The Son of Netune

"What was that about?" Percy asked. "And what's wrong with Dakota?"

Frank sighed. "He's okay. He's a son of Bacchus, the wine god. He's got a drinking

problem."

Percy's eyes widened. "You let him drink wine?"

"Gods, no!" Hazel said. "That would be a disaster. He's addicted to red Kool-Aid.

Drinks it with three times the normal sugar, and he's already ADHD—you know, attention

deficit/hyperactive. One of these days, his head is going to explode."

Percy looked over at the praetor's table. Most of the senior officers were in deep

conversation with Reyna. Nico and his two captives, Don and Vitellius, stood on the

periphery. Dakota was running back and forth along a line of stacked shields, banging his

goblet on them like they were a xylophone.

"ADHD," Percy said. "You don't say."

Hazel tried not to laugh. "Well…most demigods are. Or dyslexic. Just being a

demigod means that our brains are wired differently. Like you—you said you had trouble

reading."

"Are you guys that way too?" Percy asked.

"I don't know," Hazel admitted. "Maybe. Back in my day, they just called kids like us

'lazy.'"

Percy frowned. "Back in your day?"

Hazel cursed herself.

Luckily for her, Frank spoke up: "I wish I was ADHD or dyslexic. All I got is lactose

intolerance."

Percy grinned. "Seriously?"

Frank might've been the silliest demigod ever, but Hazel thought he was cute when he

pouted. His shoulders slumped. "And I love ice cream, too.…"

Percy laughed. Hazel couldn't help joining in.Dakota grunted. "Unless you believe the rumors. Not saying that I do."

"Rumors?" Percy asked.

From across the room, Don the faun yelled, "Hazel!"

Hazel had never been so glad to see the faun. He wasn't allowed in camp, but of

course he always managed to get in. He was working his way toward their table, grinning

at everybody, sneaking food off plates, and pointing at campers: "Hey! Call me!" A flying

pizza smacked him in the head, and he disappeared behind a couch. Then he popped up,

still grinning, and made his way over.

"My favorite girl!" He smelled like a wet goat wrapped in old cheese. He leaned over

their couches and checked out their food. "Say, new kid, you going to eat that?"

Percy frowned. "Aren't fauns vegetarian?"

"Not the cheeseburger, man! The plate!" He sniffed Percy's hair. "Hey…what's that

smell?"

"Don!" Hazel said. "Don't be rude."

"No, man, I just—"

Their house god Vitellius shimmered into existence, standing half embedded in

Frank's couch. "Fauns in the dining hall! What are we coming to? Centurion Dakota, do

your duty!"

"I am," Dakota grumbled into his goblet. "I'm having dinner!"

Don was still sniffing around Percy. "Man, you've got an empathy link with a faun!"

Percy leaned away from him. "A what?"

"An empathy link! It's real faint, like somebody's suppressed it, but—"

"I know what!" Nico stood suddenly. "Hazel, how about we give you and Frank time

to get Percy oriented? Dakota and I can visit the praetor's table. Don and VitelliEach legion guarded theirs to the last man, because it was charged with power from the

gods. They'd rather hide it or melt it down than surrender it to an enemy.

The Twelfth was lucky the first time. We got our eagle back. But the second time…"

"You guys were there?" Percy asked.

They both shook their heads.

"I'm almost as new as you." Frank tapped his probatio plate. "Just got here last month.

But everyone's heard the story. It's bad luck to even talk about this. There was this huge

expedition to Alaska back in the eighties.…"

"That prophecy you noticed in the temple," Hazel continued, "the one about the seven

demigods and the Doors of Death? Our senior praetor at the time was Michael Varus, from

the Fifth Cohort. Back then the Fifth was the best in camp. He thought it would bring

glory to the legion if he could figure out the prophecy and make it come true—save the

world from storm and fire and all that. He talked to the augur, and the augur said the

answer was in Alaska. But he warned Michael it wasn't time yet. The prophecy wasn't for

him."

"But he went anyway," Percy guessed. "What happened?"

Frank lowered his voice. "Long, gruesome story. Almost the entire Fifth Cohort was

wiped out. Most of legion's Imperial gold weapons were lost, along with the eagle. The

survivors went crazy or refused to talk about what had attacked them."

I know, Hazel thought solemnly. But she kept silent.

"Since the eagle was lost," Frank continued, "the camp has been gettin"Archery," he muttered. "They don't like that either, unless you're a child of Apollo.

Then you've got an excuse. I hope my dad is Apollo, but I don't know. I can't do poetry

very well. And I'm not sure I want to be related to Octavian."

"Can't blame you," Percy said. "But you're excellent with the bow—the way you

pegged those gorgons? Forget what other people think."

Frank's face turned as red as Dakota's Kool-Aid. "Wish I could. They all think I

should be a sword fighter because I'm big and bulky." He looked down at his body, like he

couldn't quite believe it was his. "They say I'm too stocky for an archer. Maybe if my dad

would ever claim me…"

They ate in silence for a few minutes. A dad who wouldn't claim you…Hazel knew

that feeling. She sensed Percy could relate, too.

