The Cult of Dionysus

Apollo

I'm not in the mood to celebrate.

Especially sitting at a picnic table eating mortal food. With mortals.

The dining pavilion is pleasant enough. Even in winter, the camp's magical borders shield us from the worst of the elements. Sitting outdoors in the warmth of the torches and braziers, I feel only slightly chilly. Long Island Sound glitters in the light of the moon. (Hello, Artemis. Don't bother to say hi.) On Half-Blood Hill, the Athena Parthenos glows like the world's largest nightlight. Even the woods do not seem so creepy with the pine trees blanketed in soft silvery fog.

My dinner, however, is less than poetic. It consists of hot dogs, potato chips, and a red liquid I'm told is bug juice. I do not know why humans consume bug juice, or from which type of bug it has been extracted, but it's the tastiest part of the meal, which is disconcerting.

I sit at the Apollo table with my children Austin, Kayla, and Will, plus Nico di Angelo. I can see no difference between my table and any of the other gods' tables. Mine should be shinier and more elegant. It should play music or recite poetry upon command. Instead it's just a slab of stone with benches on either side. I find the seating uncomfortable, though my offspring don't seem to mind.

Austin and Kayla pepper me with questions about Olympus, the war with Gaea, and what it feels like to be a god and then a human. I know they do not mean to be rude. As my children, they are inherently inclined to the utmost grace. However, their questions are painful reminders of my fallen status.

Besides, as the hours pass, I remember less and less about my divine life. It's alarming how fast my cosmically perfect neurons have deteriorated. Once, each memory was like a high-definition audio file. Now those recordings are on wax cylinders. And believe me, I remember wax cylinders. They did not last long in the sun chariot.

Will and Nico sit shoulder to shoulder, bantering good-naturedly. They are so cute together it makes me feel desolate. It jogs my memories of those few short golden months I shared with Hyacinthus before the jealousy, before the horrible accident...

"Nico," I say at last, "shouldn't you be sitting at the Hades table?"

He shrugs. "Technically, yes. But if I sit alone at my table, strange things happen. Cracks open in the floor. Zombies crawl out and start roaming around. It's a mood disorder. I can't control it. That's what I told Chiron."

"And is it true?" I ask.

Nico smiles thinly. "I have a note from my doctor."

Will raises his hand. "I'm his doctor."

"Chiron decided it wasn't worth arguing about," Nico says. "As long as I sit at a table with other people, like...oh, these guys for instance...the zombies stay away. Everybody's happier."

Will nods serenely. "It's the strangest thing. Not that Nico would ever misuse his powers to get what he wants."

"Of course not," Nico agrees.

I glance across the dining pavilion. As per camp tradition, Meg has been placed with the children of Hermes, since her godly parentage has not yet been determined. Meg doesn't seem to mind. She's busy re-creating the Coney Island Hot Dog Eating Contest all by herself. The other two girls, Julia and Alice, watch her with a mixture of fascination and horror.

Across the table from her sits an older skinny boy with curly brown hair—Connor Stoll, I deduce, though I've never been able to tell him apart from his older brother, Travis. Despite the darkness, Connor wears sunglasses, no doubt to protect his eyes from a repeat poking. I also note that he wisely keeps his hands away from Meg's mouth.