The Hidden Oracle Read Free Page B

that—Is that
acne
?”
    Immortal gods do not
get
acne. It is one of our inalienable rights. Yet I leaned closer to the glass and saw that my skin was indeed a scarred landscape of whiteheads and pustules.
    I balled my fists and wailed to the cruel sky, “Zeus, what have I done to deserve this?”
    Meg tugged at my sleeve. “You’re going to get yourself arrested.”
    “What does it matter? I have been made a teenager, and not even one with perfect skin! I bet I don’t even have…” With a cold sense of dread, I lifted my shirt. My midriff was covered with a floral pattern of bruises from my fall into the Dumpster and my subsequent kicking. But even worse, I had
flab.
    “Oh, no, no, no.” I staggered around the sidewalk, hoping the flab would not follow me. “Where are my eight-pack abs? I
always
have eight-pack abs. I
never
have love handles. Never in four thousand years!”
    Meg made another snorting laugh. “Sheesh, crybaby, you’re fine.”
    “I’m fat!”
    “You’re average. Average people don’t have eight-pack abs. C’mon.”
    I wanted to protest that I was not average
nor
a person, but with growing despair, I realized the term now fit me perfectly.
    On the other side of the storefront window, a security guard’s face loomed, scowling at me. I allowed Meg to pull me farther down the street.
    She skipped along, occasionally stopping to pick up a coin or swing herself around a streetlamp. The child seemed unfazed by the cold weather, the dangerous journey ahead, and the fact that I was suffering from acne.
    “How are you so calm?” I demanded. “You are a demigod, walking with a god, on your way to a camp to meet others of your kind. Doesn’t any of that surprise you?”
    “Eh.” She folded one of my twenty-dollar bills into a paper airplane. “I’ve seen a bunch of weird stuff.”
    I was tempted to ask what could be weirder than the morning we had just had. I decided I might not be able to stand the stress of knowing. “Where are you from?”
    “I told you. The alley.”
    “No, but…your parents? Family? Friends?”
    A ripple of discomfort passed over her face. She returned her attention to her twenty-dollar airplane. “Not important.”
    My highly advanced people-reading skills told me she was hiding something, but that was not unusual for demigods. For children blessed with an immortal parent, they were strangely sensitive about their backgrounds. “And you’ve never heard of Camp Half-Blood? Or Camp Jupiter?”
    “Nuh-uh.” She tested the airplane’s point on her fingertip. “How much farther to Perry’s house?”
    “Percy’s. I’m not sure. A few more blocks…I think.”
    That seemed to satisfy Meg. She hopscotched ahead, throwing the cash airplane and retrieving it. She cartwheeled through the intersection at East Seventy-Second Street—her clothes a flurry of traffic-light colors so bright I worried the drivers might get confused and run her down. Fortunately, New York drivers were used to swerving around oblivious pedestrians.
    I decided Meg must be a feral demigod. They were rare but not unheard of. Without any support network, without being discovered by other demigods or taken in for proper training, she had still managed to survive. But her luck would not last. Monsters usually began hunting down and killing young heroes around the time they turned thirteen, when their true powers began to manifest. Meg did not have long. She needed to be brought to Camp Half-Blood as much as I did. She was fortunate to have met me.
    (I know that last statement seems obvious.
Everyone
who meets me is fortunate, but you take my meaning.)
    Had I been my usual omniscient self, I could have gleaned Meg’s destiny. I could have looked into her soul and seen all I needed to know about her godly parentage, her powers, her motives and secrets.
    Now I was blind to such things. I could only be sure she was a demigod because she had successfully claimed my service. Zeus had affirmed her right