‌To all campers, past and present‌

‌Praise me, demigods!‌

I made you this helpful film.

Trust me. It’s awesome.

—Haiku by Apollo introducing his orientation film

Welcome to Camp Half-Blood

‌Hey, everybody. Percy Jackson here. You might know me as the guy who helped save the world from total destruction—twice, but who’s counting? I like to think of myself as just another Greek demigod lucky enough to have found Camp Half-Blood.‌

If you can read this, then surprise! You’re probably a demigod too.

That’s because only demigods—and a few special mortals, like my mom and Rachel Elizabeth Dare—can read what’s actually written here. To everyone else, this book is called The Complete History of Pavement and it’s about…well, that should be obvious. You can thank the Mist for that choice of topic.

So, demigod, chances are you’re making your way to camp with your satyr guide. Or maybe you’ve already arrived and are reading this with the hope that it’ll calm your nerves. I’d say there’s a fifty-fifty chance of that happening.

But I’m getting off topic. (I do that. I have ADHD. Bet you know what that’s like.) What I’m supposed to do is explain the story behind this book.

A few months ago, Chiron—he’s the immortal centaur who’s also our camp activities director—was called away to rescue two unclaimed demigods and their satyr guide. (The satyr had gotten himself into a sticky situation. It took him days to get his fur clean.) Anyway, Argus, our resident security guard and part-time chauffeur, drove Chiron on this mission because, well, can you imagine a centaur driving an SUV? (You can? Hmm. Maybe you’re a child of Hypnos and saw it in a dream.) Our camp director, Mr. D (aka Dionysus, the god of wine), was MIA, so that left us demigods on our own.

“Don’t destroy Half-Blood while we’re gone,” was Chiron’s parting instruction. Argus pointed two fingers at his eyes and then at us. This took

a few minutes since he has one hundred eyes, but we got the message—be good, or else.

We went about our usual routines—combat practice, volleyball practice, archery practice, strawberry-picking practice (don’t ask), lava- wall-climbing practice….You’ll find we practice a lot here. We would have spent the evening in the usual way, too, with a campfire sing-along, if not for an offhand comment Nico di Angelo dropped at dinner. We were talking about what changes each of us would make if we ran the camp, and Nico said:

“First thing I’d do is make sure the poor newbie demigods don’t have to suffer through the orientation film.”

All conversation stopped. “What orientation film?” Will Solace asked.

Nico looked puzzled. “You know….” He glanced side to side, clearly uncomfortable with everybody watching him. Finally he cleared his throat and sang in a warbly voice to the tune of “The Hokey Pokey”: “It lets the demigods in! It shuts the monsters out! It keeps the half-bloods safe, but turns mortals all about! It’s Misty, and it’s magic, and it makes me want to shout: the border is all about!” He punctuated the last line of the song with some halfhearted claps.

We stared at him in stunned silence.

“Nico.” Will patted his boyfriend’s arm. “You’re scaring the other campers.”

“More than usual,” Julia Feingold muttered under her breath.

“Oh, come on,” Nico protested. “You’ve all heard that annoying song, right? It’s from Welcome to Camp Half-Blood.”

Nobody responded.

“The orientation film,” Nico added. We shared a group shrug.

Nico groaned. “You mean I just sang in public and…I’m the only one who’s ever seen that stupid film?”

“So far, anyway,” said Connor Stoll. He leaned forward, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Where, exactly, did you see this cinematic masterpiece?”

“Chiron’s office in the Big House,” Nico replied. Connor pushed back from the table and stood up. “Where are you going?” Will asked.

“Chiron’s office in the Big House.”

Annabeth Chase—my awesome girlfriend, a daughter of Athena— frowned suspiciously. “Connor…Chiron’s office is locked.”

“Is it?” Connor laced his fingers together and cracked his knuckles. “We’ll see about that.” He turned to Harley, the oddly muscular eight- year-old son of Hephaestus. “Want to come with? I might need help with the projector.”

“A projectile! Yes!” Harley pumped his fist.

“A projector,” Connor corrected. “And you can’t make it do anything but show the movie. No exploding upgrades. No turning it into a killer robot.”

“Aww…” Harley scowled in disappointment, but he followed Connor to the Big House.

I glanced at Nico. “Now look what you’ve started.”

He snorted. “This is my fault? What do you want me to do—stop them?”

“Stop them?” I grinned. “Nah, man. I think we should get some popcorn ready.”

