00   remember your virtue

Medea Park has no choice where her key to the Underworld spits her out. While it has a tendency to dump her into places that aren't quite deadly, it does manage to locate ones that are distinctly uncomfortable: the edge of the Styx, Shakespeare's seat in the Judgement Pavilion, and once it nearly dropped her directly into the river Lethe if Nico hadn't grabbed her hand at the last moment. Part of her thinks it's the punishment that she has been dealt. A warning: this is what happens if you are born in vengeance. But this time, rather than Lethe or the Judgement Pavilion, the Fields of Asphodel stretch plainly against the grey backdrop of her birth home—the distinctive yellowing grass and desaturated trees pale against her black jeans and Camp Half-Blood shirt.

Stumbling blindly through the grass, she finds it tough to navigate without something to cut through the thickness; without her Stygian Iron dagger that Nico dumped on her doorstep at the end of last summer. A part of her aches, it's been far too long since she's seen her brother, wherever he's hiding amongst the ghosts and the American states. Medea shakes it off, trying to focus her blurred vision on the steps she's taking. She doesn't want to be here long. Medea's stomach churns underneath her skin—a scattered feeling of uneasiness crawling up her spine that only comes with being where the natural order is held most strict. Sixteen years and she still hasn't gotten used to it. There's nothing like it; that feeling of drowning—heaving against the tidal wave that is being warped into something so distinctly small that you can travel between the dirt and bone to the deepest place within Earth's crust. Her ears buzzing, Medea's frazzled state only continues as she basks in the aftermath of pulling open the door to hell and slamming it closed again.

Around her, the faded souls of the dead aimlessly walk—the yellowed grass barely flinching with their presence. The statement is clear: the dead of the Fields of Asphodel live an ambiguous existence at best. Looking around as she presses a hand to her abdomen, Medea thinks of how it must be a lonely existence, to wander without aim for the rest of eternity.  She takes another hit of nausea as she passes through the nebulous image of a wandering ghost, tripping over her red converse and landing on her ass in the yellow grass. She's never been particularly graceful. Nothing like her mother in that regard—always crude and eroding like a snake bite.

Medea bares her teeth. "What the fuck. Can't you watch where you're going?"

          "How did you get here?"

At the soft, eerie voice, Medea raises her face to study the figure with a scowl. Her eyes trail from their ghostly legs to a torso clad in fragmented battle armour. This girl died fighting tooth and nail. There's no denying the holes in her clothes where scrapes and wounds once lived; the broken knife strapped to her thigh; an empty quiver still slung over her shoulders; a waterfall of dark hair against her pale skin, the broken hair band from her ponytail still caught amongst the strands. She looks vaguely familiar but Medea has never studied her fellow campers enough to commit their names or faces to memory.

          "None of your business." Medea replies. Her head cocks to the side, looking closer at the ghostly girl. Scowl morphing, a venomous expression takes over her face. How is she speaking to her? The ghosts of the Fields are not supposed to be lucid enough to remember, let alone hold a conversation. But the girl's familiarity itches at Medea like a spider bite. "Don't I know you?"

The girl pauses. Medea can almost see the ghost-gears in her head turning as she peers at Medea before she finally speaks again. "Do you? Are you dead?"

          "Do I look dead to you?" Medea asks, rhetorically. Eyes flicking up and down, she wrinkles her nose. Faintly, Medea remembers a girl at the Aphrodite table; a boy with a gold knife. She flicks her fingers at her. "You're not supposed to be like this."

          "I know. There's something wrong in the Underworld." The girl replies.

          "I know." Medea says. She pauses, images of a girl in battle armour at the forefront of the battle in New York, wielding a knife amongst an army of monsters and other Half-Bloods—a soldier for Kronos. "I remember you. You're the traitor girl." Medea grins. "You know, nobody ever asked me about you. Where you ended up."

The girl gives a commendable attempt at schooling her expression into blankness but fails. "There was no one left to ask."

Medea can feel her sharp words flexing like claws. She hums—a part of her was not attempting to be cruel but it's the only truth of this girl that she holds. "Pity."

          "I don't want any." The girl retorts in her eerie voice. Her state makes it weak, strangely passive for words that were meant to be hardened.

          "Only people who deserve to be here end up in the Fields of Asphodel." Medea says, almost like a taunt.

          "I never said I didn't deserve to be here." The girl seems to hesitate, fingers twitching by her sides as a silence falls flatly over their heads. She breaks it quietly. "I need your help."

          "Need?" Medea almost laughs at her confidence. She does nothing without something in return because that is the way of the world. You do not give without taking. If you didn't, life would eat you alive. "And why would I help you?"

The ghost blinks. "I'll do anything."

Medea raises a brow. "Anything?" She lets the word settle between them with the heaviness that it holds. Her interest is waning, slowly eroding with each new sentence the girl produces. "Be careful what you promise..."

The girl's name escapes her.

          "I know what promises are worth." The girl sounds out carefully, her voice more alive than ever before. There's an anger that lies underneath, like unfinished promises and people she's lost in order to complete her unfulfilling fate.

This ghost has something to lose.

Medea's head tips to the side. "Good. But first you have to tell me how you need my help."

          "Can you travel anywhere in the Underworld?" The girl questions.

Medea nods, beginning to see the journey being laid out before her. "Being a child of the Underworld has its perks. What's your point to this?"

She wants to make her say it.

          "Even Elysium?"

Medea nods again, tapping her foot against the grass as her impatience grows.

          "You better make anything worth it." She replies. "I could get into trouble for crossing lines I'm not supposed to."

Another thing that Medea is aware of: the possible repercussions that she could face if she begins to cross borders and unspoken rules that her mother and step-father have put in place since her birth. Ones that somebody like Nico could get away with, but not the daughter of Persephone. A feeling inside her curls. A potential for Persephone's attention. A way to stir enough trouble that maybe Medea could get what she wants in exchange for never crossing those lines again.

          "I'll owe you." The girl cuts in quickly. "Anything you want. Whenever you want. I swear it on the River Styx."

The first interesting thing that this girl has said in the past five minutes. Two birds with one stone. Medea's grin is deadly. "Fine. You have a deal. Tell me what you need."

         "There's a hero in Elysium." The girl begins.

          "There's always a hero." Medea interrupts before she can continue.

The ghost bites her pale lip.

          "There's a boy." She corrects herself. "He's just a boy."

Medea raises a brow.

          "His name is Ethan Nakamura." There's a beat. Two. "I want you to take a message to him."

          "A traitor for a traitor." Medea says. "How perfect."

Anger crosses the girl's expression before she wipes it clean. "The gods betrayed him first."

