Other Olympians could never comprehend why Dionysus chose this form when he could look like anything he wanted. In ancient times, he’d been famous for his youthful beauty that defied gender.
But I understood. For the crime of chasing the wrong nymph (translation: one our father wanted instead), Dionysus had been sentenced to run this camp for a hundred years. He had been denied wine, his most noble creation, and forbidden access to Olympus except for special meeting days.
In retaliation, Dionysus had decided to look and act as ungodly as possible. He was like a child refusing to tuck in his shirt, comb his hair, or brush his teeth, just to show his parents how little he cared.
“Poor, poor Apollo.” He hugged me. His hair smelled faintly of grape-flavored bubble gum.
This unexpected show of sympathy brought me close to tears…until Dionysus pulled away, held me at arm’s length, and gave me a triumphant smirk.
“Now you understand how miserable I’ve been,” he said. “Finally, someone got punished even more harshly than me!”
I nodded, swallowing back a sob. Here was the old, on-brand Dionysus I knew and didn’t exactly love. “Yes. Hello, Brother. This is Meg—”
“Don’t care.” Dionysus’s eyes remained fixed on me, his tone infused with joy.
“Hmph.” Meg crossed her arms. “Where’s Chiron? I liked him better.”
“Who?” Dionysus said. “Oh, him. Long story. Let’s get you into camp, Apollo. I can’t wait to show you off to the demigods. You look horrible!”
We took the long way through camp. Dionysus seemed determined to make sure everyone saw me.
“This is Mr. A,” he told all the newcomers we encountered. “He’s my assistant. If you have any complaints or problems—toilets backing up or whatnot—talk to him.”
“Could you not?” I muttered.
Dionysus smiled. “If I am Mr. D, you can be Mr. A.”
“He’s Lester,” Meg complained. “And he’s my assistant.”
Dionysus ignored her. “Oh, look, another batch of first-year campers! Let’s go introduce you.”
My legs were wobbly. My head ached. I needed lunch, rest, antibiotics, and a new identity, not necessarily in that order. But we trudged on.
The camp was busier than it had been the winter when Meg and I first straggled in. Then, only a core group of year-rounders had been present. Now, waves of newly discovered demigods were arriving for the summer—dozens of dazed kids from all over the world, many still accompanied by the satyrs who had located them. Some demigods, who, evidently, had recently fought off monsters, were injured even worse than I was, which I suppose is why Meg and I didn’t get more stares.
We made our way through the camp’s central green. Around its edges, most of the twenty cabins buzzed with activity. Senior counselors stood in the doorways, welcoming new members or providing directions. At the Hermes cabin, Julia Feingold looked especially overwhelmed, trying to find temporary spots for all the campers still unclaimed by their godly parents. At the Ares cabin, Sherman Yang barked at anyone who got too close to the building, warning them to look out for the land mines around the perimeter. Whether or not that was a joke, no one seemed anxious to find out. Young Harley from the Hephaestus cabin dashed around with a huge grin on his face, challenging the newbies to arm-wrestling contests.
Across the green, I spotted two of my own children—Austin and Kayla—but as much as I wanted to talk with them, they were embroiled in some sort of conflict resolution between a group of security harpies and a new kid who had apparently done something the harpies didn’t like. I caught Austin’s words: “No, you can’t just eat a new camper. They get two warnings first!”
Even Dionysus didn’t want to get involved in that conversation. We kept walking.
The damage from our wintertime battle against Nero’s Colossus had been mostly repaired, though some of the dining hall’s columns were still broken. Nestled between two hills was a new pond in the shape of a giant’s footprint. We passed the volleyball court, the sword-fighting arena, and the strawberry fields until finally Dionysus took pity on me and led us to camp headquarters.
Compared to the camp’s Greek temples and amphitheaters, the four-story sky-blue Victorian known as the Big House looked quaint and homey. Its white trim gleamed like cake frosting. Its bronze eagle weathervane drifted lazily in the breeze. On its wraparound front porch, enjoying lemonade at the card table, sat Nico di Angelo and Will Solace.
“Dad!” Will shot to his feet. He ran down the steps and tackled me in a hug.
That’s when I lost it. I wept openly.
My beautiful son, with his kind eyes, his healer’s hands, his sun-warm demeanor. Somehow, he had inherited all my best qualities and none of the worst. He guided me up the steps and insisted I take his seat. He pressed a cold glass of lemonade into my hands then started fussing over my wounded head.
“I’m fine,” I murmured, though clearly I wasn’t.
His boyfriend, Nico di Angelo, hovered at the edge of our reunion—observing, keeping to the shadows, as children of Hades tend to do. His dark hair had grown longer. He was barefoot, in tattered jeans and a black version of the camp’s standard T-shirt, with a skeletal pegasus on the front above the words CABIN 13.
“Meg,” Nico said, “take my chair. Your leg looks bad.” He scowled at Dionysus, as if the god should have arranged a golf cart for us.
“Yes, fine, sit.” Dionysus gestured listlessly at the card table. “I was attempting to teach Will and Nico the rules of pinochle, but they’re hopeless.”
“Ooh, pinochle,” Meg said. “I like pinochle!”
Dionysus narrowed his eyes as if Meg were a small dog who had suddenly begun to spout Emily Dickinson. “Is that so? Wonders never cease.”
Nico met my gaze, his eyes pools of ink. “So, is it true? Is Jason…?”
“Nico,” Will chided. “Don’t pressure him.”
The ice cubes shook in my glass. I couldn’t make myself speak, but my
