ALYSSA WINSLOW HAD NOT EXPECTED the stark difference between heiress Valerie and Sandman Valerie.

    Sandman Valerie is closed off, secluded within herself, quiet and stoic. She does not smile, or go out of her way to talk to people. She wears all black and band tees, Dr. Martens that have been broken in with time.

    Heiress Valerie is bright and bubbly, smiling at the people she passes in the stores they enter. She's wearing color, a pale blue sweater and a pair of tailored jeans, tucked into a pair of Chelsea boots.

    She looks so different from the Valerie that Alyssa knows and loves, the one that she's had to drag out of bed at all hours of the afternoon, all darkness and secrecy and sharpness. But she's smiling at the boutique's sales associate, beaming widely and making small talk.

    "Miss Greenwood, it's been so long!" The sales associate, a peppy blonde whose name tag identifies her as Becca, says, reaching across the counter to place her hand over Valerie's. "I was so sorry to hear about your sister, but I'm glad to see you again."

    Valerie's smile falls only slightly, turning sad. It's all an act, it seems, although the flicker of something mournful in Valerie's eyes is real. "Thank you. I can't tell you how much I appreciate that." Her voice is soft, and she squeezes Becca's hand once more before withdrawing her own hand.

    There is a lull in conversation for a moment, until Becca clasps her hands together. "So! What are we looking for today? I'm assuming you're shopping for a dress for Eloise's birthday, but what direction are we going in?" She asks, leading Valerie and Alyssa deeper into the shop, where rack after rack of gowns lined the walls.

    "I was thinking something Alexander McQueen, maybe Rodarte. And I like some of Dior's new line." Valerie says, listing brands that Alyssa has only seen on celebrities, in pictures from award shows. "I might just try some things on until I find something I like."

    Becca's smile grows, showing off a dimple in her left cheek. "Alright. If you need me, I'll be up front." She says, and her heeled boots clack sharply on the tiled boutique floor as she walks back up to the desk by the door. She's humming to herself, under her breath, and she's quiet as she clicks around on the shop's computer.

    Valerie turns to Alyssa, and her smile falls immediately. "That was torture. I was two seconds away from bribing her into leaving us here unattended." She whispers, whiskey eyes dark and deadly serious. "That made me want to die. I hate the richy rich small talk shit."

    Alyssa is only able to hide her laugh by turning away from Valerie, facing a rack of designer gowns. There are a myriad of colors dangling from padded hangers, blue silk and silver lace and black velvet.

    "Divide and conquor?" Alyssa asks, gesturing to the wide room.

    Valerie nods, just barely tipping her chin down. Despite her negative stance on her wealth and privilege, something sparkles in her eyes when she sets her gaze on the designer dresses. While she's always felt more comfortable at Camp Half Blood, where wealth and prestige doesn't matter in the slightest, she grew up in this world—grew up surrounded by more money than she could possibly spend, with a last name that opened doors and expensive things were purchased without batting an eye.

    Alyssa pulls two handfulls of gowns off of the racks, most of which are meant for Valerie, but some for her. For Valerie, she grabs darker dresses—shades of royal purple, black, cobalt, and maroon—because she knows the Sandman wouldn't be caught dead in pastels.

    However, for herself, Alyssa chooses vibrant colors, including a teal number that sets her soul on fire.

    "Here," Alyssa mutters, pushing the cobalt dress into Valerie's hand and shoving her into the dressing room. "Try this one first. The blue will make your hair look good."

    And she's right—the bright blue against Valerie's hair makes it shine like bronze. Although the benefit to her hair is the only positive for the gown—it hangs strangely on Valerie's lithe frame, and it was clearly made for someone not quite as tall.

    Valerie's mouth is pulled into a frown. "Why do you hate me?" She asks, adjusting her shoulders in an attempt to make the too-tight straps stop digging into her skin. She looks uncomfortable, either because of the dress's fabric or its straps, and her eyes are begging for help removing the dress.

    The next dress does a far better job of not triggering Valerie's sensory issues. For starters, the purple gown is strapless, so there are no thin, tiny straps to dig into the brand on her shoulder.

    She hates tight clothing, tight armor, anything that traps her within fabric confines. She works around the issues as best she can, but with things like armor and couture gowns, they're nearly impossible to avoid.

    Alyssa cocks her head, eyebrows pulling together. "Before I tell you how I feel about it, how do you feel about it?"

    Valerie smooths down non-existent creases on the bodice of the dress. It's a rich purple, with an A-line waist and a hemline that brushes the floor. "I don't know." She says, sounding hesitant. "It's fine, I guess. It just doesn't feel like...it doesn't feel like me."

    To anyone else, it would be impossible to pinpoint what's wrong. To Alyssa Winslow, however, it's clear: the dress is a color other than black. If it were any other issue, Valerie would have been able to vocalize it.

    "Okay. I can work with that." Alyssa says, and she smiles as she gathers the gowns that aren't charcoal or inky black. "Give me a minute. I'll be right back."

    Two hours later, with countless designer gowns hung around the deserted shop, they decide on a dress.