          "A well sung story of many." Medea bites, her voice like a serrated edge that cuts into the ghost. "Now, it better be short enough I can remember. We wouldn't want him to miss any of the ugly details."

Medea watches her close, the slightest hint of confusion in the girl's creasing forehead. Neither she nor Medea know whether Medea truly means to forget the girl's message but it's clear the ghost doesn't want to take any chances.

          "Tell him..." She fumbles for her words like she didn't think that she would get this far. "Tell him I'm on my way. Tell him Kennedy is on her way."

          "I remember you now. Kennedy Song." Medea says. She bows her head in a small, precise movement. "Fine, Kennedy Song, I'll pass on your message and in return you owe me anything."

The girl's shoulders shudder like the weight of her promise is pressing against them. "Yes. Anything. And tell him to wait."

          "I will. You have my word." Medea hopes that Kennedy Song feels the true weight of this—that her word is not nothing. Or something that she hands out lightly. "I think we can benefit each other, Miss Song. I think we can."

Swallowing, Kennedy says, "I think so, too."

Medea turns away. The nausea from before has finally relinquished her stomach from it's grip and with lighter shoulders, she begins to set off towards the Palace.

          "Wait."

Set on ignoring Kennedy, Medea continues walking. But as her hand swings, there's a coldness that strikes Medea. She inhales sharply, turning on her heel so quickly that if Kennedy Song were corporal the strands would've whipped her face. In that moment, the two girls both realise what had happened. Kennedy's hand had passed clean through Medea's.

          "Wait." Kennedy says like an exhale. "What's your name?"

          "Medea." Medea answers, pausing. "Medea Park. Daughter of Persephone."

Kennedy smiles, something sad and small. "Thank you, Medea." She sounds it out carefully; just like the promise, it has a weight. "I owe you."

Medea's lips twist, grinning like a devil. "I know."

And she turns, walking away to disappear into the fog. 

Reaching Elysium is difficult, even for those few who are living within the confines of the Underworld. The gated community is closely monitored in case of wayward souls—alight with the sounds of laughter and the smell of feasts from across the world. Dead or alive, Elysium is a sacred place and to breach the gate itself can be complicated at best. Unless, you're a daughter of Persephone who is adamant on making noise.

Medea makes no move to shield her face or hide the distinct bleached front sections of her hair that make her appearance notable. With one hand, she unzips the big pocket of her backpack and slips her key into it for safekeeping. The front gate is grand—a white and gold expanse that nestles perfectly into the only gap in the valley that Elysium lies within. She's only been here a handful of times.

But only once with Persephone. She was a child. Just small enough that the memory is foggy and blurred at the edges but old enough that Medea can still remember the flowery smell of Persephone's hair and her hand clasped in hers. She looks upon the gate with a soft bitter sweetness that's reserved only for her mother and continues onwards.

There's a line outside Elysium's confines. Not nearly as long as the main entrance to the Underworld or the Judgement Pavilion, but long enough that it takes Medea 7 minutes to shoulder her way to the front through the collective of grumbling spirits. She huffs when she finally reaches the checkpoint, looking down upon the barrel resting behind the desk with a scowl.

Medea knocks on it once.

There's not a sound.

She knocks twice.

Grumbling emerges from the cracks in the wood.

Medea knocks three times.

          "We're closed." A croaky voice yells, muffled by the hinged lid.

Medea knocks another four times. "Get up! You don't get to be closed. You're a checkpoint not a drive-through."

          "Says who?" The voice replies.

          "Says me." Medea says, crossing her arms. "And says Hades. Get up or I'll tell him you're slacking again."

The lid cracks open. "You wouldn't."

          "Try me." Medea threatens. "You've already been downgraded from a wine jar to a barrel."

The spirit that emerges from the lid is old—a greying man with a beard that hangs limply down his chest. In his hands, he holds a stick tightly like Medea could take it at any second. As if she has any want to or need for the stick. She huffs again. Even after years of dealing with Diogenes, every new interaction leaves her in a distasteful mood and a strong urge to roll her eyes. At first, Medea remembers being intrigued by the old man. Who could possibly hold this much bitterness? This much stubbornness? The creator of cynicism has never failed to answer her questions—still clutching tightly onto the stick his people threw over the city walls with his body to be eaten by wild animals so that they followed through on their promise to let Diogenes "chase the creatures away". As if he had the capacity to in death. 

          "You are not an easy one to get along with, girl." Diogenes grumbles.

          "Pot meet kettle." Medea replies snidely. "Let me in, I have a message to deliver."

She leans back from the desk, peaking through the bars of the gate. Medea's eyes wander, picking apart the people as they cross in front of her. She ignores her pang of sadness—the ache that comes with seeing those who lost their lives too quickly—and focuses on looking for the purple long-sleeve and black eyepatch that she vaguely remembers Ethan Nakamura wearing to his final battle.

The people of Elysium come in varying ages and situations: kids with their hospital bands still around their wrists, old men and women with their arms linked, mothers and their babies, fathers and their sons, heroes still torn with their battle wounds and their weapons strapped to their backs. Medea's almost sure that she sees Patroclus and Achilles with their broken spears, wandering the street market together in the distance. But then she sees a flicker of purple and Medea looks away.

Sticking her arm through the bars, Medea yells, "Hey! You there! Boy in the purple!"

The milling crowd doesn't lose its pace but a few turn to see the commotion, including the boy in purple.

          "Fuck, what's his name?" Medea curses to herself. Waving at him, she flicks through her mental list: Aaron, Edward, Etawn, Ethal, Ethan! "Ethan! Ethan Nakamura! I have a message for—"

          "Medea Park."

Medea stops waving. Slowly, she turns around to face the voice with a sickly sweet (extremely fake) expression.

          "Mom." The raven-haired girl greets with a faux-brightness.

When looking at Medea Park and Persephone there is no denying their resemblance—dark hair, piercing brown eyes, broad shoulders and narrow waist—but Persephone stands tall above her daughter, looking down on her with a pinched expression. The flowers in her hair almost seem to droop with disappointment. Medea suppresses a shudder. The Queen of the Underworld has spent hundreds of years perfecting her let down expression and Medea is almost convinced she takes pleasure in finally being able to use it on her offspring. Even if it was her vengeful resolve that decided to have her in the first place.

Medea looks over to Diogenes in his barrel with bared teeth. "You snitched."

Diogenes sniffles. "You want my stick."

          "Nobody wants your stick, you useless old man." Medea replies, flicking her fingers. "Go back in your barrel."

Diogenes slams the lid closed and Medea turns back to her mother.

          "What can I do for you, Mom?" Medea says, tone icy. "I'm here on business."

