𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐩

Chapter 21

16

Furry Lads In Vegas

The war god was waiting for the group in the diner parking lot.

  "Well, well," he said. "You didn't get yourself killed."

  "You knew it was a trap," Cyrus said.

  Ares gave him a wicked grin. "Bet that crippled black-smith was surprised when he netted a couple of stupid kids. You looked good on TV."

  Cyrus shoved his shield at him. "You're a jerk."

  Annabeth and Grover caught their breath.

  Ares grabbed the shield and spun it in the air like pizza dough. It changed form, melting into a bulletproof vest. He slung it across his back.

  "See that truck over there?" He pointed to an eighteen-wheeler parked across the street from the diner. "That's your ride. Take you straight to L.A., with one stop in Vegas."

  The eighteen-wheeler had a sign on the back, which (y/m) could read only because it was reverse-printed white on black, a good combination for dyslexia: KINDNESS INTERNATIONAL: HUMANE ZOO TRANSPORT. WARNING: LIVE WILD ANIMALS.

  (y/n) said, "You're kidding. You have gotta be kidding"

  Ares snapped his fingers. The back door of the truck unlatched. "Free ride west, punk. Stop complaining. And here's a little something for doing the job."

  He slung a blue nylon backpack off his handlebars and tossed it to (y/n). Inside were fresh clothes for all of them, twenty bucks in cash, a pouch full of golden drachmas, and a bag of Double Stuff Oreos.

  (y/n) said, "I don't want your bloody—"

  "Thank you, Lord Ares," Grover interrupted, giving (y/n) his best red-alert warning look. "Thanks a lot."

  (y/n) gritted his teeth. It was definitely a deadly insult to refuse something from a god, but he didn't want anything that Ares had touched. Reluctantly, he slung the backpack over his shoulder. He knew his anger was being caused by the war god's presence, but he was still itching to punch him in the nose. He reminded him of every person who made him uncomfortable—people snickering at him from afar, pointing at Benny, staring intently at him.

  He looked back at the diner, which had only a couple of customers now. The waitress who'd served the group dinner was watching nervously out the window, like she was afraid Ares might hurt them. She dragged the fry cook out from the kitchen to see. She said something to him. He nodded, held up a little disposable camera and snapped a picture of them.

  Great, (y/n) thought. We'll make the papers again tomorrow.

  He imagined the headline: EIGHT-YEAR-OLD OUTLAW BEATS UP DEFENSELESS BIKER.

  "You owe us one more thing," Percy told Ares, trying to keep my voice level. "You promised information about my mother."

  "You sure you can handle the news?" He kick-started his motorcycle. "She's not dead."

  Percy seemed dizzy. "What do you mean?"

  "I mean she was taken away from the Minotaur before she could die. She was turned into a shower of gold, right? That's metamorphosis. Not death. She's being kept."

  "Kept. Why?"

  "You need to study war, punk. Hostages. You take somebody to control somebody else."

  "Nobody's controlling me."

  He laughed. "Oh yeah? See you around, kid."

  Cyrus balled up his fists. "You're pretty smug, Lord Ares, for a guy who runs from Cupid statues."