An hour later, we gathered in the amphitheater to watch Welcome to Camp Half-Blood. Connor and Harley had successfully set up the screen and projector without any killer-robot-exploding mishaps, which I appreciated. I figured the movie would be a typical orientation flick—a monotone voiceover; a tour of the campgrounds; happy demigods going about their business, trying to pretend the cameras didn’t exist. Then the opening credits rolled.

“Uh-oh,” Will muttered. “This is going to be…interesting.”

It turned out the creative genius behind the movie was Will’s dad— the god Apollo, which meant this was not going to be a typical orientation flick. No, as we soon found out, Apollo had written, directed, produced, hosted, and starred in…a variety show.

For those of you who don’t know what a variety show is, imagine a talent show on steroids, complete with canned laughter, prerecorded applause, and an extra-large helping of hokeyness. For the next hour, we cringe-watched as Apollo and our demigod predecessors performed in song-and-dance numbers, recited poetry, acted in comedy sketches, and harmonized in a musical group called the Lyre Choir. Naturally, Apollo featured prominently in most of the acts. The one of him Hula-Hooping shirtless while satyrs capered around with long rainbow ribbons on sticks…you can’t unsee that kind of thing. I’m seriously considering asking Hera to purge it from my memory.

(Okay, not really. I am not going through that again.)

Still, I get what Apollo was going for. Each number highlighted something important about Camp Half-Blood—the cabins, the training arenas, the Big House, et cetera, et cetera. The trouble is, Apollo didn’t seem to know much about the camp. According to Valentina Diaz’s assessment of the hairstyles and fashions, the movie dated from the 1950s, so maybe the film accurately depicted what Camp Half-Blood was like back then. If so, yikes. Take it from me: a lot has changed in sixty years.

That’s where Camp Half-Blood Confidential comes in. After seeing Apollo’s film, we decided we really had to take action. We needed to offer our incoming demigods something better for orientation. And so— BOOM. You hold in your hands the definitive guide to life here at our beloved Greek demigod training facility. It’s written for demigods by demigods, which means you get the inside, behind-the-scenes scoop on just about everything. You’ll get the lay of the land, too, thanks to descriptions of sites written by Pete, a geyser god with a flair for selling it like it is. Oh, the stories we’ll tell and the secrets you’ll learn…though I promise you, I will not sing and dance with a Hula-Hoop.

One last thing: we wouldn’t dream of completely depriving you of the Welcome to Camp Half-Blood movie experience. So we’ve included some choice excerpts from the film throughout the book—annotated by yours truly. Enjoy the show! (Cue maniacal laughter.)

Scene: Darkness. Suddenly, a single spotlight illuminates Apollo standing on the front porch of the Big House. The house is a bold red color, a stark contrast to the short white chiton Apollo wears. He clears his throat and speaks.

Apollo: A poem by Apollo, recited dramatically by…Apollo:

O, Immortal Chiron, Centaur wise and true, Trainer of our heroes,

Just remember who taught you.

—The opening scene of Welcome to Camp Half-Blood

Érou

0Üt

prxy‹•g né

‌I was just a young centaur, living alone in a cave on Mount Pelion, when I first met Lord Apollo. He literally dropped in out of the sky, which nearly gave me a heart attack. It wasn’t every day an A-list divinity with perfect teeth and glowing golden robes appeared on my hillside.‌

“You’re Kronos’s son, right?” Apollo pulled up a boulder and sat down. “My dad is Zeus! He’s Kronos’s son too. So I guess that makes you my uncle. How weird is that?”

“Ah…yes, Lord Apollo.” I tried to control the twitching in my withers. “Very weird indeed.” I noticed the sky was darkening even though it was only noon. “Not to be critical, O Great One, but shouldn’t you be driving the sun chariot right now?”

He shrugged. “Actually, I put it in park for a few minutes because Artemis is up there doing her lunar-eclipse thing.” He scratched his fashionably stubbled chin. “Or is it solar? I can never keep them straight.” Suddenly he jumped from his boulder as if he’d had a marvelous idea. “But that’s not important! I remember what I came down here to ask you. I’ve never ridden a centaur before. Mind taking me for a spin around the block?”

“Um…”

He put his fingers to his temples and intoned, “I predict you’re going to say yes.”

FYI, centaurs hate being taken for a ride, either literally or metaphorically. Nevertheless, I managed a forced smile. “I would be… delighted. Yes.”

“Oh, yeah!” Apollo crowed triumphantly. “Who has two thumbs and the gift of prophecy?” He jerked his thumbs at himself. “This god!”