          "You're meddling in mortal business." Persephone states.

Medea snorts. "I'm keeping my promises. I value them."

          "Medea," Persephone says slowly, "I can't just give up pomegranate seeds."

          "You can." Medea replies. "You can do anything you want. You just refuse to."

          "That's not fair."

          "Life isn't fair." Medea snaps. She smiles, small and confident. "How about this: I stop meddling in mortal business if you give them to me."

Persephone considers her daughter—the result of her actions—and sighs. "Four."

          "Ten."

          "Six."

          "Eight."

Persephone narrows her eyes. "Promise?"

Medea crosses over her heart. "Promise."

          "Eight is all you get." Persephone says, waving a hand. A small pouch with a red-stained bottom appears. "Don't waste them."

          "I won't." Medea replies.

          "Now go." Persephone orders. "You've caused enough trouble for today."

Medea unzips her backpack and takes out her key after shoving the seeds into it's safety. She doesn't bother to say goodbye before warping back to Camp Half-Blood. Her mother should have made her swear on the River Styx.

Much like breaching the borders of the Underworld, Medea doesn't have much control over where the key spits her out around Camp Half-Blood. Only that, unless explicitly dictated otherwise by her, she will land either in the Camp or it's surrounding forests. Which can make the return trip dangerous. Sometimes more dangerous than others. She hits the ground stumbling, shoving down the nausea to lean against a tree to stabilise herself. Pressing her fingers into the damp bark, Medea uses the feeling to ground herself and sucks in a deep breath. The smell of grass is heavy in the air, but so is the distinct smell of gasoline. Her nose furrows and she hikes her backpack back over her shoulder when it begins to slip. She should never have left her knife behind.

Medea begins to walk, the scent of gasoline only getting thicker as she goes until Medea comes upon a cliff face. She clutches tightly onto the strap of her backpack, peering at it critically. There's something off about it, rocks jaggedly missing edges and scorch marks dark against the stone. She approaches it with care, pressing her fingers to the rock. While her connection to the Earth through Hades is quite limited, her mother is still the Queen of the Underworld and Medea can still feel the echo of emptiness. There's something in there.

Pressing her lips together, Medea's brow furrows. She studies the cracks and lines within the rock, the roughness against her palms. Gathering all her strength, Medea raises her foot like she's seen Nico do before and stamps it down firmly into the ground—feeling it crack beneath her feet until the rock shakes and the outline of a door reveals itself. Surprise crosses her expression and Medea takes a step back. She did not expect that to work. The girl listens to the door creak as it opens, voices breaking through the thump of small rocks hitting the ground and slips through the doorway.

It takes a moment for Medea to recognise what she's standing within. It stretches to the edge of her vision—hangar floor covered in projects and work benches, rows of tool cabinets and shelves packed to the brim with blueprints and instructions, welding equipment and more that she can't see beneath its surfaces—all resting below a maze of catwalks and three figures stand in the middle it. Three strangely familiar figures, two clad in orange and one in purple.

          "This is serious. Buford's gone. If we don't get him back, this whole place is going to explode."

Medea's eyebrows raise and her eyes widen.

          "Explode?" Another voice asks. "Um... Okay. Just calm down and tell us who Buford is."

As Medea inches closer to the voices, the door to the hangar finally slams closed and she lets out a hiss.

Their reactions are almost immediate, hands to their closest weapons. They begin to close in on her, speaking to each other in low voices as they approach the door. Medea once again curses herself for not bringing her knife and leaving it in Cabin 14. She holds her backpack tight to her body, weighing her options. Medea recognises them now: Jason Grace is hard to forget, even if Medea doesn't pay much attention, the golden boy of the Zeus cabin with a bad case of memory loss and his entourage, Piper McClean and Leo Valdez. They'd created quite the storm earlier in the year. So, revealing herself, while doesn't seem smart at first thought, is the option that's least likely going to get her stabbed if Medea remembers their track record correctly. Continuing to hide means that she would probably be stuck in the hangar until she figures out how to get back to the forest.

Medea sighs, stepping out from behind a pillar and surveys the three campers with a look of distant boredom. "Put down your weapons. Killing me won't benefit either party."

          "Medea?" It's Piper McClean who recognises her, the newly minted Counsellor of the Aphrodite Cabin. Her dagger drops to her side but is still firmly clasped in her hand. "How did you get in here?"

          "The door." Medea replies blankly.

          "How did you find the bunker?" Leo Valdez questions fiercely. "It's hidden."

          "Not well enough." Medea says. "And it seems it won't be around for much longer anyway."

Jason Grace narrows his eyes at her. "How much did you hear?"

          "Enough." Medea replies. "But I won't talk." She pauses, looking around. "With incentive."

          "Incentive?!" Leo cries out indignantly.

          "You'll owe me one." Medea drags a finger over a workbench, wrinkling her nose at the gathering of dust on the tip of her fingernail. "A favour for a favour and all."

          "Then you help us." Piper says firmly. "You help us and don't tell anybody about Bunker Nine and we'll owe you."

Medea's eyes flick up and down over Piper, the girl shivering slightly underneath the blankness of her stare, before she finally agrees, "Fine."

Leo makes a face at Medea but relents at Jason's stare. "Fine. Come here."

He leads them across the hangar floor, skirting around various projects that Medea can clearly see hold more danger than some others, and ushers them into a main staging area where the keel of a large ship rests. But it's made from Celestial bronze rather than the materials Medea would expect. She doesn't let the confusion show on her face and instead continues to follow Leo a few steps behind Jason and Piper, bringing up the rear of the group. Silently, they climb the scaffolding and jump into the hull.

          "See?" Leo says.

Medea does not see.

Leo slips inside the engine apparatus, past the complicated web of pipes and gears and a plethora of other things that Medea doesn't understand before pointing towards the combustion chamber. The maintenance panel is open and inside, the core is empty.

          "There's your problem." Leo announces.

          "It seems you're missing something important." Medea muses.

Piper and Jason look at her.

          "Uh..." Jason scratches the back of his neck. "What are we looking at?"

          "Okay," Leo sighs out, "you want the full explanation or the short explanation."

          "Short." Piper and Jason answer in unison while Medea remains quiet.

Leo gestures vaguely. "The syncopator goes here. It's a multi-access gyro-valve to regulate flow. The dozen glass tubes on the outside? Those are filled with powerful, dangerous stuff. That flowing red one is Lemnos fire from my dad's forges. This murky stuff here? That's water from the River Styx. The stuff in the tubes is going to power the ship, right? Like radioactive rods in a nuclear reactor. But the mix ratio has to be controlled, and the timer is already operational."

