Prophesied Powder, PJO

1.1

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Chapter 1
How I Met My Mother

Volume 1: The Lightning Thief

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His father didn't know he was listening. If Warren Randolph did know his son was hiding in the kitchen, Pat doubted he'd be allowed to hear the things he heard.

The knock on the door had come two minutes prior, but Pat had still crawled out of his room to get a glass of water. He had his dark sunglasses over his eyes, and really, it was a miracle his father hadn't heard the tap, tap, tap of his walking stick when he'd walked down the hall. The Randolph boys were observant by nature though, and Warren's mistake should have told Pat that something was wrong.

Pat had propped his stick up against the counter, but before he'd turned on the sink, a woman's voice caught his ears. It was stern and dismissive, but smooth and beautiful, and Pat listened in on all of her words as she spoke to his father, "-on't pretend I haven't at least feigned an interest up until this point, Warren."

"Wow," Warren said sarcastically. Pat had always liked his father's voice a lot more since the accident, considering it was one of the only things Pat could identify him as; when Warren spoke to him, it was soft and kind and warm enough to keep him alive in freezing weather. Speaking to this woman, Warren's voice was different, and Pat disliked it immensely. "Two times in ten years. Visiting me too, not even him!"

They were walking, or at least one of them was. Pat assumed it was the woman since his father's footsteps were always overly heavy to an extent where he wondered if it was purposeful. If the woman was walking away from Warren, Warren certainly followed, continuing his objection with vigor.

"Where were you when a threesome of mythical monsters tried to murder my son? He's been through hell, I'm not letting you make it worse for him!" Warren defended angrily.

Something changed in the temperature of the room. The woman seemingly snapped, losing her patience with his father. She stopped walking and said, sharp and cruel, "As much of a shame it is that his face got mangled, if you'd like to keep the both of you alive, you will listen to me and put whatever grievances you have aside."

Pat tensed up briefly. Mangled. He shuddered at the memory of pain and quietly secured his glasses on his face.

Even his father's breathing sounded annoyed, but after a large huff, he said, "Where are you trying to take him?"

Pat's eyes – or what was left of them – went wide beneath the black-out frames. There were plenty of variables to this conversation that he didn't have, including the identity of the woman, her relationship with his father, or what Warren meant when he said mythical monsters, but Pat could abandon those questions at the fear that struck him when he thought of leaving his father. He knew enough about the conversation; the woman wanted to take him, and he didn't want to leave.

"A place for people like him," She said easily. Just as quickly as it appeared, her anger smoothed out and the conversation took on her light but serious tone, "Demigods. They are safe there, trained in the ways of survival."

"And you want me to hand him over to you?" Warren asked in disbelief.

The woman sighed, "The monsters will only get worse, Warren. The older he gets, the easier it will become for such creatures to find him. He has no sight and no training. You expect him to survive?"