by Rick Riordan
LAUREL: Check it—we’re in charge of the volleyball court.
HOLLY: We keep it ready to go.
LAUREL: Makes me sick.
HOLLY: The court?
LAUREL: No, that campers play for fun, as in—
HOLLY: Don’t say it!
LAUREL:—recreationally.
HOLLY: Gross! Pointless!
LAUREL: Totally goes against our heritage.
HOLLY: True that. Ancient Greeks loved organized competitive sports.
LAUREL: Hello, ever hear of the Olympics?
HOLLY: Or the Panathenaia?
LAUREL: Sand courts were everywhere back then. Ancient Greeks wrestled and boxed in them.
HOLLY: Called them palaestrae. Singular: palaestra.
LAUREL: After Palaestra, the goddess who invented wrestling.
HOLLY: Hear that, boys? The goddess of wrestling.
LAUREL: Girl power!
HOLLY: They wrestled naked.
LAUREL: So no place to hide weapons.
HOLLY: Palaestra ruled the ring.
LAUREL: Like we rule the court.
HOLLY: Victors 20, Opponents 0. Can I get an Oh, yeah!?
LAUREL: Oh, yeah! Know who I’d like to take on?
HOLLY: I know who I’d like to take on.
LAUREL and HOLLY: The Hunters.
HOLLY: Check it, newbies. When the Hunters are at camp, we play capture the flag.
LAUREL: Hunters 56, Half-Blood 0. Unacceptable result.
HOLLY: So I’m hiding the flags the next time they show.
LAUREL: Can’t play capture the flag without flags to capture!
HOLLY: Then we’ll throw down a volleyball challenge.
LAUREL: Victors versus Hunters. Two of them against the two of us.
HOLLY: Those Hunters? They’ll look like frightened prey.
LAUREL: Deer looking down the wrong end of an arrow.
HOLLY: Mixed-green salad looking down the wrong end of a fork.
LAUREL: What?
HOLLY: I’m going vegetarian.
LAUREL: Hey, me too.
HOLLY: Since when?
LAUREL: Since before you decided to.
HOLLY: I decided it first!
LAUREL: Did not.
HOLLY: Did too.
LAUREL: This conversation is over.
HOLLY: It’s over when I say it’s over!
LAUREL and HOLLY: It’s over!
So you’re taking a walk in the wild, minding your own business, when—WHAM!—a chunk of Celestial bronze falls from the sky and almost kills you. What do you do now? I’ll tell you what: you bring that bronze on down to the hottest place in camp—the forge! Cabin Nine campers will jump at the chance to hammer the mystical metal into a weapon, a shield, armor, or even—wink, wink—a helmet! While there, you might catch a glimpse of everyone’s favorite Cyclops, Tyson. And maybe you can get the Hephaestus kids to ask their dad to watch where he tosses his scraps next time.
Creative juices flow freely in this airy studio. It’s a favorite place of Athena’s children, who come to sculpt, paint, weave, and do ceramics, but anyone is welcome to embrace their artistic side here (also their artistic front and top, but please refrain from embracing bottoms). Skeins of naturally dyed yarn, easels with stretched canvases, blocks of marble and clay, and all the tools and paints you could ask for await!
This cavernous workshop lies underground, nestled deep in the woods at the foot of the western hills. Bunker Nine was sealed following the first demigod civil war and eventually lost to memory. For more than one hundred and fifty years, it sat like a time capsule waiting to be discovered. But now, thanks to the fiery touch of Leo Valdez, its secrets and mechanical supplies are within reach. Are you curious enough to venture in?
Bunker Nine is an amazing place. But if you’re ever there, steer clear of the shadowy corner way in back. Something bad sits there. If you do decide to look, take my advice: don’t touch it. Think I’m kidding? Read on.
Late one afternoon, Connor Stoll, Sherman Yang, Valentina Diaz, Paolo Montes, Butch Walker, and I were hanging out on the beach when talk turned to camp curses.
“Remember the rhyming-couplet curse Apollo cabin threw that time?” Butch asked. “‘I’m coming in your direction / So get ready for cabin inspection!’”