As it turned out, giving Apollo a centaur-back ride was the smartest thing I ever did. Unlike others of my kind, I didn’t belong to a specific tribe. I was a loner…and, sometimes, lonely. We bonded during that ride. I found that Apollo could be quite charming one-on-one, when he wasn’t trying to impress his adoring throngs of fans. When we got back to the cave, he said something that changed my life.

“Uncle Chiron, I’ve decided to teach you some stuff.”

Perhaps he found the idea amusing: a nephew teaching his uncle. Or maybe, being the god of prophecy, he suspected I had an important role to play in the future of Olympus. Whatever the reason, he chose to share his knowledge with me.

At first, he showed me simple things, like how to nock an arrow

—“Aim the pointy end away from your body”—and how to bandage a gushing battle wound. He taught me to make a lyre, play a number of hits like “Stairway to Olympus” and “Burnt-Offering Smoke on the Water,” and even compose my own lyrics. Once, in an effort to refine my poetry skills, he sent me on a quest to find a rhyme for arugula so that he could finish an ode to a mixed-green salad. The best I could do was pergola.

Apollo called my effort an “ode fail”—the ancient precursor to today’s “epic fail”—but he continued to work with me.

The lessons went on for a year. Then one day, Apollo showed up at the doorway of my cave with a half-dozen young demigods. “You know all that stuff I taught you?” he asked me. “It’s time to pay it forward! I’d like you to meet Achilles, Aeneas, Jason, Atalanta, Asclepius, and Percy

—”

“It’s Perseus, sir,” said one of the young men.

“Whatever!” Apollo grinned with delight. “Chiron, teach them everything I showed you. Y’all have fun!” Then he vanished.

I turned to the youngsters. They frowned at me. The one named Achilles drew his sword.

“Apollo expects us to learn from a centaur?” he demanded. “Centaurs are wild barbarians, worse than the Trojans!”

“Hey, shut up,” said Aeneas.

“Gentlemen and lady,” I interceded. “I assure you I am a different sort of centaur. Allow me to teach you, and I promise I will not make you participate in any crude centaur behavior like butting heads to the death or wearing drink helmets.”

Atalanta looked a little disappointed. “Butting heads to the death sounds fun…but I guess I can give your teachings a try.”

We got down to business.

First, I assessed their combat skills. Aeneas performed surprisingly well for a son of Aphrodite; I expected him to be a lover, not a fighter, and yet he actually knew how to use his sword as a sword rather than as a fashion accessory. The other demigods had some work to do. Atalanta seemed to think all training matches had to be fought to the death. She also referred to her classmates as dirty, stupid men, which made team-

building difficult. Achilles spent his entire time in combat defending his right heel, an unusual maneuver that baffled me until I found out about his childhood dip in the River Styx. I tried to tell the boy to wear ironshod boots rather than sandals, but he simply wouldn’t listen. As for Asclepius, in one-on-one melees he had an off-putting habit of darting in and feeling his opponent’s forehead for signs of fever.

Next I tested my pupils for ingenuity. I handed out random materials and instructed them to improvise potentially lifesaving objects. “This ancient skill is known as MacGyvering,” I told them. Sadly, none of my inaugural group of students was a child of Hephaestus, so no one did very well with this assignment. When I hinted to Perseus that he could hammer and polish his Celestial bronze to make a mirrored shield, he rolled his eyes and scoffed, “What would I ever use that for?”

Likewise, most failed miserably with musical composition. Only Jason came up with something memorable: a mesmerizing stomp-stomp CLAP rhythm that so stirred the blood we adopted it as our prebattle beat. (You can still hear that stomp-stomp CLAP rhythm pounded out at athletic competitions today, along with the chant “We will, we will…ROCK YOU!”)

It was clear that the demigods had a lot to learn. But I didn’t mind. As we sang together by the campfire that first night, I felt as if I finally had a tribe of my own.

I taught the six demigods everything I knew. Then I sent them out into the world, where they fulfilled their destinies as heroes. Triple-threat Atalanta earned fame as a fleet-footed sprinter, a sure-shot huntress, and the only female Argonaut. Jason and his crew sailed into legend by securing the Golden Fleece and impressing the populace with myriad seafaring adventures. Achilles and Aeneas became mighty warriors— though, sadly, they fought on opposite sides in the Trojan War. (Spoiler alert: Achilles and Greece won, but Achilles was killed when he forgot to defend his heel.) Perseus discovered that a mirrored shield was useful after all when he faced a certain snake-headed gorgon, and as for Asclepius, he became the greatest medical mind in ancient history. Their heroic deeds live on in the memories of mortals to this day.