He taps the digital clock that reads 65:15. "That means without the syncopator, this stuff is all going to vent into the chamber at the same time, in sixty-five minutes. At that point, we'll get a very nasty reaction."

          "Oh the joy the children of Hephaestus bring." Medea mutters to herself, crossing her arms.

Leo glares at her.

          "Could you make the short explanation shorter?" Piper cuts in.

Leo huffs. "Fine. One hour. Fluids mix. Bunker goes ka-boom. One square mile of forest turns into a smoking crater."

          "Oh," Piper says in a small voice. "Can't you just...turn it off?

          "Gee, I didn't think of that!" Leo replies, agitated. "Let me just hit this switch and—No, Piper. I can't turn it off. This is a tricky piece of machinery. Everything has to be assembled in a certain order in a certain amount of time. Once the combustion chamber is rigged, like this, you can't just leave all those tubes sitting there. The engine has to be put in motion. The countdown clock started automatically, and I've got to install the syncopator before the fuel goes critical. Which would be fine except...well, I lost the syncopator."

Jason crosses his arms. "You lost it. Don't you have an extra. Can't you pull one out of your tool belt?"

Leo shakes his head. "The syncopator took me a week to make. And yes, I made a spare. I always do. But that's lost too. They're both lost in Buford's drawers."

          "Who is Buford?" Piper asks the question Medea is thinking. "And why are you storing syncopators in his drawers?"

Leo rolls his eyes. "Buford is a table."

          "A table," Jason repeats, "named Buford."

          "Yes, a table." Leo replies shortly. "A magic walking table. About three feet high, mahogany top, bronze base, three movable legs. I saved him from one of the supply closets and got him in working order. He's just like the tables my dad has in his workshop. Awesome helper; carries all my important machine parts."

          "So what happened to him?" Medea questions. "Did you shine him wrong or something? Use a paper towel instead of the expensive soft cloth?"

          "I—" Leo glares at Medea, swallowing the lump in his throat. "I got careless. I polished him with Windex and he ran away."

Medea snorts. "I was joking."

          "Shut up." Leo snaps hotly.

          "Let me get this straight." Jason says slowly. "Your table ran away because you polished him with Windex."

          "I know, I'm an idiot." Leo replies. "A brilliant idiot, but still an idiot. Buford hates being polished with Windex. It has to be Lemon Pledge with extra-moisturising formula. I was distracted. I thought maybe just once he wouldn't notice. Then I turned around for a while to install the combustion tubes, and when I looked for Buford..." He points to the closed doors of the bunker. "He was gone. Little trail of oil and bolts leading outside. He could be anywhere by now, and he's both syncopators."

Piper glances at the clock, Medea following her multi-coloured gaze. "So, we have exactly one hour to find your runaway table, get back your synco-whatsit, and install it in this engine, or the Argo II explodes, destroying Bunker Nine and most of the woods."

          "And us." Medea adds, crossing her arms.

          "Basically." Leo says sourly.

Jason frowns. "We should alert the other campers. We might have to evacuate them."

          "You'll create mayhem." Medea cuts in.

          "The explosion won't destroy the whole camp." Leo says. "Just the woods. I'm pretty sure. Like sixty-five percent sure."

          "Well, that's a relief." Piper mutters.

          "Besides," Leo says, "we don't have time, and I can't tell the others. If they find out how badly I've messed up..."

Medea looks at him closely, the closest to kindly she has the entire last five minutes and says nothing.

The display clock changes to 59:00.

          "Fine." Jason replies. "But we'd better hurry." 

Yellows, pinks and oranges begin to cloud the sky as the group trudge through the woods surrounding camp—moss damp beneath Medea's converse and the cold tinges the edge of the air, reminding her that while camp's weather is controlled it's still winter beyond the borders. This is how she's spending her Christmas Eve instead of wrapping the bag of pomegranate seeds in her backpack. Medea eyes Blue-eyed grass as they wander almost aimlessly, an idea sparking out of her boredom. She cocks her head, pausing to snap a flower at the base of the stem and closes her eyes, cupping it in her palm.

          "Medea?" Piper calls out. "Come on, we're running out of time."

A purple glow comes from her hands, and Medea knows her goal is complete. She holds it out to Piper. "A timer. A petal will drop every ten minutes. There's six petals to cover the hour that we have to look for the table."

          "Buford." Leo interjects.

Medea rolls her eyes. "To look for Buford." 

          "That's..." Piper starts, "actually kind of cool."

Medea moves away, beginning their walk again and only stopping when Jason kneels at the bank of a stream, pointing to marks in the mud.

          "Do these look like table tracks?" He asks.

          "Or a racoon." Leo suggests.

Jason frowns. "With no toes?"

          "You're both idiots." Medea mutters.

Jason's lips press into a fine line, standing and moving next to Piper like he's on autopilot.

          "It's probably a table." He decides. "Which means Buford went across this stream."

Medea claps twice. "Well done, Grace."

A jet of water from the stream splashes Medea out of nowhere and she lets out a noise of surprise, stumbling back into Leo, furiously wiping at her face.

          "What the fuck." Medea exclaims.

A girl erupts from the water—blue dress shimmering underneath the sunset. Her green hair sticks to her blue lips and pale skin like glue, reminiscent of the drowning victims that Medea has seen in the Fields of Asphodel.

          "Could you be any louder?" The blue girl hisses. "They'll hear you!"

Leo blinks before Medea wrenches her arm from his grip and flicks the water from her face back at the girl.

          "Are you a naiad?" Leo asks.

          "Shh!" The girl presses a finger to her lips. "They'll kill us all. They're right over there." She points behind her and Medea follows her finger to the trees on the other side of the stream. Exactly where Buford has gone.

          "Okay," Piper says gently. She kneels beside the water, mud squishing against her knees. "We appreciate the warning. What's your name?"

The girl tentatively shifts towards Piper, the stream lapping against the edge. "Brooke."

          "Brooke the brook?" Jason asks.

Piper swats his leg. "Okay, Brooke. I'm Piper. We won't let anyone harm you. Just tell us who you're afraid of."

Agitatedly, the water begins to boil around her. "My crazy cousins. You can't stop them. They'll tear you apart. None of us are safe! No go away. I have to hide."

Brooke sinks back into the water.

          "She was helpful." Medea says after a beat of silence.

Piper stands, giving Medea a look. "Crazy cousins? Any idea what she was talking about?"

Jason shakes his head. "Maybe we should keep our voices down."

Medea looks to Leo from the side, watching him carefully as he stares into the water distantly.

          "We have to follow the trail, right?" He finally says. "I mean, we're heroes and stuff. We can handle whatever it is. Right?"

