𝐒𝐰𝐢𝐦𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐈𝐧 𝐆𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐡𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐬 ²

Chapter 59

I I I - Three
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Y/N

Y/N WASN’T SCARED OF GHOSTS, which was lucky. Half the people in camp were dead.

   Shimmering purple warriors stood outside the armory, polishing ethereal swords. Others hung out in front of the barracks. A ghostly boy chased a ghostly dog down the street. And at the stables, a big glowing red dude with the head of a wolf guarded a herd of…Were those unicorns?

  None of the campers paid the ghosts much attention, but as (y/n)’s entourage walked by, with Reyna in the lead and Frank and Hazel on either side, all the spirits stopped what they were doing and stared at (y/n). A few looked angry. The little boy ghost shrieked something like “Greggus!” and
turned invisible.

  (y/n) wished he could turn invisible too. After weeks on his own, all this attention made him uneasy. He stayed between Hazel and Frank and tried to look inconspicuous.

  "Am I seeing things?" he asked. "Or are those—"

  "Ghosts?" Hazel turned. She had startling eyes, like fourteen-karat gold. "They’re Lares. House gods."

  "House gods," (y/n) said. "Like… smaller than real gods, but larger than apartment gods?"

  "They’re ancestral spirits," Frank explained. He’d removed his helmet, revealing a babyish face that didn’t go with his military haircut or his big burly frame. He looked like a toddler who’d taken steroids and joined the Marines. Though, (y/n) himself looked like a blind 13 year old child, who'd matured very quickly and got tattoos at the ripe age of 5, so he hadn't much room to talk.

  "The Lares are kind of like mascots," he continued. "Mostly they’re harmless, but I’ve never seen them so agitated."

  "They be staring at me," (y/n) said, bothered. "That ghost kid called me Greggus. My name ain't Greg."

  "Graecus," Hazel said. "Once you’ve been here awhile, you’ll start understanding Latin. Demigods have a natural sense for it. Graecus means Greek."

  "That bad?" (y/n) asked. "It sounds bad."

  Frank cleared his throat. "Maybe not. You’ve got that type of complexion, the dark hair and all. Maybe they think you’re actually Greek. Is your family from there?"

  "Dunno. Like I said, memory gone."

  "Or maybe..." Frank hesitated.

  "What?" (y/n) asked.

  "Probably nothing," Frank said. "Romans and Greeks have an old rivalry. Sometimes Romans use graecus as an insult for someone who’s an outsider—an enemy. I wouldn’t worry about it."

  He sounded pretty worried.

  They stopped at the center of camp, where two wide stone-paved roads met at a T.

  A street sign labeled the road to the main gates as VIA PRAETORIA. The other road, cutting across the middle of camp, was labeled via principalis. Under those markers were hand-painted signs like BERKELEY 5 MILES; NEW ROME 1 MILE; OLD ROME 7280 MILES; HADES 2310 MILES (pointing straight down); RENO 208 MILES, and CERTAIN DEATH: YOU ARE HERE!

  For certain death, the place looked pretty clean and orderly. The buildings were freshly whitewashed, laid out in neat grids like the camp had been designed by a fussy math teacher. The barracks had shady porches, where campers lounged in hammocks or played cards and drank sodas.