As we trudge through the woods, the sun starts to set. The camp's weather is magically controlled, so it's not freezing and snowing like the rest of Long Island, but I can still tell it's late December. In the shadows of the huge oak trees, the air is cold and damp. The mossy ground squishes under their feet. I'm tempted to summon fire, but the nymphs in the woods hate it, and I'm not in the mood to be yelled at by more dryads.
I feel guilty. I had gotten mad at Leo when he told me he lost the syncopator. We got in an argument about it, and I told him he was stupid for using Windex on Buford. He knows he hates it. I still think it's stupid, but it's also a stupid thing to get mad at him for. I'm mad at my boyfriend over Windex. Ridiculous. Especially today.
It's Christmas Eve. I can't believe it's actually here. We've been working so hard in Bunker Nine, and I've been so busy with my new job as head camper, that I hadn't noticed the weeks passing. My days are crammed with substitute teaching training classes, capturing flags, helping Chiron organize events, and spending every moment of free time with Leo in the Bunker. On top of it all, I haven't been sleeping. All the nightmares keep me up at night, and wake me up way too early.
It doesn't help that Leo keeps pranking me, either. He left carne asada tacos in my welding gloves, switched my water with eggnog, and keeps dressing up as some character he named Taco Claus and jumping out at me from various hiding places. It's funny, and frankly adorable, but I'm stressed enough without having to worry about when the next Taco-Claus attack will come.
I know he's trying to relieve stress himself. He cares so much about the Argo II. He's told me multiple times that he's never cared so much about a project before, and he keeps getting new ideas to make it even better. It has to be done by June, and while it seems a long time away, I know we're barely going to make the deadline as it is. Even with the entire Hephaestus cabin helping us, constructing a magic flying warship is a huge task. According to Leo, "it makes launching a NASA spaceship look easy."
None of it is going to happen if the combustion chamber explodes. It's game over. No ship, no Bunker Nine, no quest. And Leo would one-hunfred percent blame himself. And maybe Windex.
Jason kneels at the base of a stream. "Do those look like table tracks?"
"Or a raccoon." Leo suggests.
Jason frowns. "With no toes?"
"Piper," Leo asks. "What do you think?"
Piper sighs. "Just because I'm Native American doesn't mean I can track furniture through the wilderness." She deepens her voice. "Yes, kemosabe, a three-legged table passed this way an hour ago. 'Heck, I don't know."
"Okay, jeez." Leo says. "Theo? What do you think?"
I sigh and crouch down to look. Square indentations in the mud, two lines of indents, with a third making indents down the middle. "It's probably a three legged table." I decide. "Which means Buford went across this stream."
Suddenly, the water gurgles, and a girl in a shimmering blue dress rises to the surface. She has stringy green hair, blue lips, and pale skin, so she looks like a drowning victim. Her eyes are wide with alarm. "Could you be any louder?" She hisses. "They'll hear you!"
"Are you a naiad?" Leo asks, seemingly shocked.
"Shhh! They'll kill us all! They're right over there!" She points behind her into the trees on the other side of the stream. Unfortunately, that was the direction that Buford seemed to have walked.
"Okay," Piper says gently, kneeling next to the water. "We appreciate the warning. What's your name?"
The naiad looks terrified, but Piper's voice is powerful.