So I must have done something right.

More demigods regularly arrived at Mount Pelion, and I trained them all. Word of my success spread. When my cave was no longer large enough, I

built a one-of-a-kind full-immersion training facility in the foothills of Mount Olympus. I named it Camp Half-Blood because it was dedicated to training the half-divine children of mortals and deities. I also opened the doors to many other species, such as satyrs, pegasi, and harpies.

The satyrs arrived en masse with this note from Apollo:

I predict that in the future, demigods won’t be able to find Camp Half-Blood on their own. The world will simply be too large, too populous, and too dangerous. When that time comes, send satyrs to track down your prospective students. Satyrs can find anything. They recently located a herd of cattle Hermes stole from me that even I couldn’t find. Trust me: you need seekers, and they’re the goats for the job.

The first Camp Half-Blood was modest—just an open-air arena for combat practice, a courtyard for meetings and dining, and a large stone building with sleeping quarters. The building made an impression on at least one camper, who exclaimed, “Now that’s a big house!” when she saw it. The name stuck, and forever after our headquarters has been called the Big House.

The demigods lived together in the Big House at first, but with more campers coming each year, space became tight. Fights broke out.

Demigods, it seemed, inherited rivalries as well as gifts from their godly parents. To keep the peace, I divided them into family groups and told them to design and build cabins that honored their godly parents.

Thankfully, the bickering died down to a quiet roar after that.

As Apollo had once turned over teaching duties to me, I turned over some of the training to experienced campers. I meant for them to pass along their knowledge of fighting and survival skills. And they did, but they also passed along family feuds, closely guarded secrets, and hazing traditions. When the Hephaestus cabin almost burned down the dryads’ forest during a late-night game of truth or dare (“Dare: blow up this amphora”), I asked Argus the Hundred-Eyed to join our staff as security guard.

At the time, Argus was recovering from a near-death experience. On Hera’s orders, Hermes had brained him with a rock while Argus was guarding a white heifer—who was actually Io, Zeus’s latest, er, lady friend. Hera saved Argus by turning him into a peacock. He eventually morphed back into his original form and jumped at the chance to come to Camp Half-Blood. Good thing he did, too, for without him, we might not

have detected the first major threat to our existence: a monstrous horde that almost wiped Camp Half-Blood off the map.

“Whole bunch coming,” Argus reported late one night. “Nasty ones.” (Even back then, he didn’t waste words. Having an eye in the middle of your tongue makes talking uncomfortable, not to mention eating hot soup.)

We’d had random monster attacks before. We’d always fended them off. But this attack was different. It was an organized effort—I never discovered who organized it, though I have my suspicions—and it was huge.

Hundreds of monsters—nasty ones indeed—swarmed the camp from every corner. I sounded the conch horn to raise the alarm, grabbed my bow and quiver, and galloped into the courtyard. “This is not a drill, people!” I cried. Demigods surged out of their cabins to face the greatest challenge of their young lives. Win, and Camp Half-Blood would endure. Lose, and the camp, along with countless lives, would be lost forever.

Fighting raged through the night. The demigods battled bravely and with skill, destroying monsters with swords, spears, arrows, and other weapons. But we were far outnumbered. I feared Camp Half-Blood was doomed.

Then, just as rosy-fingered dawn peeked over the horizon, a new battle cry sounded in the distance. Former campers who had learned of our desperate plight now came charging to our aid. As one, we attacked our enemies with renewed vigor. We cut down one monster after another until their dusty remains blanketed the ground. Those we didn’t send to Tartarus fled back into the wilds.

I had never been prouder of my campers, old and new. Nor had I ever been more ashamed of myself.

You see, I knew that so many demigods living in one place was like an all-you-can-kill buffet for monsters. Yet I had convinced myself that our campers needed no other protection than the skills we taught them. My pride had nearly been our destruction, but I learned my lesson. I immediately sent an Iris-message to Olympus asking for help. The gods heard our plea. The next day, a magical border settled over and around the grounds—a barrier that would both conceal the camp from unfriendly eyes and repel future attacks.

The camp has changed locations over the millennia, always grounding itself near the seat of Olympus as the gods move from one dominant nation to another. Thousands of demigods have called Camp Half-Blood home since that long-ago battle. You might know some of their names: Arthur. Merlin. Guinevere. Charlemagne. Joan of Arc. Napoleon. George Washington. Harriet Tubman. Madame Curie. Frank Lloyd Wright.