Medea isn't sure if he's trying to convince himself or them.

Beside Piper, Jason draws his sword. "Right. Of course."

Piper unsheathes her dagger. "Crazy cousins, here we come."

Medea's hands feel empty without her knife and squeezes her nails into her palms. Something in her chest twinges. She shoves it down and follows the other three across the stream, deeper into the forest where it's silent. The tree branches are free of crowding birds and wayward feathers, and there's not a single woodland creature to be seen. Even the monsters are strangely quiet, as if they are even scared of the "crazy cousins" that Brooke mentioned.

With their mouths firmly clamped shut, the group follows the tracks with quiet footsteps before finally coming upon a familiar clearing. Medea stops. It's been a long time since she's stepped foot at Zeus' Fist—the heaviness of her poison-slick sword in hand, sweat pooling down the line of her back underneath the tightly strapped security of her battle armour. She remembers Nico, small and so young compared to most of the warriors, holding the responsibility of a general on his shoulders. The girl has only seen her brother a few times since the battle. And only sparingly. Medea eyes the scars in the ground and the yellowed grass with a deceptively blank expression, swallowing the bitter lump in her throat. She refuses to admit that she misses him. Medea pushes the bag of pomegranate seeds from her mind, adjusting the straps of her backpack.

          "Oh," Piper makes a noise from deep in her chest. "This isn't good."

          "Why?" Leo asks.

Medea huffs through her nose. It's clear he hasn't paid attention to her camp's history.

          "It's bad luck to be here," Jason answers. "This is the battle site."

Leo scowls. "What battle?"

Piper raises her eyebrows. "How can you not know about it? The other campers talk about this place all the time."

          "Been a little busy." Leo says.

Hands pressing into fists, frustration swells in her lungs and heart. It hurts to listen to—the disregard of the battle where Medea had nearly lost her life, Danae Lovelace and her little brother Will, the girl's saving graces after taking a particularly brutal hit from a harpy. Distaste shivers Medea's spine. She still has to pay off that debt.

          "The Battle of the Labyrinth." Medea says. She presses her fingers to the scar on her torso, looking around them for a moment. Her gaze travels back to Leo, studying him. "This was Zeus' Fist and the entrance to the Labyrinth was there." She points. "Kronos' army travelled through it to attack the camp but as you can tell, we're hard to eradicate."

          "You were there?" Leo questions.

Medea only nods, expression grim. "It wasn't pretty. The clearing is still considered to be cursed by most people."

          "Great." Leo grumbles. "Buford has to run to the most dangerous part of the woods. He couldn't just, like, run to the beach or a burger shop."

Medea scowls.

          "Speaking of which," Jason studies the ground. "How are we going to track him? There's no trail here?"

Piper checks Medea's flower. They only have four petals left.

          "If I had more time I could make a tracking device—"

          "Does Buford have a round tabletop?" Piper interrupts Leo. "With little steam vents sticking up on one side?"

Leo stares blankly at her. "How did you know?"

          "Because he's right over there." Piper answers.

Medea follows her line of sight to a table skirting around the far edge of the clearing before disappearing into the trees. She sighs. This is just getting ridiculous.

          "That was easy." Jason says as he begins to move but Leo snags the back of his t-shirt.

He pulls Piper and Jason behind the boulders before clasping Medea's wrist, yanking her into safety. She wrenches her wrist from his grip, rubbing it with a glare. Everything about her screams, Don't touch me but Leo isn't paying attention.

          "Someone's coming."

          "Leo—" Jason starts.

          "Shh."

There's girls—a dozen of them clad in loose purple, tunic style dresses and red silk. Leaves tangled in the strands of their hair, the girls' heads are topped with laurel wreaths. A few carry a staff each in one hand, swinging their fellow girls with their other hands. Laughter trickles in between the air and the group of campers.

          "They're just nymphs, Leo." Piper says with a sigh.

Leo gestures. "Crazy cousins!"

Piper's eyes widened. Mouth firmly closed, Medea is quiet beside the Aphrodite girl—almost pensive with her lips pressed together in a thin line. She grips the fabric of her camp t-shirt tightly and feels the trees curve against the breeze inside the cavity of her chest. The nymphs aren't what they seem. Looking closer, the staffs are made of twisted branches, pinecones glued to the top and some wrapped with live snakes like crawling ivy, hissing darkly. Medea narrows her eyes. The wreaths aren't wreaths either. Instead, they're also tiny snakes, bobbing their heads in time with the girls' singing.

          "Are they drunk?" Jason whispers.

Medea shakes her head. "No." Her head snaps to the side as something roars within the depths of the forest, her skin crawling. "We need to get out of here before we get ourselves killed."

          "We can't leave Buford." Leo says firmly.

Medea is interrupted as she opens her mouth to answer by a drakon breaking through the trees at the edge of the clearing. It's large, the size of a New York subway car, without wings and it's mouth filled with dagger-like teeth. Silver scales glinting underneath the sunset, the drakon shoots flames into the sky at the sight of the nymphs.

          "We've got to help them." Piper whispers. "They'll be killed!"

Hand grabbing Piper's wrist, Medea holds her back. "No. You'll get killed too. They aren't worth it."

          "How can you say that?" Piper's mouth drops.

          "We're heroes." Jason adds. "We can't let innocent girls—"

          "They're bad news." Medea replies hotly. "Look closer."

Jason and Piper turn, studying the one of the girls as they approach the drakon with glee. She shrieks in delight, skipping towards the monster, still singing. The other girls follow with glee. One in a blood-red dress does a cartwheel, landing directly in front of the drakon's snapping teeth.

          "Are you Dionysus?" She asks hopefully.

The drakon snorts fire at the girl's feet and she dances just out of reach. But the girl isn't quick enough to escape it's gnashing bite—her arm locked within the confines of it's jaw. Leo winces in front of Medea, his shoulder brushing underneath her chin. She shuffles back, focusing back on the girl who yanks her arm from the drakon's mouth, tearing teeth out as she goes. Her arm is completely fine.

           "Naughty." The girl scolds. "Not Dionysus! He must join our party!" 

Piper's breath hitches. "What are they—oh, gods. No!"

Medea looks away and when she looks back, the drakon is nothing but a pile of ash as it's spirit returns to the Tartarus. Jason gulps.

Piper shields her eyes. "Oh, gods. Oh, gods."

          "I've read about these nymphs." Leo's voice trembles slightly. "They're followers of Dionysus. I forget what they're called—"

          "Maenads." Medea answers slowly.

Piper shivers. "I've heard of them. I thought they only existed in ancient times. They attended Dionysus' parties. When they got too excited..."

She waves broadly in the clearing's direction.