    Valerie steps out of the dressing room, adjusting the cuffs of the gown around her wrists and fiddling with the deep V of the neckline.

    There aren't even any words that need to be said, any glances to be exchanged. Valerie and Alyssa take a look at the gown, and, barely breathing, they both nod.

    "Becca?" Valerie calls, dark eyes lit up at the sight of the dress. "I'll take this one. Put it on my account."

|

    Alyssa is nothing short of impressed at the way Valerie handles the various errands of the day. Every boutique or shop interaction is ended with put it on the Greenwood account, and she's charming, graceful, and polite to every person she encounters. No death glares, no threats, no weapons pulled from out of thin air.

    Although, Alyssa doesn't doubt that Valerie is carrying a weapon—she has several within reach at all times back at camp, daggers hidden under pillows and between books on her bookshelves. In fact, she can see the hilt of a dagger peeking out from the back of Valerie's jeans. She's most definitely carrying, and it's not surprising in the slightest.

    With two garment bags slung over her shoulder with reckless abandon, despite the fact that the clothing within the bags is worth well over twenty thousand dollars, Valerie stops in front of the Greenwood Hotel, her expression stormy.

    Other than the lunch she'd promised Alyssa, this is their last stop of the day, saved for last simply because of how daunting it is.

    Valerie is frozen in place, her boots cemented to the sidewalk.

    "If you want me to go in instead of you," Alyssa starts, not reaching out to touch Valerie's arm like she wants to. "I will. Just tell me what you want me to say and give me your credit card, and I'll go in."

    She knows, in sparse detail, about the long and troubled history Valerie has with her family. Even before Noelle, Valerie was always the black sheep. And Alyssa knows Valerie must be terrified at the prospect of running into her mother or one of her sisters.

    Despite the fact that she's shaking with nerves, Valerie looks at Alyssa with a smirk. "If I give you my credit card, you'll run off and bankrupt me."

    Something like relief blooms in Alyssa's chest. "So we go in together?"

    "Yes." Valerie steels herself, and whatever concern was baked into her expression is replaced with cool confidence. She is Valerie Greenwood, heiress to the hotel in front of her and a fortune that has more money than God, and if she could stand in front of this building almost two years ago and defend it with her life, she can walk in the front doors.

    And she does, allowing the doorman to hold the door open. Her head is held high as she walks up to the front desk.

    Not a single one of the people they've encountered today has used her first name. It's always Miss Greenwood, because, to these people, her family name matters more than her identity as an individual.

    "Miss Greenwood!" The front desk clerk says brightly, and Alyssa bites back a frown. "I'll just go ahead and call up to the penthouse to let your mother know you're here. I'm sure she'll be glad to see you."

    Valerie is lurching towards the marble desk, her heiress smile plastered to her face. "No, that won't be necessary. I'm actually here to reserve a room."

    The marble front desk has been the same for the twenty years that Valerie has lived in the building—the smooth white stone, the emerald green G in looping script, even the smell of the lobby, are all the same.

    The clerk balks for a moment. "You don't want to stay in the penthouse? With your mother and sisters?"

    The smile on Valerie's face turns a bit wicked. "I don't know. Is Josslyn in town? Because if she is, I'll rent that room. If she isn't, then I'll stay in the penthouse."

    It had been a rumor in the tabloids three years ago, when Valerie was seventeen and Josslyn was twenty-two, that the two sisters hated each other. Utterly untrue, of course, because all five of the Greenwood sisters had always been as thick as thieves. Most people who kept up with the tabloids, even Greenwood Hotel staff, believed the rumor to be the gospel truth.

    When the clerk continues to gape, Valerie shakes her head. "I'm just kidding. I'll still need that room. Something high up, maybe a view of Central Park if they aren't already sold out. Two queen beds." She fishes around in the purse she's been carrying all day—a purse, for gods' sakes—for her wallet, Versace's Medusa logo stamped across the front of it. She pulls out a black American Express card and slides it across the counter. "I'll need the room from June fourteenth to the twenty-eighth."

    "Excellent. I've got you down for June fourteenth through the twenty-eighth, a two-queen room, fifty-sixth floor, overlooking Central Park." The clerk says, something like humor in her expression. "I might have to rearrange the former President's accomodations, but you're in."

    Valerie beams. "Excellent. Thank you so much. And do me a favor, will you?" She pauses to glance at the clerk's nametag. "Dolores, will you keep it under wraps that I was here, or that I have a reservation? I want to surprise my family."

    Dolores's ears turn red, apparently happy to be in on a secret. "Of course, Miss Greenwood. If you'd like, I can put the reservation under an alternate name, or just your initials, in case your mother decides to snoop." She says conspiratorally.

    "You might be my favorite person, Dolores. That would be lovely."

    Just like how Valerie's face had lost its smile the moment they stepped out of the boutique, her expression drops once they leave the hotel.

    "Alyssa," she says, sharpness bleeding from her voice. "Please tell me you brought me a change of clothes."