Amelia Earhart. And many more demigods, still living, who have asked that I not reveal their identities. New names are added to the list each summer, and more still will join the ranks in the centuries ahead.

That is my hope, at least. For the demigods of the past, present, and future are more than just campers to me. They make my immortal life worth living. They are my tribe.

CR£ATUR£ COßtFORTS

‌Scene: A background choir of demigod a cappella singers stands on stage. They’re dressed in classic 1950s doo-wop attire—black suits, white shirts, skinny ties. Apollo, similarly attired except that his tie is gold, takes center stage. He faces the singers and strums a chord on his lyre. He points to the boys.‌

Boys [singing]: Doooooooooo!

[Apollo points to the girls]

Girls [harmonizing]: Waaaaaaaaaaa! [Apollo points to himself]

Apollo [spit-singing]: Ppppppppp!

[Apollo waves his arm]

All: Dooo-waaapppp!

Apollo: Ladies and gentlemen…the Lyre Choir! [Applause]

BOYS and GIRLS [singing soft background harmony with a slow beat]:

Doo-da-doo, waa, waa. Doo-da-doo, waa, waa. [continues] Apollo [crooning to the beat]: Marble may be marble-lous, And wood might be good.

Stone’s a sturdy choice

For this half-blood neighborhood. But for my children’s cabin,

I demand something more divine. So give me precious metal, [background harmony swells] And make it GOLD every time!

All: Gold, gold, gold, gold—there’s nothing quite so bright! Gold, gold, gold, gold—it reflects Apollo’s might!

[Apollo cuts off background singers]

Apollo [crooning solo]: Silver suits my sister But unattended, it can tarnish.

Roofs of thatch are fine, I guess, But why not add some varnish?

[background harmony resumes softly]

Vines of wine are creepy, And abalone smells of fish.

[background harmony grows louder]

Red’s too strong a color, And gray is boring-ish.

[background harmony grows louder still]

That’s why my children’s cabin

Is made of something more divine. I’m worth that precious metal— [background harmony swells]

So make it GOLD every time!

[Cheers and applause]

All: Gold, gold, gold, gold…

‌Talk about curb appeal! Tastefully decorated inside and out, these charming units are big on comfort and totally unique in style—one might even say each has its own personality! Of course, location is key, and you couldn’t ask for a better spot than this. The twenty cabins are within easy‌

walking distance of all camp amenities as well as training and recreational facilities. Don’t see a unit dedicated to your particular godly parent? No worries! Once you’re claimed, one can be built to suit. In the meantime, pull up a bunk in Cabin Eleven and stay awhile!

For generations, Camp Half-Blood had only twelve cabins—one for each major Olympian deity. The odd-numbered cabins were dedicated to the Olympic gods, the even ones to the Olympic goddesses—except for Cabin Twelve, which Dionysus took over when Hestia gave him her seat

on the Council of Olympus, but that’s another story. Anyway, after the Titan War, my kindhearted boyfriend, Percy, made the Olympians promise that all demigods, not just the kids of the major twelve, would have cabins of their own.

Which is just like Percy: doing something impulsive and compassionate, and making my life difficult in the process. See, I’m the camp’s resident architect, which meant that the task of designing all those new cabins fell to me.

Don’t get me wrong. I supported Percy’s plan one hundred percent. But after building units thirteen through sixteen—Hades, Iris, Hypnos, and Nemesis—the cabin area started to look cramped. I met with Chiron to discuss the problem.

“Space,” I told him, “could be an issue.” “Any ideas?” Chiron asked.

I brainstormed aloud: “We build upward, combine new cabins into one tall complex. Demigods associated with the earth on lower levels, with the sky on top.”

Chiron shook his head. “Intriguing idea, but experience has shown me that demigods from different families don’t cohabitate well.”

“Okay, scratch that.” I pointed at the nearby forest. “What about tree houses? Enclosed platforms, elevated walkways, ladders, rope swings—”

Chiron cut me off. “The dryads wouldn’t go for it. And imagine what would happen if a demigod took to sleepwalking.”

“Caves?”

“Only one available, and Apollo has claimed it for his Oracle.” “Houseboats?”

“Sleepwalking again, plus the naiads would nix it. Also, we need the lake for trireme practice.”

I cast around for inspiration. My eyes fixed on Hestia, who was tending her hearth in the center of the commons. You’d think a major Olympian goddess would attract a lot of notice sitting in the middle of camp, but Hestia came and went without any fanfare, usually in the shape

of a young girl in plain brown robes. I hadn’t noticed her, because she was so small and low profile.

Small and low profile.