          "We have to get out of here." Jason says.

          "But they're between us and Buford." Leo whispers. "And we've only got," he looks at Medea's flower, "about another thirty-five minutes to get the syncopator installed."

          "Maybe I can fly us over to Buford." Jason shuts his eyes, feeling for the wind around him. But nothing happens. Confusion crosses his expression as he shakes his head. "I don't know. The air feels agitated. Maybe those nymphs are messing things up. Even the wind spirits are too nervous to get close."

Leo glances back. "We'll have to retreat to the woods. If we can skirt around the Maenads—"

          "Guys," Piper squeaks in alarm.

Medea looks up slowly, face to face with the girl in the blood-red dress as she leans down and grins brightly.

          "Hello!" The girl looks at Leo. "Are you Dionysus?"

Leo's expression is panicked as he scrambles for an answer. It bursts out after a few seconds, "Yes! Absolutely. I am Dionysus."

Blanching, Medea unclasps her grip on her t-shirt. Idiot. She isn't going to pretend like this is a good plan, but stays silent as Leo scrambles to his feet, matching the girl's smile.

The girl claps her hands delightedly. "Wonderful! My lord Dionysus? Really?"

Piper nudges Leo in the ribs. "Um, Lord Dionysus, what are you doing?"

          "Everything's cool." Leo says, expression distinctly not cool. "The Maenads are my attendants. I love these guys."

The Maenads cheer, twirling around him, their feet delicate against the rocks like ballerinas.

Uncertainly, the girl in red eyes Jason, Piper and Medea. "Lord Dionysus, are these three sacrifices for the party? Should we rip them to pieces?"

          "No, no!" Leo says. "Great offer, but, um, you know, maybe we should start small. With, like, introductions."

The girl narrows her eyes. "Surely you remember me, my lord. I am Babette."

          "He does." Medea cuts in cooly. "But I'm afraid we have never had the pleasure of meeting."

The girl's eyes turn to slits as she eyes Medea and Leo laughs awkwardly. Medea levels her gaze with her own, chin raised confidently.

           "Well," Babette says. "These are Buffy, Muffy, Bambi, Candy—"

Medea tunes out, eyes flicking to where Buford disappeared and to the flower in Piper's hair. They're running out of time. Babette steps towards Leo, inspecting him closely

          "An interesting form you've chosen, my lord." She says. "Youthful. Cute, I suppose. Yet, somewhat scrawny and short."

Leo makes an offended noise. "Scrawny and short? Well, you know. I was going for cute, mostly."

The girls circle Leo with a hum, hands brushing against his stained Camp Half-Blood shirt and shoulders.

          "So, my lord." Babette runs her fingers down Leo's arm. "Where have you been? We've searched for so long!"

          "Official business." Medea answers shortly for Leo, smiling wickedly. "Godly business. Parties to plan and all."

          "Work!" Muffy, or at least Medea thinks it's Muffy, shrieks.

          "Work!" Buffy joins.

Around the Maenads begin chanting vehemently against work, dropping their goblets into the grass as liquid sloshes on their wrists.

           "Parties!" Piper shouts. "He's been partying!"

Medea knows that she should feel grateful for Piper's aid but doesn't pay her any mind. "He's been very busy partying with the other gods."

Babette looks between Medea and Piper. "Who are these ones, my lord? A recruit for the Maenads, perhaps?"

          "We are his party planners." Medea replies curtly. "So that Lord Dionysus can have all the fun with no work."

          "No work!" Buffy cries.

          "What a shame," Babette's fingernails begin to stretch into claws. "We can't allow mortals to witness our sacred revels."

          "But we could be a recruit!" Piper says quickly. "Do you guys have a website? Or a list of requirements? Do you have to be drunk all the time?"

          "Drunk!" Babette scoffs. "Don't be silly. We're underage Maenads. We haven't graduated to wine yet. What would our parents think?"

          "Of course." Medea says. "Naturally."

          "You have parents?" Jason shrugs a Maenad's hand off his shoulders.

          "Not drunk!" Candy yells, twirling in a circle.

Jason clears his throat. "So, what are you guys drinking if it isn't wine?"

Babette laughs. "The beverage of the season! Behold the power of the thyrsus rod!" She slams her staff against the ground and a white geyser bubbles from a crack. "Eggnog!"

The Maenads scramble to fill their goblets, shoving and scratching in their vicious swiftness.

          "Merry Christmas!"

          "Party!"

          "Kill everything!"

Piper steps back almost unknowingly, her shoulder clashing with Medea's. "You're drunk on eggnog?"

          "Whee!" Babette toasts to the sky, grinning at Leo. "Kill things! With a sprinkle of nutmeg!"

          "Delightful." Medea mutters. "We're going to die to eggnog."

          "But enough talk, my lord." Babette says. "You've been naughty, keeping yourself hidden! You changed your email and phone number. One might think the great Dionysus was trying to avoid is Maenads.

          "I can't imagine why."

Piper elbows Medea in the ribs.

          "Neither can I." Jason says. "The great Dionysus is proud of his Maenads."

Babette sizes Jason up. "This one is a sacrifice, obviously. We should start the festivities by ripping him apart. The party planner girls can prove themselves by helping us!"

           "Or," Leo starts, "we could start with some appetisers. Crispy Cheese 'n' Wieners. Taquitos. Maybe some chips and queso. And wait, I know! We need a table to put them on."

Babette's smile shudders. "A table?"

           "Cheese 'n' Wieners?"

          "Yeah, a table." Leo snaps his fingers, pointing towards the edge of the clearing where Buford disappeared too. "You know what, I think I saw one walking that way. Why don't you guys wait here, and drink some eggnog or whatever, and my friends and I will go get the table. We'll be right back."

Two Maenads hold onto Leo's t-shirt, keeping him from walking away. Medea stands poised and ready, Babette's turning a deeper, fiercer shade of red.

          "Why is my lord Dionysus so interested in furniture?" She questions. "Where is your leopard? And your wine cup?"

Leo gulps. "Yeah. Wine cup. Silly me."

Reaching into his toolbag, Leo fishes around, praying for a wine cup. Instead, he produces a lug wrench and smiles sheepishly.

          "Hey, look at that." He says weakly. "There's some godly magic right there, huh? What's a party without a lug wrench?"

          "Perhaps a practical joke from lord Hephaestus." Medea interjects.

The Maenads stare, unimpressed.

Jason steps to Leo's side. "Hey, um, Dionysus, maybe we should talk. Like, in private. You know, about party stuff."

          "We'll be right back!" Piper announces. "Just wait here, you guys. Okay?"

Her charmspeak falters.

