The next morning, Luke's eyes snapped open to the sound of someone knocking on his door. He'd slept deeply, his body catching up on weeks of exhaustion.
"Delivery for you," Malcolm called through the door.
Luke rolled out of bed, muscles protesting slightly, and opened the door to find Malcolm holding a small brown package.
"This just arrived for you. Weird thing is, no one delivered it. Just appeared on our doorstep with your name on it." Malcolm's eyebrows were raised. "Magical delivery service?"
Luke took the package, examining it carefully. No return address, just his name written in elegant, flowing script. "Thanks," he muttered, closing the door again.
He sat on the edge of the bed and carefully opened the package, half-expecting it to explode or release some ancient curse. Instead, he found a single bus ticket nestled inside.
Charleston, South Carolina. One-way. Leaving at noon today from Port Authority.
Luke stared at the ticket, his mind racing. Charleston? He'd been planning to head west to Los Angeles, not south. But the sender of this ticket clearly had other ideas.
"Charleston," he murmured to himself. "The Holy City."
A sardonic smile tugged at his lips. Of course the Oracle would send him to a place literally called "The Holy City." Nothing like divine prophecy with a side of heavy-handed symbolism.
He flipped the ticket over, looking for any other clues, but found nothing. Just a standard Greyhound ticket, though he knew there was nothing standard about how it had arrived.
"Change of plans!" he called out, grabbing his backpack and quickly repacking his few belongings. He emerged from the bedroom to find Malcolm and Leanne in the kitchen, sharing coffee and scanning a map spread across the table.
"Bus ticket to Charleston just magically appeared," Luke announced, holding up the ticket. "Looks like I'm not heading west after all."
Malcolm choked on his coffee. "Charleston? That's... unexpected."
"Yeah, real subtle," Luke snorted, grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl. "Why use obscure clues when you can just send me to a place with 'Holy' in the nickname?"
Malcolm grinned. "Maybe the gods are tired of demigods misinterpreting prophecies. Decided to make this one idiot-proof."
"Gee, thanks," Luke said dryly, but he was smiling too. "I need to be at Port Authority by noon."
"I'll drive you," Leanne offered, already grabbing her keys from the hook by the door. "Traffic shouldn't be too bad at this hour."
Twenty minutes later, they were speeding through the streets of Manhattan in Leanne's ancient but surprisingly nimble Corolla. Luke watched the city blur past, mentally recalibrating his plans.
They reached Port Authority with thirty minutes to spare. Leanne pulled up to the curb, ignoring the angry gestures from a port official.
"Here," she said, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a small flip phone. "Prepaid. My number and Malcolm's are programmed in. Call if you need backup."
Luke took the phone, genuinely touched by the gesture. "Thanks."
"And take this too," she added, handing him a small leather pouch. "Emergency kit. Ambrosia squares, drachmas, mortal cash
"You guys think of everything," Luke said, tucking the pouch into an inside pocket of his jacket.
"We try," she replied with a small smile. "Now go find this girl before something else does."
Luke nodded and stepped out of the car. As he grabbed his backpack from the backseat, Leanne called out to him.
"And Luke? Try not to die, okay? The last line in your prophecy is making me nervous."
He flashed her a confident grin that he didn't entirely feel. "No promises, but I'll do my best."
With that, he shouldered his pack and jogged into the bus terminal, disappearing into the crowd of travelers. The ticket felt warm in his pocket, almost alive, guiding him toward whatever waited in Charleston.
___________________________-
The bus to Charleston was half-empty, giving Luke plenty of room to spread out. Three hours into the journey, the gentle rocking motion and highway drone finally lulled him into a light doze, his head resting against the cool window glass.
His body tensed before his mind fully registered why. Someone had sat down beside him.
"Interesting journey ahead," a woman's voice said, musical and ancient all at once.