An idea hit me like a Zeus-thrown thunderbolt. “I’ll get back to you tomorrow,” I told Chiron.

The old centaur chuckled. “I know that look. You have an idea.” “Yeah,” I admitted. In fact, my brain was buzzing. “But I want to

work out some details before I share it with you. See you at breakfast.”

That night I worked into the wee hours, pausing only to…well, to wee. In the morning I had my blueprints ready, but I still needed more time.

At breakfast, I broke the news to Chiron. “I want to set up a construction site in the southern woods.”

He furrowed his bushy eyebrows. “You’re not thinking of building the cabins there, are you? As I said, the dryads won’t—”

“I just need a secluded work area,” I said. “I won’t build anything big or permanent in that space. Trust me on this, okay?”

Chiron stroked his beard. “Well, you’ve never let me down before.

And I do owe you for designing those centaur-size bathrooms for the Big House. Very well, Annabeth. You have my permission.”

The next days were a feverish blur of measuring, sawing, and hammering. By week’s end, I’d completed a full-scale model of my design, premounted on a wheeled platform for easy moving. I bribed my pegasus friends Blackjack and Porkpie with some donuts, and they agreed to haul my creation out of the woods and into the commons.

A few campers wandered over to see what I’d built. “It’s supercute!” gushed Lacy from the Aphrodite cabin. “But what is it?”

“A portable storage shed,” Clarisse La Rue guessed, eyeing the wheels. “Or a covered chariot. No, wait. It’s a rapid-deployment outhouse.”

“None of the above,” I replied, slightly offended. “I call it a tiny house. Check it out!”

I threw open the door and invited them in, a few at a time. The main sitting room was compact but perfectly livable. Two built-in cushioned benches along the walls doubled as beds. I lifted the cushions. “And see? There’s storage underneath the beds for your clothes, armor, weapons. It’s even long enough for that electric spear of yours, Clarisse.”

“Uh-huh.”

Clarisse sounded unimpressed, but that didn’t dampen my enthusiasm. I pointed to the narrow staircase against the back wall. “Upstairs is a loft with two more twin beds. Or it could be used as a game room, meeting area, whatever. I made the ceiling extra high so headroom isn’t an issue.

Under the stairs is more built-in storage. But the best part is over here.”

I squeezed past them and rolled open a narrow pocket door in the corner. “Ta-da!”

“So it is an outhouse,” Clarisse said.

“It’s a private bathroom,” I corrected. “Whoever lives here never has to use the common facilities again.” I smirked at her, remembering the drenching Percy had once given her by blowing up the camp toilets. “You of all people should appreciate that.”

Clarisse reddened. “I’m coming down with claustrophobia.” She shoved past me and out the door.

I turned to Lacy. “You see the potential here, right? Microhouses are the future. This is cutting-edge architecture!”

She looked at the whitewashed walls, taupe cushions, and unadorned windows. “Well, it’s kind of…boring inside.”

“It’s only the model,” I said defensively. “Whoever lives here can decorate it however—”

A tap on the door interrupted me. Chiron poked his head in and frowned. “I would come in for a tour, but, ah, I fear there is no room.”

“Good luck,” Lacy whispered to me. Then she slipped past Chiron and hurried away.

I got out of the way so Chiron could come in and clop around the tiny house. It was large enough to accommodate him, but just barely. The entire walk-through took him about three steps.

When he emerged again, he looked deep in thought. “It’s only the model,” I told him.

“Hmm?” He focused on me as if trying to process my words. Then he exhaled with relief. “Oh, a model. I see. In that case…yes, this might work.” He scanned the cabin area as if calculating the acreage. “We’ll need about four, don’t you think? Please proceed with construction.”

Designing and building one tiny house had been fun. Constructing four? I was over the moon. “I won’t let you down, Chiron!”

Two weeks later, I let him down.

I had been working overtime to modify my original design. I widened the doorways for better access. I got some magical paint from the Hephaestus cabin so the exterior color of each new minibuilding could be changed with just a touch, making each one unique. I applied everything I

knew about extra-dimensional construction to create impossibly deep storage containers, a larger shower in the bathroom, and built-in furniture that could be moved, collapsed, or reshaped as desired. With a snap of your fingers, you could turn the living area into a bedroom, or a gym, or a dining room, or a military command center that even Clarisse would be proud of. I added a dozen preprogrammed interior-decorating schemes so Lacy could never accuse the space of being boring. When I finally rolled out the new cabins and proudly presented them to Chiron, I expected him to be pleased. Instead, he looked puzzled.

