/ thálassa | pjo \

/ chapter eight | we have a sleepover on a ghost ship \

edited.

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 I rushed down the beach–skidding to a stop after only running for a few seconds.

But who I saw was beyond my understanding.

There was Percy–but he looked completely fine. Next to him was a man with salt-and-pepper hair, wearing an outfit that made him look like he had just finished running a marathon.

At their feet were duffle bags, full from what I could see, and the second I stopped, they both turned to look at me.

Percy looked confused, and the man looked curious and a little too ecstatic to see me.

Ignoring the guy, I moved to my brother–checking him for injuries, "Why the hell were you screaming at me if you're not even bleeding?"

Percy stared at me with bunched brows, "Huh?"

"You were just screaming bloody murder! I could hear you down the beach!"

"Why were you down the beach?"

I guffawed, "That is so unimportant–are you okay?"

"Apologies, this is my doing," The man interrupted–making us turn to look at him. "I wanted to call you before the rest of your friends."

I stared at him for a long moment–the hairs on my arms rising.

My eyes trailed from his elfish face to the caduceus resting in the crook of his left arm–two snakes watching me curiously with beady eyes. Moving my gaze back to his face, I saw many different people in his features and connected the dots almost instantly when he tilted his head at me.

Dipping my head a little, I mumbled, "Lord Hermes..."

Hermes–Luke's dad–released a sigh, his voice gentle as he said, "Hullo, Sally Orpheline."

My jaw twitched as he said my name before I asked, "Why did you call me? And why did you make it sound like Percy was...was..." I couldn't even imagine that happening to my brother, so I couldn't finish my thought. "Why?"

Hermes just stared at me long enough to make me shuffle on my feet–even though our staring contest did not end.

"Your grandfather loved you very, very much."

His words hit me like a brick to the head.

At that moment, I realized I was technically staring at my great-grandpa. My great-grandpa who had walked my Abuelo into the Underworld after the car crash. My great-grandpa whose son was Abuelo.

How unfortunate it was that some of the only family I have left hate me or want to kill me.

Then you have Hermes who decides to hit me with a whopper of a comment and continue staring at me like I was some kind of new bird species or something.

Swallowing the rock in my throat, I asked again, "Why did you call me?"

"Just curious. The wind tells stories, you know. The Fates and the Muses, too."

I tilted my head at him–copying what he had done just moments before, "What do they say?"

He grinned secretively at me, "Now, why would I tell such a smart demigod like yourself the answer to that? You're a musician and a story maker–you tell me."

Glancing at Percy, who was just watching the interaction in confusion–a thermos in his arms, I commented, "Mr. Hermes, who are you gods so avoidant and vague?"