“Wow,” Thalia muttered. “Apollo is hot.”
“He’s the sun god,” I said.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Little sister!” Apollo called. If his teeth were any whiter he could’ve blinded us without the sun car. “What’s up? You never call. You never write. I was getting worried!”
Artemis sighed. “I’m fine, Apollo. And I am not your little sister.”
“Hey, I was born first.”
“We’re twins! How many millennia do we have to argue—”
“So what’s up?” he interrupted. “Got the girls with you, I see. You all need some tips on archery?”
Artemis grit her teeth. “I need a favor. I have some hunting to do, alone. I need you to take my companions to Camp Half-Blood.”
“Sure, sis!” Then he raised his hands in a stop everything gesture. “I feel a haiku coming on.”
The Hunters all groaned. Apparently they’d met Apollo before.
He cleared his throat and held up one hand dramatically.
“Green grass breaks through snow.
Artemis pleads for my help.
I am so cool.”
He grinned at us, waiting for applause.
“That last line was only four syllables,” Artemis said.
Apollo frowned. “Was it?”
“Yes. What about I am so big-headed?”
“No, no, that’s six syllables. Hmm.” He started muttering to himself.
Zoë Nightshade turned to us. “Lord Apollo has been going through this haiku phase ever since he visited Japan. ’Tis not as bad as the time he visited Limerick. If I’d had to hear one more poem that started with, There once was a goddess from Sparta—”
“I’ve got it!” Apollo announced. “I am so awesome. That’s five syllables!” He bowed, looking very pleased with himself.
“And now, sis. Transportation for the Hunters, you say? Good timing. I was just about ready to roll.”
“These demigods will also need a ride,” Artemis said, pointing to us. “Some of Chiron’s campers.”
“No problem!” Apollo checked us out. “Let’s see . . . Thalia, right? I’ve heard all about you.”
Thalia blushed. “Hi, Lord Apollo.”
“Zeus’s girl, yes? Makes you my half sister. Used to be a tree, didn’t you? Glad you’re back. I hate it when pretty girls turn into trees. Man, I remember one time—”
“Brother,” Artemis said. “You should get going.”
“Oh, right.” Then he looked at me, and his eyes narrowed. “Percy Jackson?”
“Yeah. I mean . . . yes, sir.”
It seemed weird calling a teenager “sir,” but I’d learned to be careful with immortals. They tended to get offended easily. Then they blew stuff up.
Apollo studied me, but he didn’t say anything, which I found a little creepy.
“Well!” he said at last. “We’d better load up, huh? Ride only goes one way—west. And if you miss it, you miss it.”
I looked at the Maserati, which would seat two people max. There were about twenty of us.
“Cool car,” Nico said.
“Thanks, kid,” Apollo said.
“But how will we all fit?”
“Oh.” Apollo seemed to notice the problem for the first time. “Well, yeah. I hate to change out of sports-car mode, but I suppose . . .”
He took out his car keys and beeped the security alarm button. Chirp, chirp.
For a moment, the car glowed brightly again. When the glare died, the Maserati had been replaced by one of those Turtle Top shuttle buses like we used for school basketball games.
“Right,” he said. “Everybody in.”
Zoë ordered the Hunters to start loading. She picked up her camping pack, and Apollo said, “Here, sweetheart. Let me get that.”
Zoë recoiled. Her eyes flashed murderously.
“Brother,” Artemis chided. “You do not help my Hunters. You do not look at, talk to, or flirt with my Hunters. And you do not call them sweetheart.”
Apollo spread his hands. “Sorry. I forgot. Hey, sis, where are you off to, anyway?”
“Hunting,” Artemis said. “It’s none of your business.”
“I’ll find out. I see all. Know all.”
Artemis snorted. “Just drop them off, Apollo. And no messing around!”
“No, no! I never mess around.”
Artemis rolled her eyes, then looked at us. “I will see you by winter solstice. Zoë, you are in charge of the Hunters. Do well. Do as I would do.”
Zoë straightened. “Yes, my lady.”
Artemis knelt and touched the ground as if looking for tracks. When she rose, she looked troubled. “So much danger. The beast must be found.”
She sprinted toward the woods and melted into the snow and shadows.
Apollo turned and grinned, jangling the car keys on his finger. “So,” he said. “Who wants to drive?”
The Hunters piled into the van. They all crammed into the back so they’d be as far away as possible from Apollo and the rest of us highly infectious males. Bianca sat with them, leaving her little brother to hang in the front with us, which seemed cold to me, but Nico didn’t seem to mind.
“This is so cool!” Nico said, jumping up and down in the driver’s seat. “Is this really the sun? I thought Helios and Selene were the sun and moon gods. How come sometimes it’s them and sometimes it’s you and Artemis?”
“Downsizing,” Apollo said. “The Romans started it. They couldn’t afford all those temple sacrifices, so they laid off Helios and Selene and folded their duties into our job descriptions. My sis got the moon. I got the sun. It was pretty annoying at first, but at least I got this cool car.”
“But how does it work?” Nico asked. “I thought the sun was a big fiery ball of gas!”
Apollo chuckled and ruffled Nico’s hair. “That rumor probably got started because Artemis used to call me a big fiery ball of gas. Seriously, kid, it depends on whether you’re talking astronomy or philosophy. You want to talk astronomy? Bah, what fun is that? You want to talk about how humans think about the sun? Ah, now that’s more interesting. They’ve got a lot riding on the sun . . . er, so to speak. It keeps them warm, grows their crops, powers engines, makes everything look, well, sunnier. This chariot is built out of human dreams about the sun, kid. It’s as old as Western Civilization. Every day, it drives across the sky from east to west, lighting up all those puny little mortal lives. The chariot is a manifestation of the sun’s power, the way mortals perceive it. Make sense?”
Nico shook his head. “No.”
“Well then, just think of it as a really powerful, really dangerous solar car.”
“Can I drive?”
“No. Too young.”
“Oo! Oo!” Grover raised his hand.
“Mm, no,” Apollo said. “Too furry.” He looked past me and focused on Thalia.
“Daughter of Zeus!” he said. “Lord of the sky. Perfect.”
“Oh, no.” Thalia shook her head. “No, thanks.”
“C’mon,” Apollo said. “How old are you?”
Thalia hesitated. “I don’t know.”
It was sad, but true. She’d been turned into a tree when she was twelve, but that had been seven years ago. So she should be nineteen, if you went by years. But she still felt like she was twelve, and if you looked at her, she seemed somewhere in between. The best Chiron could figure, she had kept aging while in tree form, but much more slowly.
Apollo tapped his finger to his lips. “You’re fifteen, almost sixteen.”
“How do you know that?”
“Hey, I’m the god of prophecy. I know stuff. You’ll turn sixteen in about a week.”
“That’s my birthday! December twenty-second.”
“Which means you’re old enough now to drive with a learner’s permit!”
Thalia shifted her feet nervously. “Uh—”
“I know what you’re going to say,” Apollo said. “You don’t deserve an honor like driving the sun chariot.”
“That’s not what I was going to say.”
“Don’t sweat it! Maine to Long Island is a really short trip, and don’t worry about what happened to the last kid I trained. You’re Zeus’s daughter. He’s not going to blast you out of the sky.”
Apollo laughed good-naturedly. The rest of us didn’t join him.
Thalia tried to protest, but Apollo was absolutely not going to take “no” for an answer. He hit a button on the dashboard, and a sign popped up along the top of the windshield. I had to read it backward (which, for a dyslexic, really isn’t that different than reading forward). I was pretty sure it said WARNING: STUDENT DRIVER.