“Um…is this it?”

I frowned. “You asked for four, right?” “Four cabins. Not four models.”

My spirits deflated like a bunch of month-old party balloons.

“Oh, dear,” Chiron murmured when he saw my face. “That model you showed me—that was the full-size cabin, wasn’t it?”

I nodded. “That was the whole point, wasn’t it? Saving space? I—I thought smaller buildings…”

He kindly laid his hand on my shoulder. “Annabeth, your work is exemplary. But as lovely as these units are, I fear that the children of, ah, lesser deities—for lack of a better term—will not appreciate accommodations so much smaller than the other cabins.”

The flaw in my concept was so obvious, I couldn’t believe I hadn’t considered it. The whole point of Percy’s plan was so our new recruits— and their godly parents—would feel included at camp—equal, not lesser. But they wouldn’t see my tiny houses as fun minimalist living spaces.

They’d see them as yet another snub from the more powerful deities and their kids. I was so embarrassed, I wanted to crawl under a rock.

“I’ll get Harley to blow up the tiny houses,” I mumbled. “He’ll like that.” I turned to go, but Chiron stopped me.

“Wait a moment.” He studied the units. “These have wheels.” “Yeah. I mean, they don’t have to have wheels, but I thought—” “Perhaps I was too hasty,” Chiron said. “Let me try something.”

He put his shoulder to the closest minicabin and pushed it toward the next one in line. Having the strength of a stallion, Chiron had no trouble moving the tiny houses around. A few more shoves and he had arranged the four units so they were back-to-back, two on either side. The slanted rooftops joined into one centerline peak. In short, the tiny houses looked as if they’d been designed to fit together as a single structure that was about the same size as the older cabins.

“You know,” Chiron said, “I think this might work quite nicely for our newest pair of demigods.” He called across the commons, “Holly!

Laurel!”

Identical twin girls who had been arguing on the steps of Hermes cabin raced over, each trying to push the other out of the way so she could be first.

“What’s up?” asked the one on the left.

“Contest?” the one on the right asked eagerly. “World war?” “Something even more exciting,” Chiron promised. “Annabeth, I’d

like you to meet Laurel and Holly Victor, recently claimed daughters of Nike, the goddess of victory. Laurel, Holly, this is Annabeth Chase, the most gifted architect at camp. She redesigned the palaces of Mount Olympus!”

The twins’ eyes widened in amazement. I felt a little self-conscious with Chiron praising me. I was, in fact, the only architect at camp. But that bit about redesigning Mount Olympus—that was true. It was the centerpiece of my college-admissions portfolio.

“What you see in front of you,” Chiron continued, “is Annabeth’s latest triumph: completely customizable, modular cabins.”

Laurel edged toward the nearest tiny house. She peeked inside the door. “It’s small.”

“Ah, but it’s not!” Chiron said. “It’s private. Each module is for a maximum of four people. How many do you have to live with right now in the Hermes cabin?”

“Like a thousand,” Holly grumbled. “All losers, too.”

I didn’t think the Hermes kids would appreciate that, but I understood what Chiron was trying to do. I chimed in. “These modules are brand- new. The bathrooms are state-of-the-art.”

Laurel’s eyes lit up. “Bathrooms in the cabin?”

“Yep,” I said. “The furniture is programmable. The exterior colors, the interior design—it can be changed to whatever you want.” I touched the nearest cabin, willing it to turn from dull red to bright silver.

“Whoa,” said Holly.

“But we can’t give brand-new cabins like this to just anyone,” I said. “Whoever gets these, everyone else in camp will be totally jealous. We need to find the absolute best campers—”

“Us,” Holly said. “Obviously.”

“Me,” Laurel corrected her sister. “With you a distant second.” “So who wants to claim a bunk first?”

“Me!” the sisters yelled simultaneously. They charged to the same front door, growling as they tried to push each other out of the way. Then they split apart and made for different entrances.

Shouts rang out from inside the cabins.

“I’ll get to my loft before you!” one sister cried. “Ha! No chance, loser! I’m already halfway up!”

Chiron turned toward me and smiled. “There we are. Modular units that can be rearranged and moved as desired! Each cluster can be as big or small as we need it to be. More campers can be fit into the same amount of space as a regular cabin, but with more privacy and better accommodations. Annabeth Chase, you are a genius!”

I listened to the sounds of pounding footsteps and triumphant crowing from the Victor sisters as they argued about whose module was the coolest.

“Thanks,” I told Chiron. “Genius was exactly what I was going for.”