"You asked about the Fifth," she said at last. "Why it's the worst cohort. That actually

started way before us."

She pointed to the back wall, where the legion's standards were on display. "See the

empty pole in the middle?"

"The eagle," Percy said.

Hazel was stunned. "How'd you know?"

Percy shrugged. "Vitellius was talking about how the legion lost its eagle a long time

ago—the first time, he said. He acted like it was a huge disgrace. I'm guessing that's

what's missing. And from the way you and Reyna were talking earlier, I'm guessing your

eagle got lost a second time, more recently, and it had something to do with the Fifth

Cohort."

Hazel made a mental note not to underestimate PerAS 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 armor on, she looked great. Frank liked the way her cinnamon-toast–

colored 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 around 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 hhorn 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!""Hazel Levesque sent me to check on you," Vitellius said, hiking up his sword belt.

"Good thing, too. Look at the state of this armor!"

Vitellius wasn't one to talk. His toga was baggy, his tunic barely fit 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."

"I was!"

"Vitellius, Caesar was hundreds of years after the Punic Wars. You couldn't have been

alive that long."

"Questioning my honor?" Vitellius looked so mad, his purple aura glowed. He drew

his ghostly gladius and yelled, "Take that!"

He ran the sword, which was about as deadly as a laser pointer, through Frank's chest

a few times.

"Ouch," Frank said, just to be nice.

Vitellius looked satisfied and put his sword away. "Perhaps you'll think twice about

doubting your elders next time! Now…it was your sixteenth birthday recently, wasn't it?"

Frank nodded. He wasn't sure how Vitellius knew this, since Frank hadn't told anyone

except Hazel, but ghosts had ways of finding out secrets. Eavesdropping while invisible

was probably one of them.

"So that's why you're such a grumpy gladiator," the Lar said. "Understandable. The

sixteenth birthdayIt 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 armory, which had given

him way too much time to think.

While he polished swords, he remembered Juno, warning them"Ah, but if you want my advice…" Vitellius looked up nervously again. "You should

both wait on that gorgon blood. If my sources are right, you're going to need it on your

quest."

"Quest?"

The doors of the armory flew open.

Reyna stormed in with her metal greyhounds. Vitellius vanished. He might have liked

chickens, but he did not like the praetor's dogs.

"Frank." Reyna looked troubled. "That's enough with the armor. Go find Hazel. Get

Percy Jackson down here. He's been up there too long. I don't want Octavian…" She

hesitated. "Just get Percy down here."

So Frank had run all the way to Temple Hill.

Walking back, Percy had asked tons of questions about Hazel's brother, Nico, but

Frank didn't know that much.

"He's okay," Frank said. "He's not like Hazel—"

"How do you mean?" Percy asked.

"Oh, um…" Frank coughed. He'd meant that Hazel was better looking and nicer, but

he decided not to say that. "Nico is kind of mysterious. He makes everybody else nervous,

being the son of Pluto, and all."

"But not you?"

Frank shrugged. "Pluto's cool. It's not his fault he runs the Underworld. He just got

bad luck when the gods were dividing up the world, you know? Jupiter got the sky,

Neptune got the sea, and Pluto got the shaft."

"Death doesn't scare you?"

Frank almost wanted to laugh. Not at all! Got a match?

Instead he said, "Back in the old times, like the Greek times, when Pluto was called

Hades, he was more of a death god. When he became Roman, he got more…I don't "So…your name means Mr. Underwear?"

"Praise the gods! I became a surgeon in the legion, and the rest is history." He spread

his arms generously. "Don't give up, boy. Maybe your father is running late. Most omens

are not as dramatic as a chicken, of course. I knew a fellow once who got a dung beetle—"

"Thanks, Vitellius," Frank said. "But I have to finish polishing this armor—"

"And the gorgon's blood?"

Frank froze. He hadn't told anyone about that. As far as he knew, only Percy had seen

him pocket the vials at the river, and they hadn't had a chance to talk about it.

"Come now," Vitellius chided. "I'm a healer. I know the legends about gorgon's blood.

Show me the vials."

Reluctantly, Frank brought out the two ceramic flask she'd retrieved from the Little

Tiber. Spoils of war were often left behind when a monster dissolved—sometimes a tooth,

or a weapon, or even the monster's entire head. Frank had known what the two vials were

immediately. By tradition they belonged to Percy, who had killed the gorgons, but Frank

couldn't help thinking, What if I could use them?

"Yes." Vitellius studied the vials approvingly. "Blood takenfrom the right side of a

gorgon's body can cure any disease, even bring the dead back to life. The goddess

Minerva once gave a vial of it to my divine ancestor, Aesculapius. But blood taken from

the left side of a gorgon—instantly fatal. So, which is which?"

Frank looked down at the vials. "I don't know. They're identical."

"Ha! But you'rhave made that choice.

"So you don't remember anything?" Frank asked. "Family, friends?"

Percy fingered the clay beads around his neck. "Only glimpses. Murky stuff. A

girlfriend…I thought she'd be at camp." He looked at Frank carefully, as if making a

decision. "Her name was Annabeth. You don't know her, do you?"