Luke's eyes snapped open, hand instinctively sliding toward the concealed knife in his jacket. A woman in an elegant black veil sat beside him, her face completely obscured behind the gossamer fabric. She wore a deep purple dress that seemed to shimmer with symbols that moved when he wasn't looking directly at them.
Something was wrong. Deeply wrong.
No scent. No presence. No sound of breathing. It was as if she was a projection rather than a physical being. Luke's combat-trained senses screamed in alarm as he realized the bus had fallen completely silent.
Not just silent, frozen. A child in the seat ahead had paused mid-laugh, mouth open in perpetual delight. The bus conductor stood in the aisle, mid conversation with another person.
Time itself had frozen.
Luke straightened in his seat, muscles coiled and ready. "Who are you?" he asked softly, voice barely above a whisper.
The veiled woman giggled, "So direct and to the point, aren't we?"
Her head tilted, the veil rippling though there was no breeze. "Use your senses and reach out, Luke Castellan. I know you're much more capable than you let on."
She knows my name, Luke thought, a cold trickle of alarm running down his spine.
He closed his eyes, centering himself. The technique wasn't one taught at camp, he'd developed it himself after years of practice, drawn from meditation techniques for chakra sensing in his former life. Luke extended his awareness beyond ordinary perception, feeling for the telltale signature of magic.
At first, nothing. Then... there. A layer of Mist construct blanketed the entire bus, so unbelievably finely interwoven and complex that he could barely fathom the skill required. The craftsmanship was beyond anything he'd ever encountered, a masterpiece of magical engineering that made his most ambitious manipulations look like a child's finger painting.
"You're a god," he said, opening his eyes to face her directly.
The woman's shoulders lifted in what might have been amusement. "Well, the hero my son looks up to should be capable of this much, at the very least."
Luke's mind raced. Son? Which god had children at camp who might look up to him? There were dozens of possibilities.
"Ah, I see those gears turning," she said, amusement coloring her voice. "Always analyzing, always planning. That's what makes you different from the other heroes, isn't it? Such maturity."
She raised a hand, pale, slender fingers emerging from beneath voluminous sleeves, and made a casual gesture. The veil dissolved into mist, revealing a face of startling, otherworldly beauty. Dark hair framed features that seemed to shift subtly between youth and age, her eyes glowing with an inner green fire that reminded Luke of...
"Hecate," he breathed, recognition clicking into place.
The goddess of magic, crossroads, and the Mist inclined her head in acknowledgment. "Indeed."
Luke's mind whirled with implications. Hecate rarely involved herself directly in mortal affairs, preferring to work through her children or magical proxies. For her to appear personally, stopping time itself to speak with him...
"I don't suppose this is a social call," he said, managing to keep his voice steady.
Hecate laughed, the sound sending ripples through the frozen reality around them. "Oh, I do like you. No wonder my Alabaster speaks of you with such admiration."
Alabaster Torrington. One of the few unclaimed campers Luke had taken particular interest in, sensing the boy's immense magical potential even before knowing his parentage.
"Your son is talented," Luke said carefully. "He's been mastering magical theory faster than anyone I've seen."
"Yes, yes," Hecate waved dismissively. "He has potential, though he lacks... perspective. But I'm not here to discuss my offspring's education."
She leaned closer, the scent of herbs and incense suddenly filling Luke's nostrils. "I'm here about your quest, son of Hermes. The daughter of Zeus you seek."
Luke's pulse quickened. "You know where she is?"
"I know many things," Hecate said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I stand at the crossroads of possibility, after all. But what matters is what you know, Luke Castellan."
With a flick of her wrist, three shimmering paths appeared in the air between them, ghostly roads stretching into different futures.
"You stand at a crossroads yourself," she continued. "The choices you make in the coming days will determine not just your fate, but the fate of many others."
Luke's jaw tightened. "If you have information that could help me find this girl, I'd appreciate if you'd share it directly instead of speaking in riddles."
Hecate's eyes flashed dangerously, but her smile remained. "Impertinent. But refreshingly honest." She tapped a long fingernail against the armrest, producing a sound like distant thunder.
