This Cold Year ― Percy Jackson & Annabeth Chase²

―iii. the amnesiacs give their (short) life stories

HALF THE PEOPLE AT THIS CAMP WERE DEAD. That didn't really bother Naomi—her mother was (apparently) the Queen of the Underworld, so she probably didn't need to be scared of ghosts or any other dead (undead?) creatures. 

But there were still a lot of them. 

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... unicorns?

None of the campers paid the dead much attention, but as Naomi and Percy's entourage walked by—Reyna in the lead, Frank on Percy's left, Hazel on Naomi's right—all of the spirits stopped what they were doing and stared at Percy and Naomi. A couple looked confused. A few more looked angry. 

The little boy ghost shrieked something like "Greggus!" at Percy and turned invisible. 

Naomi wished she could turn invisible, too. After weeks of it just being her and Percy, all this attention was making her seriously uneasy. She and Percy were practically glued to each other, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. 

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

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

"House gods," Percy said. "Like... smaller than real gods, but larger than apartment gods?" 

"Ancestral spirits," Frank explained. He'd removed his helmet, revealing a juvenile-looking face that didn't quite match his military haircut or his big burly frame. "The Lares are kind of like mascots. Mostly they're harmless, but I've never seen them so agitated." 

"They're staring at us," Percy said. "That ghost kid called me Greggus. My name isn't Greg." 

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

"Is that bad?" Percy asked. 

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?" 

"Don't know. Like I said, our memories are gone." 

"Or maybe... Frank hesitated. 

"What?" Percy 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 nice. 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. Each dorm had a different collection of banners out front displaying Roman numerals and various animals—eagle, bear, wolf, horse, and something that looked like a hamster.