My tiny-house mash-up brought the cabin count to seventeen. Three more units—Hebe, Tyche, and Hecate—were added afterward, and construction crews are ready to build more. Space might still be an issue someday, depending on how many gods we end up needing to represent, but you know what? Not one person has complained about my tiny houses being too tiny. In fact, when I get out of college, I may go into business designing portable microhousing for demigods. It beats building rapid-response outhouses, at least.

‌This four-story sky-blue Victorian is a bona fide gem. The vast wraparound porch offers ample space for pinochle players and convalescents alike. The basement is currently set up for strawberry-jam storage, but can also be used to hide the occasional demigod driven‌

insane by the Labyrinth. The first-floor living quarters, camp infirmary, and combination rec room / meeting room are wheelchair accessible, as is a specially designed bronze-lined office. The rooms of the top floors stand ready to welcome overnight guests, while the attic, now free of its resident desiccated mummy, provides the perfect catchall for camper discards and memorabilia.

People think I’m a thief, a sneak, a pickpocket, and a lock picker. They’re right, of course, but c’mon—how else am I supposed to spend my time while waiting for a quest?

When my brother, Travis, was here (he’s in college now), we explored every inch of camp except one area: the Big House attic. No way either of us was setting foot in there while that ol’ leather-skinned hippie Oracle was propped in the corner.

But then Spooky gave up the spirit and crumbled to dust on the Big House front porch. We saw our chance and took it. While everyone else was waiting to see if Rachel, the new Oracle, would survive the spirit invasion (spoiler: she did), we made our move around to the back door of the Big House.

It was locked. (Ha!) One pick, three clicks, and BOOM!—we were inside. Thanks to past reconnaissance missions, we knew the way up to the attic. We pulled down the stairs and stuck our heads through the trapdoor and into a thieves’ paradise.

We ignored the junk, like that old three-legged stool the mummy used to sit on. But other pieces seemed to scream Pick me! Pick me! as if itching to be freed from their dusty attic prison. That glittery crown on the mannequin in the far corner. That emerald-pommeled sword hanging on the wall. That sweet Elvis-style rhinestone cape, which for some reason was draped across the shoulders of a stuffed taxidermic grizzly bear.

Travis and I had planned to take our time and really search through the stuff. But then, for no apparent reason, this beam of golden light shot upward through the floor and engulfed the Oracle’s old three-legged stool. The light shut off as quickly as it had appeared, and the stool was gone. I didn’t know what had just happened. Maybe Apollo was teleporting the stool to its new owner. Maybe somebody was randomly blasting disintegrator rays in our direction. Hey, you never know what those Hephaestus kids will do. Anyway, it kind of freaked us out. We decided not to stick around, just in case that weird beam came back and zapped us away too. We grabbed the nearest things we could reach—a canvas sack for me, a small wooden box for Travis—and got out of that attic faster than you can say Hermes Express.

Back at our cabin, we chased the other demigods outside and told them to go play in the woods or something (being co–head counselors

does have its privileges). Then we sat down to examine our take.

Travis opened the lid of his box. His eyes grew wide. “Whoa. It’s a mystical bag of winds.”

My pulse started to race. “Like the thermos Dad gave Percy that time?

I’ve always wanted one of those! Let me see!”

All slow and dramatic, he pulled out a flat pink rubber sack with a thin nozzle at one end. “Behold!”

I smacked him on the arm. “That’s a whoopee cushion, you idiot.” He burst out laughing. “Yeah, but I had you there for a second. Okay,

your turn.”

I rummaged in my bag and pulled out…a pair of barbecue tongs.

Travis snickered. “What are you going to do with those? You can’t even toast bread without burning it. Are those things Celestial bronze at least?”

“Dunno. But there’s an inscription: ‘For plucking the Tartarus napkin from the fire.’” I turned them over and read the other side. “‘One use only.’” I looked at Travis. “What the gods does that mean?”

“Well, Connor,” my brother said, “I believe it means that you only get to use them once.”

“Shut up.” I almost threw my new tongs at him, then thought better of it. For some reason, that “Tartarus napkin” thing made me edgy. I decided to keep the tongs on me at all times—at least until I got my one use out of them.

Good thing I did, too, because later that summer, a napkin from Tartarus did appear in the dining pavilion fire. It’s a long story, but if I hadn’t had those tongs…well, I’m not sure I’d be writing this right now.

As for Travis, he loved his whoopee cushion so much he slept with it at night. At least, he claimed those sounds I heard were coming from the whoopee cushion. I kind of feel sorry for his college roommate.