Chapter 28

Chapter 28 – First Time On The Red Carpet

Ares had just finished waxing his motorcycle with the tears of a defeated manticore when a silver arrow whistled past his head and pinned his sunglasses to a pine tree.

He froze.

The forest quieted.

Then came the sound of footsteps. Calm. Steady. Elegant like a threat dressed in moonlight.

Artemis.

"You know," Ares said, not turning, "some would say shooting a god in the face is bad manners."

"Some would say," Artemis replied, appearing from the shadows with her bow already drawn, "that meddling with my Hunters deserves worse."

Ares slowly turned, smirking like a man who thought sarcasm could save him from divine violence.

"I wasn't meddling," he said. "Just observing. From a family perspective. Lionel's your problem now."

She took a step closer.

"What does your son want with my lieutenant?"

Ares whistled. "Oof. You make it sound scandalous."

Her eyes flashed. "Answer."

"Well…" Ares rubbed the back of his neck. "If my son, through charisma, combat, and sheer dumb luck, manages to make one of your Hunters fall for him and break her eternal vows... shouldn't we be celebrating? That's peak legendary game."

Artemis didn't blink.

She just punched him.

In the face.

Ares flew backward like someone hit a homerun with his body as the ball. He landed in the dirt with a grunt.

She strode over, slammed her foot on his chest, and pressed her bowstring against his throat.

"If your son lays a single unworthy hand on Zoë… I'll kill him before he even thinks about it."

"Protective much?" Ares croaked. 

"Don't test me."

And with that, Artemis vanished into mist, leaving Ares groaning on the ground, his sunglasses shattered and pride moderately bruised.

He chuckled anyway.

"Damn," he muttered. "She's really into that Zoe kid…"

Meanwhile, in New York, I was having a much less glamorous time.

"Burn them."

Zoë's voice was ice as she stepped over a twitching drakon.

"Do I look like a magical janitor?" I asked, dragging a half-conscious manticore across the pavement. "I've already fought ten tonight. My chains are on fire, and my shawarma's cold."

"You should've eaten it earlier."

"It had sauce temperatures to maintain."

The streets of the Upper East Side were unusually clean considering the chaos. We'd been tracking down every last monster sighting from Harlem to Hell's Kitchen.

And it was glorious.

I got to use Chaos Lash on a nest of shadow harpies and knocked a troll into the East River with Spartan Smash.

Zoe never said it, but I caught her glancing when I flipped midair and chained a gorgon's legs together like a rodeo champion. Not that she complimented me. She just grunted less than usual.

Then we got a lead.

A raven-type monster had spilled its secrets while begging for its life—classic—and told us about a wealthy couple uptown. The husband? A fashion designer. The wife?

A painter.

A divine one.

Calliope.

As in THE Calliope—Muse of epic poetry, immortal drama queen, and apparently now dabbling in abstract-deified-modernism.

She'd received a commission from Orion himself.

That got Zoe's attention so fast I thought she dislocated her neck.

"There's a gala," she said after checking her connections. "Plaza Hotel. Top floor. Invitation only."

I groaned. "You mean I have to wear pants?"

Getting into the party required favors.

Zoe's side pulled from the immortal Rolodex of Artemis' Hunters—connections, immortal debts, divine IOUs.

My side involved the Chase family.

And surprisingly, Annabeth came through.

"My dad got an invite," she said on the Iris call, eyes rolling. "He's not going. Said something about too many peacocks in tailored suits."

"Can I have it?"

"Only if you promise not to punch a donor."

"No promises."

She sighed. "Try not to embarrass me. Or Camp Half-Blood."

"Again," I said, "no promises."

By that evening, we were dressed like war gods at a masquerade ball.

Zoe in a dark emerald gown, bow-shaped hair clip glowing subtly in moonlight. She looked like a noble from a fantasy novel who could assassinate you mid-dance.

Me?

Black suit, chain-blade tucked behind my back like a fashion statement, with a button-up shirt I found in a Hermes cabin side locker. Surprisingly well-fitted.

We walked into the Plaza Hotel ballroom, where gold leaf and crystal chandeliers tried desperately to pretend monsters didn't exist.

Calliope was at the center.

Long, flowing hair. Silver gown. She looked like she belonged in a painting, not creating them.

People swirled around her. Poets. Politicians. Mortals with more money than wisdom.

We approached.

Calliope smiled faintly.

"Zoë Nightshade," she said. "The Lost Hesperide. I remember your shade in the garden."

Zoe's jaw clenched. "Calliope."

Calliope's eyes slid to me, then past me.

"Who's the boy?"

"Backup," Zoe said curtly.

I gave a wave. "I'm the charming one."

Calliope ignored me.

Figures.

"I heard you were looking for Orion," she said.

Zoe nodded. "You painted something for him."

"I did," Calliope admitted, swirling her wine. "He has terrible taste. But pays well."

"We need his location," Zoe said.

Calliope smirked. "And what will you give in return?"

I stepped forward. "I can give you an autograph. Or my last shawarma wrapper. High value."

Zoe elbowed me back. "Enough."

Calliope stared, amused.

"Very well," she said. "My price is simple. A muse for my next piece."

Zoe narrowed her eyes. "Who?"

"Artemis."

Zoe froze.

"That's a big ask," I whispered.

"She can say no," Calliope said lightly. "But I won't say yes without it."

Zoe turned, eyes flaring silver, and disappeared into moonlight mist—an emergency prayer to her goddess.

Ten minutes later, she returned.

Face pale.

"She agreed."

Calliope's eyes glittered.

"Then I shall paint her in moonlight and memory," she said. "Now…"

She handed us a scroll.

"Orion is hiding in Greece. The ruins of the old gods."

Zoe took the scroll, nodding once.

"Thank you," she said.

Calliope looked at her, then briefly at me. "Your companion has a strange aura. Bright. Loud. Like lightning trapped in a mason jar."

Zoe glanced at me, then looked away quickly.

"We're done here."

We left the ballroom.

Outside, on the sidewalk, the air was cooler.

"You okay?" I asked.

Zoe was quiet.

Then she said softly, "You did well."

I blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"

"You performed your task. Efficiently."

"Was that… was that a compliment?"

"No."

"Yes it was. That was a compliment. Zoe Nightshade just said I did well."

"I regret it already."

Later that night, Zoe stood under the moonlight, brushing her hair in the stillness of a forest clearing.

Artemis appeared behind her.

"My lady," Zoe said, bowing.

Artemis studied her.

"You're quiet."

Zoe hesitated. "I… I don't know what to make of him."

"Lionel?"

"He's… not like other males. He's still impulsive. Loud. Arrogant."

Artemis smiled. "Yes."

"But…"

"You don't hate him," Artemis finished.

Zoe looked up. "Why?"

Artemis walked to her, placing a hand gently on her shoulder.

"Because, Zoë," she said, "his heart is untouched. Like a child. Unstained by the pride and greed of this world. His soul is… unnaturally pure."

Zoe whispered, "So I see him like…"

"A newborn," Artemis said. "You don't despise him. Because he has not yet earned your hatred."

Zoe looked toward the stars.

And said nothing.