Stop it, Apollo, I scolded myself. You’re beautiful and everyone loves you.

But it was becoming increasingly difficult to believe that. My father, Zeus, did not love me. The demigods at Camp Half-Blood did not love me. Python and the Beast and his comrades at Triumvirate Holdings did not love me. It was almost enough to make me question my self-worth.

No, no. That was crazy talk.

Chiron and Rachel were nowhere to be seen. Nyssa Barrera informed me that they were hoping against hope to use the camp’s sole Internet connection, in Chiron’s office, to access more information about Triumvirate Holdings. Harley was with them for tech support. They were presently on hold with Comcast customer service and might not emerge for hours, if indeed they survived the ordeal at all.

I found Meg at the armory, browsing for battle supplies. She had strapped a leather cuirass over her green dress and greaves over orange leggings, so she looked like a kindergartener reluctantly stuffed into combat gear by her parents.

“Perhaps a shield?” I suggested.

“Nuh-uh.” She showed me her rings. “I always use two swords. Plus I need a free hand for slapping when you act stupid.”

I had the uncomfortable sense she was serious.

From the weapon rack, she pulled out a long bow and offered it to me.

I recoiled. “No.”

“It’s your best weapon. You’re Apollo.”

I swallowed back the tang of mortal bile. “I swore an oath. I’m not the god of archery or music anymore. I won’t use a bow or a musical instrument until I can use them properly.”

“Stupid oath.” She didn’t slap me, but she looked like she wanted to. “What will you do, just stand around and cheer while I fight?”

That had indeed been my plan, but now I felt silly admitting it. I scanned the weapon display and grabbed a sword. Even without drawing it, I could tell it would be too heavy and awkward for me to use, but I strapped the scabbard around my waist.

“There,” I said. “Happy?”

Meg did not appear happy. Nevertheless, she returned the bow to its place.

“Fine,” she said. “But you’d better have my back.”

I had never understood that expression. It made me think of the KICK ME signs Artemis used to tape to my toga during festival days. Still, I nodded. “Your back shall be had.”

We reached the edge of the woods and found a small going-away party waiting for us: Will and Nico, Paolo Montes, Malcolm Pace, and Billie Ng, all with grim faces.

“Be careful,” Will told me. “And here.”

Before I could object, he placed a ukulele in my hands.

I tried to give it back. “I can’t. I made an oath—”

“Yeah, I know. That was stupid of you. But it’s a combat ukulele. You can fight with it if you need to.”

I looked more closely at the instrument. It was made from Celestial bronze—thin sheets of metal acid-etched to resemble the grain of blond oak wood. The instrument weighed next to nothing, yet I imagined it was almost indestructible.

“The work of Hephaestus?” I asked.

Will shook his head. “The work of Harley. He wanted you to have it. Just sling it over your back. For me and Harley. It’ll make us both feel better.”

I decided I was obliged to honor the request, though my possession of a ukulele had rarely made anyone feel better. Don’t ask me why. When I was a god, I used to do an absolutely blistering ukulele version of “Satisfaction.”

Nico handed me some ambrosia wrapped in a napkin.

“I can’t eat this,” I reminded him.

“It’s not for you.” He glanced at Meg, his eyes full of misgiving. I remembered that the son of Hades had his own ways of sensing the future—futures that involved the possibility of death. I shivered and tucked the ambrosia into my coat pocket. As aggravating as Meg could be, I was deeply unsettled by the idea that she might come to harm. I decided that I could not allow that to happen.

Malcolm was showing Meg a parchment map, pointing out various places in the woods that we should avoid. Paolo—looking completely healed from his leg surgery—stood next to him, carefully and earnestly providing Portuguese commentary that no one could understand.

When they were finished with the map, Billie Ng approached Meg.

Billie was a wisp of a girl. She compensated for her diminutive stature with the fashion sense of a K-Pop idol. Her winter coat was the color of aluminum foil. Her bobbed hair was aquamarine and her makeup gold. I completely approved. In fact, I thought I could rock that look myself if I could just get my acne under control.

Billie gave Meg a flashlight and a small packet of flower seeds.

“Just in case,” Billie said.

Meg seemed quite overwhelmed. She gave Billie a fierce hug.

I didn’t understand the purpose of the seeds, but it was comforting to know that in a dire emergency I could hit people with my ukulele while Meg planted geraniums.