Catch Fire || P. Jackson

𝟏.𝟎𝟐

"𝐈 𝐇𝐎𝐏𝐄 𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐒𝐍'𝐓 afraid of ghosts," Lea commented as she walked alongside Reyna. The Praetor shook her head at the girl but found herself smiling.

"You're too nice for your own good, Cilly."

Lea laughed. "Part of me doesn't think that's a compliment." Her fingers danced absentmindedly over the tattoo burned into her forearm.

Percy wasn't afraid of ghosts, which was lucky. Half the people in the camp were dead. Shimmering purple warriors stood outside the armoury, polishing ethereal swords. Others hung out in front of the barracks. A ghostly boy chased a ghostly dog down the street. And at the stables, a big glowing red dude with the head of a wolf guarded a herd of pegasuses.

None of the campers paid the ghosts much attention, but as Percy's entourage walked by, with Reyna and Lea in the lead and Frank and Hazel on either side, all the spirits stopped what they were doing and stared at Percy. A few looked angry. The little boy ghost shrieked something like "Greggus!" and turned invisible.

Percy stayed between Hazel and Frank and tried to look inconspicuous.

"Am I seeing things?" he asked. "Or are those—"

"Ghosts?" Hazel turned. She had startling eyes, like fourteen-karat gold. "They're Lares. House gods."

"House gods," Percy said. "Like... smaller than real gods, but larger than apartment gods?"

"Don't forget Hotel gods." Lea's voice was so quiet, that Reyna beside her didn't appear to have heard her. A small smile tugged at the lips of the dark-haired boy.

"They're ancestral spirits," Frank explained. He'd removed his helmet, revealing a babyish face that didn't go with his military haircut or his big burly frame. He looked like a toddler who'd taken steroids and joined the Marines.

"The Lares are kind of like mascots," he continued. "Mostly they're harmless, but I've never seen them so agitated."

"They're staring at me," Percy said. "That ghost kid called me Greggus. My name isn't Greg."

"Graecus," Hazel said. "Once you've been here awhile, you'll start understanding Latin. Demigods have a natural sense for it. Graecus means Greek."

"Is that bad?" Percy asked.

Frank cleared his throat. "Maybe not. You've got that type of complexion, the dark hair and all. Maybe they think you're actually Greek. Is your family from there?"

"Don't know. Like I said, my memory is gone."

"Or maybe..." Frank hesitated.

"What?" Percy asked.

"Probably nothing," Frank said. "Romans and Greeks have an old rivalry. Sometimes Romans use graecus as an insult for someone who's an outsider—an enemy. I wouldn't worry about it." He sounded pretty worried.

They stopped at the centre of camp, where two wide stone-paved roads met at a T.

A street sign labelled the road to the main gates as via praetoria. The other road, cutting across the middle of camp, was labelled via principalis. Under those markers were hand-painted signs like BERKELEY 5 MILES; NEW ROME 1 MILE; OLD ROME 7280 MILES; HADES 2310 MILES (pointing straight down); RENO 208 MILES, AND CERTAIN DEATH: YOU ARE HERE!

"I love certain death." Lea had a dopey smile on her face as she stared around.

For certain death, the place looked pretty clean and orderly. The buildings were freshly whitewashed, laid out in neat grids like the camp had been designed by a fussy math teacher. The barracks had shady porches, where campers lounged in hammocks or played cards and drank sodas. Each dorm had a different collection of banners out front displaying Roman numerals and various animals—eagle, bear, wolf, horse, and something that looked like a hamster. It was a ferret. Lea and Jason had long ago decided that it was a ferret.