          "No, you will stay." Babette stares intensely. "You do not act like Dionysus. Those who fail to honour the god, those who dare to work instead of partying—they must be ripped apart. And anyone who dares to impersonate the god, he must die even more painfully."

          "Wine!" Leo yelps suddenly. "Did I mention how much I love winer?"

Babette remains unconvinced. "If you are the god of parties, you will know the order of our revelries. Prove it. Lead us."

          "Sure." Leo says. "Revelries. So we start with the Hokey Pokey—"

Medea almost groans but Trixie's snarl cuts through her frustration.

          "No, my lord." Trixie growls. "The Hokey Pokey is second."

          "Right." Leo says. "First is the limbo contest, then the Hokey Pokey. Then, um, pin the tail on the donkey—"

         "Wrong!" Babette's eyes turn completely red. "Last chance, and I'll even give you a hint. We begin by singing the Bacchanalian Jingle. You do remember it, don't you?"

Piper squeezes Leo's arm. "Of course he remembers it."

Every part of Medea screams: run. Clearing his throat, Leo begins to pitfully warble a few lines of the first song that comes to his head and she cringes, almost moving to shield her ears but keeps her hands by her side firmly. Her eyes flick to a left over tooth from the drakon, just large enough to make a suitable weapon. It's just out of Medea's reach.

          "That is not the Bacchanalian Jingle." Candy hisses. "That is the theme song for Psych."

          "Kill the unbelievers!" Babette screams, the sound guttural and tearing through her throat.

In a split second decision, Medea forfeits going for the drakon tooth and digs deeply into herself, fumbling for whatever connection to the woods that she can find. She's never had an expert grasp on her abilities. Perhaps, shaky at best. Visualising a wall of thorns between Leo, Piper, Jason and her and the Maenads, Medea slams her foot to the ground, wrenching up her hands in a shuddering motion. But when she opens her eyes, there's nothing but a gathering of daisies in Babette's face.

Babette blows them away, shaking the flowers from her face and baring her teeth at Medea. The raven-haired girl curses.

          "Plan B!" Medea yells. "Somebody, Plan B!"

From his toolbelt, Leo pulls a flask of oil and splashes it in an arc in front of him. It successfully douses the Maenads enough that when he raises a hand, they're engulfed in a wall of flames. Leo snatches Medea's wrist, pulling her in the direction away from the Maenads. But the fire doesn't do much as the girls dance through the wall of flames in their smouldering dresses, laughing maniacally.

          "Thank you, unbeliever!" Babette crows. "Our frenzy makes us immune to fire, but it does tickle. Trixie, send the unbelievers a thank you gift!"

Medea doesn't let them waste time watching Trixie heave a large boulder from the remains of Zeus' Fist over her shoulder and shoves her way towards the edge of the clearing. It barely misses them as they dive into the trees for cover, nearly clipping the undone laces stretching from Medea's shoes. Heart in her throat, the girl lets out a shrill scream. They're all plummeting, skidding down a ravine and ploughing straight into each other due to the lack of control. When they land, Jason grasps at the scruff of Medea's t-shirt, heaving her small body behind a massive oak tree.

          "How do we beat them?" He demands in a heaving breath. "They're immune to fire? They're super strong."

          "We can't kill them." Piper says.

          "There has to be a way." Leo says.

          "No." Piper says. "We can't kill them. Anyone who kills a Maenad is cursed by Dionysus. Haven't you read the old stories? People who kill his followers go crazy or get morphed into animals or, well, bad stuff."

          "Worse than being brutally ripped apart?" Medea questions.

Piper nods.

Medea purses her lips and weighs her options: she could leave, leave them in the dust, but without their help it would be difficult to get past the group of Maenads. Medea's only other option is to stay and to tough it out. But either way, she's weaponless.

          "That's just great." Jason says. "So we have to stop them without killing them. Anyone got a really big piece of flypaper?"

          "We're outnumbered four to one." Piper says. "Plus," she checks her flower. "We have twenty minutes until Bunker Nine explodes."

          "It's impossible." Jason summarises.

          "We're dead." Piper agrees.

Medea leans against the oak tree, pressing her palms into the bark and closing her eyes tiredly. It's been a long day—moving from camp to the Fields of Asphodel to Elysium and back to the campgrounds—and she's exhausted. With a huff, she remembers she's meant to be wrapping Nico's Christmas present.

          "I've got it."

Peeling open her eyes, Medea looks at Leo. "Spit it out."

          "Jason, you'll have to find Buford. You know which way he went. Circle back and find him, then bring him to the bunker, quick. Once you're far enough from the Maenads, maybe you can control the winds again. You can fly."

Jason frowns. "What about you three?"

          "We're going to lead the Maenads out of your way." Leo explains. "Straight to Bunker Nine."

Medea narrows her eyes. "That seems counterproductive."

          "Isn't Bunker Nine about to explode?" Piper coughs.

          "Yes, but if I can get the Maenads inside, I have a way to take care of them." Leo says.

          "Great," Medea says, "murderous Maenads in enclosed spaces. I can't wait."

Jason's expression is sceptical. "Even if you can, I'll still have to find Buford and get the syncopator back to you in twenty minutes, or you, Piper, Medea and a dozen crazy nymphs will blow up."

          "Trust me." Leo says. "And it's nineteen minutes now."

          "I love this plan." Piper says. She kisses Jason. "In case I explode. Please hurry."

Jason bolts into the woods.

          "Come on," Leo gestures to Piper and Medea, "let's invite the Maenads to my place." 

Medea's shoes thunder against the grass beneath her feet. Her strength is dwindling, using the last dregs to guide the trees into pathways for the Maenads—creating blockages and direct routes as Leo shouts "Party over here!" vaguely every so often. His voice echoes in her skull, synchronised with the beginnings of a pounding migraine gathering in her temples. Medea grunts, shoulder slamming into a bush. She pulls a leaf from her t-shirt and crushes it in her palm, clutching onto it tightly like a lifeline. Medea is taking up the back of the group and as she makes a sharp turn, there's nails in the back of her t-shirt, shredding the fabric like it's nothing. Babette's stuttered breathing is familiar. Medea's t-shirt rips in her hand, and it causes her to stumble, tripping over her shoelaces as Babette approaches her.

          "You would never be good enough for lord Dionysus." Babette cackles. "Not enough for our revels. We will celebrate by ripping you to shreds."

Medea scowls. "Fat chance."

Fuelling the last bit of her anger and frustration into her palms, there's a flash of green as Medea plunges the transformed leaf into the ground by Babette's hand. The Maenad laughs, but that's her mistake. Medea kicks at Babette's knee, scrambling backwards as she crumbles and the thorn continues to throw like a barbed fence around her crumbled body. It doesn't piece Babette's skin but it's enough to keep her distracted.