Frank shook his head. "I know everybody at camp, but no Annabeth. What about your

family? Is your mom mortal?"

"I guess so…she's probably worried out of her mind. Does your mom get to see you

much?"

Frank stopped at the bathhouse entrance. He grabbed some towels from the supply

shed. "She died."

Percy knit his brow. "How?"

Usually Frank would lie. He'd say an accident and shut off the conversation.

Otherwise his emotions got out of control. He couldn't cry at Camp Jupiter. He couldn't

show weakness. But with Percy, Frank found it easier to talk.

"She died in the war," he said. "Afghanistan."

"She was in the military?"

"Canadian. Yeah."

"Canada? I didn't know—"

"Most Americans don't." Frank sighed. "But yeah, Canada has troops there. My mom

was a captain. She was one of the first women to die in combat. She saved some soldiers

who were pinned down by enemy fire. She…she didn't make it. The funeral was right

before I came down here."

Percy nodded. He didn't ask for more details, which Frank appreciated. He didn't say

he was sorry, or make any of the well-meaning comments Frank always hated: Oh, you

poor guy. That must be so hard on you. You haknown. That's why they're still around today. So many civilizations base themselves on

Rome. The gods changed to Roman because that's where the center of power was. Jupiter

was…well, more responsible as a Roman god than he had been when he was Zeus. Mars

became a lot more important and disciplined."

"And Juno became a hippie bag lady," Percy noted. "So you're saying the old Greek

gods—they just changed permanently to Roman? There's nothing left of the Greek?"

"Uh…" Frank looked around to make sure there were no campers or Lares nearby, but

the main gates were still a hundred yards away. "That's a sensitive topic. Some people say

Greek influence is still around, like it's still a part of the gods' personalities. I've heard

stories of demigods occasionally leaving Camp Jupiter. They reject Roman training and

try to follow the older Greek style—like being solo heroes instead of working as a team

the way the legion does. And back in the ancient days, when Rome fell, the eastern half of

the empire survived—the Greek half."

Percy stared at him. "I didn't know that."

"It was called Byzantium." Frank liked saying that word. It sounded cool. "The eastern

empire lasted another thousand years, but it was always more Greek than Roman. For

those of us who follow the Roman way, it's kind of a sore subject. That's why, whatever

country we settle in, Camp Jupiter is always in the west—the Roman part of the territory.

The east is considered bad luck."

"Huh." Percy frowned.With her high-collared black dress and severe bun of gray hair, she looked like a school

teacher from the 1800s.

She surveyed the carnage: her porcelain in the wagon, the shards of her favorite tea

sets scattered over the lawn, Frank's arrows sticking out of the ground, the trees, the fence

posts, and one in the head of a smiling garden gnome.

Frank thought she would yell, or hit him with the box. He'd never done anything this

bad before. He'd never felt so angry.

Grandmother's face was full of bitterness and disapproval. She looked nothing like

Frank's mom. He wondered how his mother had turned out to be so nice—always

laughing, always gentle. Frank couldn't imagine his mom growing up with Grandmother

any more than he could imagine her on the battlefield—though the two situations probably

weren't that different.

He waited for Grandmother to explode. Maybe he'd be grounded and wouldn't have to

go to the funeral. He wanted to hurt her for being so mean all the time, for letting his

mother go off to war, for scolding him to get over it. All she cared about was her stupid

collection.

"Stop this ridiculous behavior," Grandmother said. She didn't sound very irritated. "It

is beneath you."

To Frank's astonishment, she kicked aside one of her favorite teacups.

"The car will be here soon," she said. "We must talk."

Frank was dumbfounded. He looked more closely at the mahogany box. For a horrible

moment, he wondered if it contained his mother's ashes, but that waFRANK DIDN'T REMEMBER MUCH ABOUT the funeral itself.

But he remembered the hours leading up to it—his grand mother coming out into the

backyard to find him shooting arrows at her porcelain collection.

His grandmother's house was a rambling gray stone mansion on twelve acres in North

Vancouver. Her backyard ran straight into Lynn Canyon Park.

The morning was cold and drizzly, but Frank didn't feel the chill. He wore a black

wool suit and a black overcoat that had once belonged to his grandfather. Frank had been

startled and upset to find that they fit him fine. The clothes smelled like wet mothballs and

jasmine. The fabric was itchy but warm. With his bow and quiver, he probably looked like

a very dangerous butler.

He'd loaded some of his grandmother's porcelain in a wagon and toted it into the yard,

where he set up targets on old fence posts at the edge of the property. He'd been shooting

so long, his fingers were starting to lose their feeling. With every arrow, he imagined he

was striking down his problems.

Snipers in Afghanistan. Smash. A teapot exploded with an arrow through the middle.

The sacrifice medal, a silver disk on a red-and-black ribbon, given for death in the line

of duty, presented to Frank as if it were something important, something that made

everything all right. Thwack. A teacup spun into the woods.

The officer who came to tell him: "Your mother is a hero.

Captain Emily Zhang died trying to save her comrades."

Crack. A blue-and-white...