The Hidden Oracle

Malcolm Pace gave me his parchment map. “When in doubt, veer to the right. That usually works in the woods, though I don’t know why.”



Paolo offered me a green-and-gold scarf—a bandana version of the Brazilian flag. He said something that, of course, I could not understand.

Nico smirked. “That’s Paolo’s good-luck bandana. I think he wants you to wear it. He believes it will make you invincible.”

I found this dubious, since Paolo was prone to serious injury, but as a god, I had learned never to turn down offerings. “Thank you.”

Paolo gripped my shoulders and kissed my cheeks. I may have blushed. He was quite handsome when he wasn’t bleeding out from dismemberment.

I rested my hand on Will’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. We’ll be back by dawn.”

His mouth trembled ever so slightly. “How can you be sure?”

“I’m the sun god,” I said, trying to muster more confidence than I felt. “I always return at dawn.”



Of course it rained. Why would it not?

Up in Mount Olympus, Zeus must have been having a good laugh at my expense. Camp Half-Blood was supposed to be protected from severe weather, but no doubt my father had told Aeolus to pull out all the stops on his winds. My jilted ex-girlfriends among the air nymphs were probably enjoying their moment of payback.

The rain was just on the edge of sleet—liquid enough to soak my clothes, icy enough to slam against my exposed face like glass shards.

We stumbled along, lurching from tree to tree to find any shelter we could. Patches of old snow crunched under my feet. My ukulele got heavier as its sound hole filled with rain. Meg’s flashlight beam cut across the storm like a cone of yellow static.

I led the way, not because I had any destination in mind, but because I was angry. I was tired of being cold and soaked. I was tired of being picked on. Mortals often talk about the whole world being against them, but that is ridiculous. Mortals aren’t that important. In my case, the whole world really was against me. I refused to surrender to such abuse. I would do something about it! I just wasn’t quite sure what.

From time to time we heard monsters in the distance—the roar of a drakon, the harmonized howl of a two-headed wolf—but nothing showed itself. On a night like this, any self-respecting monster would’ve remained in its lair, warm and cozy.

After what seemed like hours, Meg stifled a scream. I heroically leaped to her side, my hand on my sword. (I would have drawn it, but it was really heavy and got stuck in the scabbard.) At Meg’s feet, wedged in the mud, was a glistening black shell the size of a boulder. It was cracked down the middle, the edges splattered with a foul gooey substance.

“I almost stepped on that.” Meg covered her mouth as if she might be sick.

I inched closer. The shell was the crushed carapace of a giant insect. Nearby, camouflaged among the tree roots, lay one of the beast’s dismembered legs.

“It’s a myrmeke,” I said. “Or it was.”

Behind her rain-splattered glasses, Meg’s eyes were impossible to read. “A murr-murr-key?”

“A giant ant. There must be a colony somewhere in the woods.”

Meg gagged. “I hate bugs.”

That made sense for a daughter of the agriculture goddess, but to me the dead ant didn’t seem any grosser than the piles of garbage in which we often swam.

“Well, don’t worry,” I said. “This one is dead. Whatever killed it must’ve had powerful jaws to crack that shell.”

“Not comforting. Are—are these things dangerous?”

I laughed. “Oh, yes. They range in size from as small as dogs to larger than grizzly bears. One time I watched a colony of myrmekes attack a Greek army in India. It was hilarious. They spit acid that can melt through bronze armor and—”

“Apollo.”

My smile faded. I reminded myself I was no longer a spectator. These ants could kill us. Easily. And Meg was scared.

“Right,” I said. “Well, the rain should keep the myrmekes in their tunnels. Just don’t make yourself an attractive target. They like bright, shiny things.”

“Like flashlights?”

“Um…”

Meg handed me the flashlight. “Lead on, Apollo.”

I thought that was unfair, but we forged ahead.

After another hour or so (surely the woods weren’t this big), the rain tapered off, leaving the ground steaming.

The air got warmer. The humidity approached bathhouse levels. Thick white vapor curled off the tree branches.

“What’s going on?” Meg wiped her face. “Feels like a tropical rain forest now.”

I had no answer. Then, up ahead, I heard a massive flushing sound—like water being forced through pipes…or fissures.

I couldn’t help but smile. “A geyser.”

“A geyser,” Meg repeated. “Like Old Faithful?”

“This is excellent news. Perhaps we can get directions. Our lost demigods might have even found sanctuary there!”

“With the geysers,” Meg said.

“No, my ridiculous girl,” I said. “With the geyser gods. Assuming they’re in a good mood, this could be great.”