"Very well. The girl you seek is indeed in Charleston, but she is not alone. Something hunts her, something old and cunning.
Luke leaned forward, all pretense of casual conversation gone. "What kind of monster?"
Hecate's smile turned cold, "Not a monster in the traditional sense," Hecate replied. "More a... corruption. Someone is meddling in my domain, and I find it... distasteful.."
She leaned forward, her form shifting slightly, becoming more solid, more present. The air around them crackled with arcane energy that made the hairs on Luke's arms stand on end.
"His name is Thomas Scarville." The way she spat the name made it sound like a curse. "A rather cunning and thoroughly annoying mortal magician that has been around since the late 19th Century."
Luke blinked in surprise. "A mortal? How is a mortal still alive after—"
"He's a legacy of mine," Hecate cut him off, her lips twisting with distaste. "Seven generations removed, but my blood runs in his veins nonetheless. Enough to give him an aptitude for certain arts."
The goddess flicked her wrist, and the air between them shimmered. An image formed of a tall, gaunt man with sunken eyes and long, spidery fingers. He wore an outdated black frock coat and a tattered top hat that cast shadows over his angular face. Despite his emaciated appearance, there was something deeply unsettling about the intelligence that gleamed in his eyes.
"Doesn't look like much," Luke observed, studying the figure.
Hecate laughed, a harsh sound like breaking glass. "Don't let appearances fool you, son of Hermes. Scarville managed to find some of my primers on necromancy and a rather powerful artifact of mine. He's now touching powers that should best be left alone."
"And what does this have to do with the daughter of Zeus?" Luke asked, his mind already connecting the dots.
"Everything." Hecate leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Children of the Big Three have power in their very blood. Scarville believes he can use her as a conduit, a living anchor for his spells."
Luke's stomach turned. "He's hunting her too."
"Precisely. And he's far closer than you are." Hecate gestured, and the image of Scarville changed, showing him walking through what looked like a Southern garden, Spanish moss hanging from ancient oaks. "He arrived in Charleston yesterday."
"Shit," Luke muttered.
She reached into the folds of her dress and withdrew a small crystal vial filled with swirling green mist. "When you arrive in Charleston, go to the oldest cemetery. At midnight, pour this at the intersection of the main paths and follow the lights that appear."
Luke took the vial, feeling it pulse with power against his palm. "And this will lead me to the girl?"
"It will lead you where you need to go," Hecate said cryptically. "The rest depends on your wits... and perhaps a bit of luck."
Luke pocketed the vial. "Why help me? Gods don't usually offer assistance without wanting something in return."
Hecate's smile turned sharp. "Consider it an investment. My son speaks highly of your vision for Camp Half-Blood, a place where all demigods are valued, regardless of their parentage or abilities. Such a vision aligns with certain... interests of mine."
She stood, her form growing taller until her head nearly brushed the ceiling of the bus. "Remember, Luke Castellan, not all that appears divine is benevolent, and not all monsters wear their nature openly. Trust your instincts, they've served you well thus far.
With that final advice, Hecate vanished completely. Around Luke, time stuttered back into motion, the child's laugh completed, and the hum of conversation resumed as if nothing had happened.
The seat beside him was empty. No one else on the bus seemed to have noticed anything unusual.
Luke touched the pocket containing the vial, confirming it was real and not some elaborate hallucination. A cemetery at midnight. Of course, it couldn't be something simple, like robbing a shopping mall.
He checked his watch. Four more hours until they reached Charleston.
Well, I better get some beauty sleep.
_________________
A soft wail emerged in a dimly lit room, illuminated only by candles lining the stone walls. The flames danced erratically, casting long shadows across the ancient chamber.
As firelight flickered, it briefly revealed the source of the pitiful sound. A young man in a purple shirt and black shorts was splayed against the wall, his limbs secured by what appeared to be living shadows that pulsed with sickly green energy. Blood had soaked through his shirt, turning the purple fabric almost black.
