by Rick Riordan
Am I worried we’ll be ready in time? Nah. As children of Athena, planning and organizing runs in our blood. Plus, other campers are already volunteering to help. If you want to lend a hand, the sign-up sheet is on Cabin Six’s door.
And Mom? I think she approves. The last time I was near the Athena Parthenos, I swear it winked.
SCENE: Apollo jogs backward along the beachfront, shooting arrows from his golden bow. He’s followed by campers dressed in combat gear, jogging in military formation.
APOLLO: I don’t know but I’ve been told!
CAMPERS: We don’t know but we’ve been told!
APOLLO: The sun god’s got a bow of gold!
CAMPERS: The sun god’s got a bow of gold!
APOLLO: He’s the best shot in the land!
CAMPERS: He’s the best shot in the land!
APOLLO: Augh! [Apollo trips and lands on his backside] I’ve fallen in the sand!
CAMPERS [jogging circles around him]: Augh! He’s fallen in the sand!
APOLLO: I meant to do that, so don’t laugh!
CAMPERS: He meant to do that, so don’t laugh!
APOLLO [tries to get up but falls back again]: Ow! I hurt my godly calf!
CAMPERS: Ow! He hurt his godly calf!
APOLLO [glowering and starting to glow]: If you want to live another day…
CAMPERS: If we want to live another day…
APOLLO [radiating brighter]: STOP REPEATING WHAT I SAY!
CAMPERS: STOP—um…
—Military cadence written, chanted, and abruptly ended by Apollo
Centrally located and stocked to the rafters with spears, swords, daggers, shields, bows and arrows, and clubs, the armory is a must-see for those in need of deadly weapons. Dig through, and you might even find one imbued with magical abilities. So don’t delay—your stabber, slicer, slasher, or basher awaits!
Where is fun spelled l-a-v-a? The climbing wall, of course! Originally created to fine-tune reflexes and test hand-eye coordination, the climbing wall has become every camper’s top spot for primal-screaming practice. If a fall from halfway up the side doesn’t send you to the Big House infirmary, the slamming walls or molten magma will. So come on up—just don’t look down!
More demigod blood has been shed in this circular fighting zone than anywhere else in camp. So what are you waiting for? Strap on your armor and get ready to sweat, because you ain’t never had a workout like this before! You’ll engage every muscle as you slash with your sword, jab with your spear, smash with your shield, and stab with your dagger. And that’s just the warm-up! Now that your blood is pumping (inside your body, outside your body, whatever), it’s time to test your metal against a straw dummy—or to test your mettle against a live opponent. But remember: the hits are real and so is the blood, so keep your guard up!
Striking from afar more your style? We’ve got you covered! Just a javelin’s throw from the combat arena is the archery range, with its array of boldly colored targets, their bull’s-eyes daring you to hit them with a well-aimed arrow. Just be on the lookout for errant projectiles so you don’t become a target yourself!
To be a great head counselor, you have to be more than just the oldest sibling in a cabin. You have to be a leader—smart, strong, decisive, brave—and also a fearless fighter. Clarisse La Rue, our previous head counselor, was all those things and more. Sherman Yang? Him, I wasn’t so sure about.
Sherman took over when Clarisse left Camp Half-Blood to go to college. He was a typical Ares kid, meaning a ferocious muscle-bound fighting machine with a yen for bloody conflict and a disdain for peace. But as impressive as those qualities were, I wondered if they were enough to lead our cabin. More importantly, were they enough to lead us to victory over the other cabins? If not…well, let’s just say I was secretly studying him to find his Achilles’ heel.
Not long after Sherman took over, Ares cabin scored poorly on the daily camp inspection. One of my sisters had left a plate of sticky, sweet barbecue under her bunk, and ants had swarmed it. Not the gigantic myrmekes—they prefer shiny things to smoked meats. It would have been okay if the myrmekes had invaded, actually. Things had been so calm lately, I wouldn’t have minded going a few rounds with them, sword versus mandible.
Anyway, our chore that day was combat arena and archery range prep. I loved practicing in the fighting zones, but tidying up afterward and getting everything ready for the next session? I’d rather tackle the Nemean Lion, and from the looks on my cabinmates’ faces, they felt the same way. We might have staged a sit-down if nonaggressive protest didn’t sicken us so much.
Instead, we trudged out to the arenas. To my surprise, a number of campers from other cabins were there too. So was Sherman, which kind of surprised me, because he normally wasn’t the first one on-site when we had to do chores.
“Ares cabin!” he barked. “Take a knee!”
I didn’t get what was going on. We were supposed to be doing prep. And why were all these other campers here? Nevertheless, we Ares kids knelt as one and waited to see what would happen.
“I’m running a friendly little relay race today,” Sherman announced to the whole crowd. “Who wants in?”
The Ares kids all started raising our hands, naturally. I still didn’t understand why Sherman was holding a race instead of making us do our assigned tasks, but I wasn’t going to argue.
He gestured at us impatiently. “No, no, not you, Ares cabin. You’re just here as observers. This race is in the arena and archery range, and you know those areas too well. It wouldn’t be fair to the other competitors.”
Fair? How could this guy be the head of our cabin? I almost stormed away in disgust. But then I noticed the crafty twinkle in Sherman’s eye. He was up to something. What, I didn’t know. But I wanted to find out.
“What do we win?” asked Cecil Markowitz. That kid, always thinking about the potential payout.
Sherman smiled slyly. “Whoever finishes first gets to fire the T-shirt gun tonight.”
His announcement caused a ripple of excitement. Guns weren’t a big favorite at Camp Half-Blood; most campers preferred the traditional weapons of ancient Greece. The Ares cabin T-shirt gun was one of the few exceptions. It shot tightly rolled Half-Blood tees fifty feet in the air. It was a real crowd-pleaser during camp sing-alongs and volleyball matches.
After some jostling and debate, five contestants stood up to volunteer: Will Solace, Miranda Gardiner, Billie Ng, Cecil Markowitz, and Damien White. My money was on Will or Damien to win whatever Sherman had cooked up. Will, because he was clever and quick. Damien, because he was devious.
“Competitors!” Sherman held up a hand, fingers splayed. “This race consists of five tasks, which are as follows: Each of you must sharpen the blades of two practice swords. Then you must replace four used archery targets with new ones. After that, you polish a shield. Then you must replace the points on three spears. Finally, reattach a straw dummy’s limbs and head. Then return here to me.” Sherman curled his fingers into a fist. “Any questions?”
I was biting the inside of my cheek to keep the smirk off my face. I had to give it to Sherman—he’d come up with a great plan to get the other campers to do our work. Nothing like the promise of firing a large gun to keep people from thinking straight.
Sherman lined up the racers and bellowed, “Go!” Off they raced. Twenty minutes later, Miranda crossed the finish line first. Gasping, she raised a triumphant fist in the air. Sherman grabbed her in a hug, then quickly let go, red-faced and grinning sheepishly. We Ares kids cheered lustily for the victor, for the chores we didn’t have to do, and most of all, for Sherman—our ace head counselor.
Whether you’re a serious player or just a camper looking for a little fun competish, there’s no better place than the volleyball court to feel the sun on your back, the wind in your hair, or a ball in your face. Come to play, come to watch, come to catch a T-shirt from the Ares cabin’s gun—just come!
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:
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.”