𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖉𝖆𝖚𝖌𝖍𝖙𝖊𝖗

i. I accidentally vaporize my godmother

 𝓞𝓝𝓔

┌─── ∘°°∘☽【❖】☾∘°°∘ ───┐

ℍ𝕚𝕤 𝔻𝕒𝕦𝕘𝕙𝕥𝕖𝕣

└─── °∘∘°☽【❖】☾°∘∘° ───┘

Look, I didn't want to be a half-blood. If you're reading this because you think you might be one, my advice is: close this book right now. Believe whatever lie your mom or dad told you about your birth, and try to lead a normal life.

Being a half-blood is dangerous. It's scary. Most of the time, it gets you killed in painful, nasty ways.

If you're a normal kid, reading this because you think it's fiction, great. Read on. I envy you for being able to believe that none of this ever happened.

But if you recognize yourself in these pages—if you feel something stirring inside—stop reading immediately. You might be one of us. And once you know that, it's only a matter of time before they sense it too, and they'll come for you.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

My name is Percy Jackson. Or, at least it was. My name right now is Estella Andromeda Nyx Jackson-Salvatore-Morningstar. You're probably gonna ask, "Morningstar as in, the Devil?". Well, yeah. But I prefer for him to be known as my dad.

I'm twelve years old. Until a few months ago, I was a boarding student at Yancy Academy, a private school for troubled kids in upstate New York.

Am I a troubled kid?

Yeah. You could say that. But I prefer the term manipulative and too-smart-for-your-own-good.

I could start at any point in my long awesome life to prove it, but things really started going bad last May, when our sixth-grade class took a field trip to Manhattan— twenty-eight mental-case kids and two teachers on a yellow school bus, heading to the Metropolitan Museum of Art to look at ancient Greek and Roman stuff.

I know—it sounds like torture (and not the fun kind). Most Yancy field trips were.

But Mr. Brunner, our Latin teacher, was leading this trip, so I had hopes.

Mr. Brunner was this middle-aged guy in a motorized wheelchair. He had thinning hair and a scruffy beard and a frayed tweed jacket, which always smelled like coffee. You wouldn't think he'd be cool, but he told stories and jokes and let us play games in class. He also had this awesome collection of Roman armor and weapons, so he was the only teacher whose class didn't put me to sleep.

I hoped the trip would be okay. At least, I hoped that for once I wouldn't get in trouble.

Boy, was I wrong.

See, bad things happen to me on field trips. Like at my fifth-grade school, when we went to the Saratoga battlefield, I had this accident with a Revolutionary War cannon. I wasn't aiming for the school bus, but of course I got expelled anyway. And before that, at my fourth-grade school, when we took a behind-the-scenes tour of the Marine World shark pool, I sort of hit the wrong lever on the catwalk and our class took an unplanned swim. And the time before that... Well, you get the idea.

This trip, I was determined to be good.

All the way into the city, I put up with Nancy Bobofit, the freckly, redheaded kleptomaniac girl, who was just a queen bee wannabe (because everyone knows it belongs to me.) hitting my best friend Grover in the back of the head with chunks of peanut butter-and-ketchup sandwich.