Valentina giggled. “My cabin did one years ago called the sweetie curse. Anyone with a secret crush was compelled to call the object of their affection ‘sweetie.’” She glanced at Paolo from under her lashes. “I wonder what would happen if I hurled that curse now?”
Paolo beamed uncomprehendingly.
Sherman nudged my shoulder. “What about you, Nyssa? Got any good curse stories?”
I shifted uncomfortably. “Just one.”
“Well? Let’s hear it.”
“I can’t. It’s more something I would have to show.”
I wanted to drop the subject, but they wouldn’t let it go. They just kept cajoling me until finally I said, “All right. Fine. Wait here.”
I ran back to my cabin and retrieved an old book from my storage locker. The book’s coal-black leather cover had orange lettering stamped into it, and a small keyhole padlock kept it closed. Reluctantly, I brought it back to the beach. Valentina squealed when she saw it.
“That’s a vintage diary, isn’t it?” she asked. “They sold them in the camp store back in the fifties!”
“This one is from the forties,” I corrected. “It belonged to Heloise, one of my siblings. I found it stashed behind a false panel under my bunk.”
Valentina rubbed her hands eagerly. “OMG, I love reading other people’s diaries! Uh, not that I would ever do that without permission, of course,” she added hurriedly.
“So what does Heloise’s diary have to do with curses?” Sherman asked.
“Everything,” I said grimly. “Listen.”
June 10, 1948
Diary:
Back at camp. This summer’s project: a race car that runs on Greek fire.
June 13, 1948
Diary:
Sketches complete. Materials gathered. Construction starts tomorrow.
June 16, 1948
Diary:
Outraged. Caught a son of Aphrodite poking around my stuff. Claims he’s a car fanatic and came to check out my wheels. Lies, most likely.
June 17, 1948
Diary:
The boy came back. He asked questions about my car. Smart questions. Might have misjudged him.
June 19, 1948
Dear Diary:
James has blond hair and sky-blue eyes. Girls are in love with him. The naiads, too. They dragged him into the lake today and almost drowned him. Ridiculous.
June 20, 1948
Dear Diary:
James brought me a jar of Greek fire at lunch today. All the other girls stared at me.
June 22, 1948
Dear Diary:
The car is finished. I put in butter-yellow leather seats and painted it sky blue.
June 26, 1948
Dear Diary:
First test-drive successful! James wanted to do it, but I wouldn’t let him. If anything bad happened, I’d want it to happen to me….
June 28, 1948
Dearest Diary:
James says he wants to be an actor someday, but if that doesn’t work out, maybe he’ll be a race-car driver—but only if I design his car. I think he was joking.
June 30, 1948
Dearest Diary:
The second test-drive was even better. I let James put in the Greek fire. A little must have leaked out because when our hands touched, my fingers burned.
July 2, 1948
Dearest Diary:
James drove the car around the chariot track today. The other girls watched him. He hugged me after and said the car’s engine purrs like a kitten.
July 2, 1948 (midnight)
Dearest Diary:
I’m purring too.
July 3, 1948
Dearest Diary:
&n
bsp; Tomorrow night there will be fireworks on the beach. I’ll help set them up. Then I’ll look for James.
July 4, 1948
Diary:
I found him. With an Ares girl.
July 5, 1948
Diary:
The car exploded in the middle of the night. I told Chiron it was the Greek fire. I told James I’m not building another one.
July 8, 1948
Diary:
James visits the armory a lot these days.
July 10, 1948:
Diary:
I have a new project: Harmonia’s necklace.
The diary ended there.
I took a deep breath and looked at my friends. They were staring at me with rapt attention.
“Harmonia was the daughter of Ares and Aphrodite,” I told them. “As you probably know, Aphrodite was my dad’s wife. When Hephaestus found out about Harmonia…well, he wasn’t too happy with Aphrodite. He fashioned a cursed item.”
Valentina put her hand to her mouth. “He cursed my mom?”
“Not her—Harmonia. He made a beautiful cursed necklace and gave it to her on her wedding day. The rest of her life was basically misery. Same for anyone who wore the necklace after her.”
Butch frowned. “So what does Harmonia’s story have to do with Heloise and James?”
