NEVER BE THE SAME . . . percy jackson

fifty: the zhang mansion.

THEY STOPPED AT the front porch. A loose ring of campfires glowed in the woods, completely surrounding the property, but the house itself seemed untouched. That was good. It was a pretty house.

Wind chimes jangled in the night breeze. A wicker chair sat empty, facing the road. Lights shone through the downstairs windows. Frank lifted a stone elephant statue in the corner — a tiny duplicate of the one in Portland — and took out a key. He hesitated at the door.

"What's wrong?" Percy asked.

Frank didn't respond, still staring at the door, his hands shaking like Brooklyn's did.

"Frank?" Hazel asked.

"Ella is nervous," the harpy muttered from her perch on the railing. "The elephant — the elephant is looking at Ella."

"It'll be fine." Frank's hand was shaking so badly he could barely fit the key in the lock. "Just stay together."

Inside, the house smelled closed-up and musty. They examined the living room, the dining room, the kitchen. Dirty dishes were stacked in the sink.

In the parlor, Buddha statues and Taoist immortals grinned at them like psycho clowns. Brooklyn remembered Iris, the rainbow goddess, who'd been dabbling in Buddhism and Taoism. Brooklyn figured one visit to this creepy old house would cure her of that. Large porcelain vases were strung with cobwebs. The fireplace was dark and cold.

Hazel hugged her chest. "Is that—"

"Yeah," Frank said. "That's it."

"That's what?" Brooklyn asked. She resisted the urge to take out her lighter and light a flame.

"It's the fireplace," Frank told her, which was stupidly obvious. "Come on. Let's check upstairs."

The steps creaked under their feet. Frank's room had a bow and quiver, his spelling awards from school, and photos of a strong, beautiful Asian woman — in a flak jacket and helmet, sitting on a fucking sick Humvee; in a soccer coach uniform; in a military dress uniform, her hands on Frank's shoulders.

"Your mother?" Hazel asked gently. "She's beautiful."

Frank didn't answer.

They checked the other bedrooms. The middle two were empty. A dim light flickered under the last door.

Frank knocked quietly. No one answered. He pushed open the door. An elderly woman lay in bed, looking gaunt and frail, white hair spread around her face. A single candle burned on the nightstand.

"Mars," Frank said.

"Frank?" Hazel whispered. "What do mean, Mars? Is your grandmother . . . is she okay?"

Frank glanced at her, Percy, and Brooklyn. "You don't see him?"

"See who?" Percy gripped his sword. "Mars? Where?"

"Guys, it's . . . it's nothing," Frank said. "Listen, why don't you take the middle bedrooms?"

"Roof," Ella said. "Roofs are good for harpies."

"Sure," Frank said absentmindedly. "There's probably food in the kitchen. Would you give me a few minutes alone with my grandmother? I think she—"

His voice broke.

Hazel laid her hand on his arm. "Of course, Frank. Come on, Ella, Percy."

They went downstairs, to the kitchen where they did indeed find food in the fridge. Well, it wasn't necessarily food, but ingredients.

"Ugh, I can't cook to save my life," Brooklyn muttered, rubbing her eyes. "I'm gonna try and find a shower. And clothes that aren't a goddamn dress."

She turned and walked off, hearing Percy say her name but she didn't look back, because she was honestly just tired.