The boy's face was barely recognizable as human. Where skin should have been was raw, exposed muscle. Where eyes should have been were only empty, weeping sockets. Blood ran in thin rivulets down his chest, pooling on the floor beneath him. His mouth opened in another weak cry, revealing the bloody cavity where his tongue had once been.
The magical restraint kept him pinned against the wall like a grotesque butterfly specimen.
"Oh shut up," a snide voice hissed from the darkness. With a flick of spidery fingers, a filthy rag rose from the floor as if possessed, shooting upward to stuff itself into the victim's mouth.
Thomas Scarville stepped from the shadows, his gaunt frame made more severe by the flickering candlelight. His skin stretched tight across hollow cheeks, giving his face a skull-like appearance. The tattered top hat he wore cast his sunken eyes in deep shadow, though they gleamed with malevolent intelligence. His black frock coat, a souvenir that he'd liberated from a member of Congress after murdering him and his whole family at the beginning of the century, hung loosely from his emaciated frame. Long, bone-white fingers emerged from too-large sleeves, each digit ending in a yellowed nail filed to a sharp point.
"Another paltry legacy from Camp Jupiter," he sneered, pacing before his victim. "I've barely gotten a year's lifespan from you." He prodded the boy's exposed chest with a finger, drawing a fresh whimper from behind the gag. "Camp Jupiter recruits are always hit or miss, with legacies and demigods intertwined in their ranks. Capturing a first-generation demigod from Camp Jupiter is difficult." His thin lips curled into a grotesque smile. "Greek demigods are just sooo much more reliable."
Scarville moved to a table where various instruments gleamed in the candlelight, scalpels, syringes, vials of multicolored liquids. He selected a curved blade, holding it up to admire its edge.
"You Romans and your diluted bloodlines," he continued conversationally, as if chatting with a dinner guest rather than a mutilated victim. "So proud of your heritage, yet with each generation, the divine spark weakens." He ran the blade across the boy's chest, not cutting, just teasing. "But even your pitiful amount of ichor has served its purpose."
He turned to a large map of Charleston pinned to the opposite wall, where glowing red dots pulsed at various locations. One dot, brighter than the others, pulsed near the harbor district.
"She's close now," Scarville whispered, his voice taking on a reverent quality. "A daughter of Zeus... can you imagine the power? Not diluted through generations like yours, but pure, direct, potent."
He plucked a small crystal vial from the table, containing a swirling mixture of blood and something that glowed electric blue. Holding it to the candlelight, he admired the contents with the appreciation of a wine connoisseur.
"Your sacrifice has helped me track her movements. Like calls to like, even the merest trace of divinity from another Pantheon recognizes its distant kin." He slipped the vial into his coat pocket and patted it affectionately. "Tomorrow night, when the moon is highest, I'll finally have what I need."
A low rumble shook the chamber, dust and small fragments of stone raining from the ceiling. Scarville glanced up with mild irritation.
"The old protective wards are failing," he noted. "No matter. By tomorrow night, I'll have power enough to rebuild them a thousand times stronger."
He approached his victim once more, drawing a thin silver blade from his sleeve. This one was different, ancient symbols etched into its surface glowed with an unnatural light.
"I'm afraid our time together has come to an end," he said with mock regret. "You've been most helpful, but I'll need your strength for the real prize."
The necromancer began chanting in Ancient Greek, the words twisting and corrupting as they left his mouth. The air in the basement room grew heavy, visible currents of dark energy swirling around his outstretched hands.
The blade plunged down, and the weak struggles of the Roman legacy ceased forever. As life fled the boy's body, Scarville inhaled deeply, drawing in something invisible that made his sunken cheeks flush with temporary color and his eyes burn brighter.
"Delicious," he murmured, licking his lips. "But a mere appetizer compared to what awaits."
___________________
Ahahaha, a little side quest for Luke, before we get to Thalia
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