    Laughter threatens to bubble out of Alyssa's mouth as she gestures to the backpack thrown over her shoulder. "Got a Metallica shirt and your favorite black cargo pants. Your Vans are in here, too. I figured you'd have an episode about the clothes sooner or later, so I planned ahead."

    Something warms in Valerie's eyes—something like thankfulness. "Have I mentioned that you're the only person I can tolerate?"

    "Tell that to Loverboy when you're alone in a hotel room together for two weeks."

    Valerie just rolls her eyes, shoving Alyssa lightly.

|

    The last person Valerie expects to be waiting outside of Cabin 21 is Olympus's lord and savior, Percy Jackson.

    At first, when she sees him from afar, she doesn't recognize him. He's facing the door, knuckles pressed against the stained glass as if he'd just finished knocking, and his hair is just a shade or two too dark to be Travis or Connor's. With his back facing her, when she can't see his face, she has no idea who had the gall to approach what many deem a haunted cabin.

    He hears her coming, though, because she allows her footfalls to be noisy. He whips around to face her. "Greenwood."

    "Jackson. What are you doing here?"

    He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, and he looks like he's about to shit himself. "I came to ask you for a favor."

    She bites back the urge to tell him to get lost. After all, they're standing in front of a cabin that, by his orders, was hers to design and live in.

    "What is it?" She says instead, crossing her arms over the logo on her t-shirt.

    Gods, he really looks like he's about to puke. "I, um... my girlfriend, Althea Knight. She's—" He curses under his breath. "Listen, I've heard you can manipulate people's dreams, walk right into their minds. I need that."

    Her eyebrows shoot up to her hairline. "What does that have to do with Knight?" She asks incredulously.

    "Will you just—will you just come with me? It will only take a minute." He sounds so scared, so rattled, that she has no choice but to follow him across the lawn separating the cabins, all the way up to the Big House.

    It's a reflex for her to check the window of Chiron's office, to see if the light is on. In the setting sun, it's hard to tell if the window is lit up from the inside or if it's just the late afternoon light shining against the glass. She hopes he's not in the house, off torturing some other poor demigod soul, just so she doesn't have to ask him for clearance to leave for two weeks.

    Instead of turning left when they enter the front door—left, where they would find the rec room, Chiron's office, and the stairs to the second floor—Percy turns right, down a flight of stairs into a basement that she hadn't even known existed.

    They reach a door, shut and padlocked from the outside, and Percy stops. "I know you don't know her, but she's not normally like this. She's not this..." He pauses, voice shaking. "She's funny, and smart, and the best person I've ever met. She's more than this."

    Valerie swallows. "You keep your girlfriend locked in a basement?" She asks, unnerved to see Percy Jackson so shaken.

    He doesn't grace her with a response. Instead, he pulls a key out of his pocket and uses it to unlock the door, gesturing for her to go in first.

    The Althea Knight that had looked at her with a bright fire in her violet eyes at the counselor meeting is gone, replaced with an empty shell of what she once was. Her golden hair is shorter and matted, and while she stares up at the ceiling, there is nothing within her eyes. No thought, no recognition. Just an endless pool of milky lavender haze.

    "Shit," Valerie whispers. She takes a step forward, not of her own will but out of sheer morbid curiosity. "What happened?"

    Percy shakes his head, stalking past her to take a seat in the rickety chair next to the cot that Althea lays prone on. "Long story. Can you fix this?"

    Valerie recognizes the desperation in his voice. It's the same desperation that her prayers to Apollo had held when Noelle hadn't woken up. It's despair and heartache and sorrow. It is a grief that can only be felt for someone that has not yet died.

    Despite her incomplete and inadequate grasp of human emotions, Valerie understands.

    "Can I touch her?" She asks, any and all hostility beaten out of her. She doesn't move a muscle until Percy gives her an almost imperceptible nod.

    Valerie sets her fingertips on Althea's clammy forehead, and she is almost knocked backwards by the force of the agony that is rolling off of the daughter of Dionysus.

    The pain creates a shield around Althea's mind, impenetrable to anyone except for Valerie. When she pushes against it, testing its strength, its depth, seeing how much it will give against her power, she frowns.

    The pain barely moves, so she pushes harder. And harder. And harder. Until finally, it yields enough for her to slip through the cracks.

    Blood starts to drip from her nose, rolling down her cupid's bow, lips, and chin, as the memories begin flooding into her mind.

    There is so much suffering within these memories. They taste like sulfur, rotting on her tongue.

    In all of the memories, flashbacks to Althea's long life of war, she can't find the real Althea. Whenever she sneaks into dreams, the owner of the brain she walks into is always somewhere among the chaos of their own mind.

    Althea is nowhere to be found, lost somewhere within herself.

    Valerie rocks backwards, falling onto her back. Her head hits the concrete floor, and something inside of her head rattles on impact.

    Some of Althea's pain, a small fraction of the awful, never-ending hurt has transferred to Valerie.

    Everything burns as she sits up, scrambling to get to her feet.

    She locks eyes with Percy, amber on sea-green, and bolts, making it as far as the porch outside before she's on her hands and knees, gagging until something makes its way to the surface.