those grotesque hags would have carried him away. He’d be a pile of bones in the back of a Bargain Mart by now.

After the incident at the river, Reyna had sent Frank to the armoury, which had given him way too much time to think. While he polished swords, he remembered Juno, warning them to unleash Death.

Unfortunately Frank had a pretty good idea of what the goddess meant. He had tried to hide his shock when Juno had appeared, but she looked exactly like his grandmother had described – right down to the goat-skin cape.

She chose your path years ago, Grandmother had told him. And it will not be easy.

Frank glanced at his bow in the corner of the armoury. He’d feel better if Apollo would claim him as a son. Frank had been sure his godly parent would speak up on his sixteenth birthday, which had passed two weeks ago.

Sixteen was an important milestone for Romans. It had been Frank’s first birthday at camp. But nothing had happened. Now Frank hoped he would be claimed on the Feast of Fortuna, though from what Juno had said they’d be in a battle for their lives on that day.

His father had to be Apollo. Archery was the only thing Frank was good at. Years ago, his mother had told him that their family name, Zhang, meant ‘master of bows’ in Chinese. That must have been a hint about his dad.

Frank put down his polishing rags. He looked at the ceiling. ‘Please, Apollo, if you’re my dad, tell me. I want to be an archer like you.’

‘No, you don’t,’ a voice grumbled.

Frank jumped out of his seat. Vitellius, the Fifth Cohort’s Lar, was shimmering behind him. His full name was Gaius Vitellius Reticulus, but the other cohorts called him Vitellius the Ridiculous.

‘Hazel Levesque sent me to check on you,’ Vitellius said, hiking up his sword belt. ‘Good thing, too. Look at the state of this armour!’

Vitellius wasn’t one to talk. His toga was baggy, his tunic barely fitted over his belly and his scabbard fell off his belt every three seconds, but Frank didn’t bother pointing that out.

‘As for archers,’ the ghost said, ‘they’re wimps! Back in my day, archery was a job for barbarians. A good Roman should be in the fray, gutting his enemy with spear and sword like a civilized man! That’s how we did it in the Punic Wars. Roman up, boy!’

Frank sighed. ‘I thought you were in Caesar’s army.’