The Moon's Shine (PJO)

Chapter 42

"Percy!"

The son of the sea turned around in the woods to find a familiar immortal seated on a log nearby. "What's up, Lady Aphrodite? It's fancy seeing you here."

"What's up?" The immortal looked disgruntled. "I've been calling you for the past ten minutes."

"Wait. Aren't you supposed to say, "Just call me Aphrodite'?"

"Why would I do that, presumptuous brat? You had the gall to ignore an Olympiam—I think that gives me enough ground to give you a two-hour-long makeover." She shuddered and ensured her white blouse didn't touch the grimy log. "And why'd you pick such a dreary day to go on a walk? If I didn't know any better, I would think you're trying to avoid me."

Percy opened his mouth to argue—but then realized how the scene must've looked to the immortal:

Upon exiting—or more accurately, escaping from—the pegasi stables, Percy'd found himself trapped in a sudden thunderstorm. (The magical barrier could neutralize such inclement weather, but during the last Camp meeting, the head councilors had decided to leave the climate be, claiming that it prepared the demigods for the upcoming quests.) Demigods and satyrs had run past Percy as rain torrented and lightning streaked across the sky, racing toward the nearest shelter as if the water was poisonous.

A few satyrs had taken cover under the stable roof and had gaped in shock when Percy'd sprinted into the storm, toward the forest, where things weren't much better. In fact, it were worse. The water alone didn't bother him (despite his locked powers, his passive abilities worked like normal), but mud and leaves had stuck to his shoes as he went deeper into the woods. Now, he felt very self-conscious about his disheveled appearance in front of his gorgeous patron, who didn't even have a strand of hair out of place—even though she'd been hunting for him.

"I knew it," Aphrodite crowed, as if she'd read his mind. "You were ignoring me."

"I have no idea what you're talking about. Maybe your voice was drowned out by the wind . . . ?" As if to prove his point, a gust shot past them, chilling them to the bone and throwing heaps of muddy leaves on both of them.

When Percy pushed the debris from his face, he found that Aphrodite hadn't moved an inch. She had definitely been pelted by leaves—but they hadn't left a mark on her clothes, as if there was a hidden forcefield encircling her. 

On the other hand, Percy felt like he'd been through a hurricane—one full of adherent liquids that had no choice but to stick onto him. And with Aphrodite's suspicions on him—well . . . he'd rather fight against the Party Ponies, which was saying something.

"There's no point in lying," she insisted. "I already know. I can feel your panic from all the way over here."

Percy internally groaned. It was just his luck; the immortal that he'd bound himself to just had to be one that could act as a human lie detector. He defeatedly approached the immortal and, with a big sigh, slumped onto the log beside her. "What else can you discern, O', mighty Olympian?"

Aphrodite giggled. Her amber eyes sparkled in elation, as though this was the first time she was enjoying herself. "Well, your panic has turned into dread. I don't know why, though." 

Sure you don't. The Olympians were infamous in Camp—not because they were a group of immortal deities with an incredible amount of power, but mainly because of the fact that they have abused their power. Frequently. 

Percy had long suspected that, if they were compared to demigods, their fatal flaw would be inferiority.

And it wasn't as though his patron was exempt from his judgment; even with the minute amount of power that Aphrodite utilized, she'd had cursed hundreds—maybe even thousands—of innocent mortals. In comparison, her hidden, amiable nature was a bit jarring to Percy—but it was an improvement.