❝ Does being a Child of Hermes automatically make you good at flirting? Or was that just a skill you picked up? ❞
Andromeda Jackson knew she was not cut out for the demigod life, and that was before she heard about her death from the creepy oracle i...
─── the hot guy now has a name, and shocker, it's hot
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ℑt seemed that my Latin teacher actually being part horse sent me into a crisis, but I mean, can you truly blame me? My life had just gone from tolerably sane to taking a full blown nose dive into insanity. I was not coping well with this.
He led me down into the valley, past a volleyball pit lined with columns. A bunch of campers in ugly orange shirts were watching me and the Minotaur's horn with wide eyes.
"That's her," I turned around to shoot a glare at them, but my height (or lack thereof) meant that I was not all that intimidating.
I wasn't normally shy, but the way they stared at me made me uncomfortable. I felt like a new kid at school again, and I'd long since grown out of that emotion after joining my fifth school.
Were they expecting me to break into song and dance about how weird all of this was?
I looked back at the farmhouse. It was a lot larger than I'd thought - four stories tall, made of pale yellow brick, with a white trim. The windows were covered with shutters, and little balconies were on some of the higher windows. I was checking out the brass eagle weathervane on top when something caught my eye, a shadow in the uppermost window of the attic gable. Something had moved the curtain, just for a second, and I got the distinct impression I was being watched.
"What's up there?" I asked Chiron, pointing at the attic.
He looked where I was pointing, and his smile faded. "Just the attic."
"Somebody lives there?"
"No," he said with finality. "Not a single living thing."
He was so definitely lying to me. I kissed my teeth quietly, before Chiron coughed.
"Come along, Andromeda," Chiron said, his lighthearted tone now a little forced. "Lots to see."
We walked through the strawberry fields, where campers were picking bushels of berries while a satyr played a tune on a reed pipe. Chiron told me the camp grew a nice crop for export to New York restaurants, and godly temples.
"It pays our expenses," he explained. "And the strawberries take almost no effort."
I smiled, before it fell at the thought of my mum's world famous strawberry shortcake that she used to make in the summers. Turning away, I chose to focus on another thought.