Valentina rolled her eyes. “You’re so thick! Heloise, daughter of Hephaestus, was in love with James, son of Aphrodite. Then she caught him with a daughter of Ares. The love triangle repeated.”
I nodded. “And then Heloise started working on a project called Harmonia’s necklace.”
“A curse for the boyfriend who jilted her,” Sherman said.
“Yeah.” I showed them a black-and-white photograph of a cute teenage boy in an old-fashioned Camp Half-Blood T-shirt, sitting next to a girl who looked like a younger version of Rosie the Riveter. “James and Heloise in 1948. And this is James in 1955.”
I pulled out a close-up of a twentysomething man with chiseled features and a sultry expression. “Anyone recognize him?”
Valentina’s jaw dropped. “It’s James Dean!”
“The sausage tycoon?” Butch asked.
“Not Jimmy Dean, you idiot. James Dean. The actor.” Valentina smoothed her hand over the photo. “He was a total hottie.”
“Hottie!” Paolo confirmed in a heavy Brazilian accent. “Rebel. Eden. Dead young.”
“Right,” I said. “James Dean rocketed to superstardom in 1955 with two movies, East of Eden and Rebel Without a Cause.”
“What did Paolo mean by ‘dead young’?” Connor asked.
I showed them a third photo of James. He was sitting in a sleek silver race car with the number 130 painted on the hood and sides. “This was taken around September twenty-second, 1955. Nice car, huh? It’s a Porsche 550 Spyder.” I laid down one last photo. “And this was taken on September thirtieth.”
They all gasped. The Spyder was a mangled wreck of twisted metal, identifiable only by the number 130.
“James and a friend were driving to Salinas, California, for a race,” I told them. “They stopped at a roadside store. The accident happened about half an hour later. James was killed in the crash.” I chewed my lip. “I think Heloise cursed the car when it was at the rest stop. She installed something, enchanted the chassis. I don’t know, exactly, but that was her secret project, code-named Harmonia’s necklace.”
Sherman frowned. “Car accidents happen all the time, Nyssa.”
“Yeah, but listen to this: the guy who hit them claims he never saw the car coming. After the crash, parts salvaged from the Spyder were installed in other cars—and those cars were in horrible accidents. The wreck itself toppled from a truck bed and crushed a man’s leg. A pair of thieves suffered freak injuries while trying to steal the steering wheel and seat covers. A garage housing the Spyder’s remains caught fire—but the car itself was untouched. Need I go on?”
“Where’s the car now?” Sherman asked.
“It vanished in 1959. No mortal knows where it is.”
“Hang on,” Butch said. “No mortal?”
I gazed toward the western hills. “It’s in Bunker Nine. I think my dad hid it there. Or maybe Heloise did, to prevent the curse from hurting any more people.” I looked at them. “Or to keep it as a trophy of her success.”
So that’s the story. Maybe the curse on number 130 has faded. You want to touch that wreck in the shadows and find out, be my guest. Me, I’m steering clear.
SCENE: The set of a game show. Three campers sit behind a table with dinger bells in front of them. Apollo stands behind a podium. He’s dressed as a cheesy game show host—open shirt, bright gold lamé jacket, skinny black pants.
APOLLO: Welcome to our first annual Camp Half-Blood quiz show! Please give a warm welcome to our contestants. From Athena cabin…Bea Wise! [applause] From Ares cabin…Arnold Beefcake! [applause] And representing our cloven-hoofed friends…Ferdinand Underwood the satyr! [hoof stomps] Contestants, you know the rules. I ask a question. If you know the answer, ding your bell. Are you ready?
WISE [tapping temple]: I think, therefore I am.
BEEFCAKE [flexing]: Do your worst!
UNDERWOOD: Um, I ate my bell.
APOLLO: Excellent! Then let’s begin. First question: Name the serpent I slayed.
[Ding-ding!]
APOLLO: Wise?
WISE: That’s not a question.
APOLLO: Sorry, “That’s not a question” is incorrect.
WISE: No, wait, I meant—
[Ding-ding!]
BEEFCAKE: The serpent was Python!
APOLLO: Correct!
BEEFCAKE [showing two thumbs-up]: Ayyyyy!
APOLLO: Next question—
UNDERWOOD: So, should I just say ding-ding if I know the answer or—?