The daughter of Persephone pulls herself to her feet, finding Leo and Piper behind her. The roar of the rest of the Maenads sounds through the woods.

          "Almost there." Piper heaves. She points a hundred yards in front of them and they take off again without another thought.

Medea doesn't remember Leo opening the door or stumbling into the bunker but pushes onward, standing in the middle of the staging hangar as the Maenads trickle in. Piper climbs into the safety of the catwalks, standing above them like an avenging angel. They just need to buy Leo two minutes.

Two minutes is all he needs.

          "Where are you?" Babette calls. "My fake lord Dionysus, party with us!"

          "How about we square dance?" Piper responds from up in the catwalks. "Swing her around!"

The Maenads begin to dance, swinging each other into Leo's heavy, metal projects. Medea ducks behind a cabinet, hiding from a frazzled Babette.

          "Stop it!" Babette yells. "Do not grab a partner. Grab that demigod!"

Piper tries to yell more commands but seems to be losing her sway as the Maenads shake their heads free of fog and begin to climb the ladders. Looking around, Medea grabs a wrench from a tool bench and hurls it in Babette's direction. It clatters against the Maenads' head and causes her to turn in Medea's direction. The girl ducks back behind the cabinet.

          "Leo?" Piper calls out. "Has it been two minutes?"

          "Just a sec!" Leo replies, somewhere in the depths of his benches. Metal glints in the light as he sprints out, coming to a stop in front of the Argo II and yells. "Hey! Here I am! Come on, party with me!"

The Maenads begin circling him like vultures. Leo looks around, catching Medea's eye. He gestures frantically and with a curse, she breaks free from behind the cabinet and skids to stand beside Leo.

          "Just stand there." Leo whispers before looking back to the Maenads. "Sing along!"

Babette is the last to join the circle, eyeing Medea. "You are wise to accept your fate. The real Dionysus would be pleased."

          "Yeah, about that," Leo says. "I think there's a reason he changed his number. You guys aren't followers. You're crazy rabid stalkers. You haven't found him because he doesn't want you to."

          "Lies!" Babette shrieks. "We are the spirits of the wine god! He is proud of us!"

          "Sure," Medea says. "That's why he didn't give you his new number."

          "Kill him!"

          "Wait!" Leo holds up his hands. "You can kill me, but you want this to be a real party, don't you?"

The Maenads waver.

          "Oh, yeah," Leo looks up and shouts to the catwalks, "Piper? It's time to crank things up!"

Medea sucks in a breath. Three beats pass before anything happens and then suddenly it's like the bunker springs to life. Around them, pipes rise from the floor spewing purple steam and metal shavings to substitute glitter confetti. A winch system swings from the ceiling and a mirror ball descends overhead.

Babette looks around. "What trick is this? You do not party for Dionysus!"

          "Oh, no?" Leo says. He wraps an arm around Medea's waist, pulling her tight to him. "Hold on." He whispers to her, and reluctantly holds onto his shoulders. Leo looks back to Babette. "You haven't seen my final trick."

When the ball opens up and a grappling hook drops from the mirror ball. Without hesitation, Leo launches himself and Medea towards it in a spurt of strength. Medea squeaks, Leo's fingers digging into her waist as they hang. Babette growls, jumping to grab her sneaker and Medea struggles, feeling her grip on Leo slip. It takes a kick to the face for Babette to lose her grip and for one of Medea's shoelaces to snap.

She holds tighter onto Leo. Slipping again in surprise when something explodes with a bang! and a curtain of golden mesh catapults towards the Maenads. It covers them almost completely, only a single corner failing to catch one Maenad. Medea throws out a hand, using the last of her strength and keenly focuses on changing a set of spare pipes into crawling thorns that trap the Maenad and direct her underneath within its confines.

"Piper!" Leo's voice is loud in Medea's ear. "Hit the button again!"

Piper does and the music dies, the partying ending. Thankfully. Leo drops him and Medea from the hook, landing on the sturdy roof of the net without issue.

"Let us out!" Babette shrieks. "What evil magic is this?"

Leo helps Medea jump to the ground. "This is my party now, ladies. That cage is made from Hephaestian netting, a little recipe my dad cooked up. Maybe you've heard the story." He grins. "He caught his wife Aphrodite cheating on him with Ares, so Hephaestus threw a golden net over them and put them on display. They stayed trapped until my dad decided to let them out. That netting right there? That's made from the same stuff. If two gods couldn't escape it, you don't stand a chance."

Piper slides down the ladder. "Leo, you are amazing."

          "I know that." Leo says. "For about two more minutes. Then I stop being amazing."

Medea scowls. "All that and we die in an explosion? Are you serious?"

          "Waiting for us?" Jason calls from the opening doorway, Buford clattering towards Leo excitedly.

Medea watches with narrowed eyes and a hand to her temple as Leo fixes Buford and the trapped Maenads yell from underneath the net. It pounds against her skull like a hammer. She steps away from Leo and the table, slinging her backpack over her shoulder.

          "Where are you going?" Piper asks.

          "I have stuff to do." Medea replies shortly. "I won't tell anybody about what happened with the exploding engine or whatever." She flicks her fingers. "But I'm not dealing with disposing of murderous Maenads. That wasn't a part of my deal."

Leo glares.

Medea smiles, something grim and dark. "Don't forget, you three owe me one for this."

The words leave a sour expression on Leo's face. 

It's dark outside—trees hanging overhead as Medea trails through the woods towards camp quietly. She brushes her fingers against the canvas of her bag, stopping just outside the clearing of Zeus' Fist and sucking in a breath. Medea feels around in the darkness for her backpack's zipper, and pulls out the small pouch of pomegranate seeds. It's red-stained bottom flashes in the moonlight. Medea pulls a piece of paper from her bag, fishing out a pen and scribbling her note onto the paper in black ink: For emergencies. Merry Christmas, Nico. Love, Medea. Pulling apart the leather knot, she places the note in the bag and ties it closed again.

Medea holds it in the palm of her hand like a promise and closes her eyes. There's a click in the darkness. The daughter of Persephone looks around, stepping back on her left foot and hearing a twig crack beneath her weight. She wrinkles her nose. Swooping across the moon, a bat dives towards Medea, circling overhead. She tracks the creature with her eyes, raising the pouch in the palm of her hand to the sky.

          "To Nico Di Angelo, please." Medea whispers.

And the bat takes the pouch in their claws, flying away.

THIS IS A LOT IM SORRY BUT I HOPE YOU ENJOYED!!