Karma

Chapter 3

Look, I didn't want to be a half-blood.

"A half-blood? Is she the child of a minor god?" Hermes said in confusion. "We're all soulmates, so that wouldn't make sense."

"It's not like some of us aren't married to our siblings," Aphrodite said, side-eyeing Zeus.

If you're reading this because you think you might be one, my advice is: close this book right now.

Believe whatever lie your mom or dad told you about your birth, and try to lead a normal life. Being a half-blood is dangerous. It's scary. Most of the time, it gets you killed in painful, nasty ways.

The gods all winced. None of them liked to hear about how painful their children's lives were, especially when they weren't allowed to interfere.

If you're a normal kid, reading this because you think it's fiction, great. Read on. I envy you for being able to believe that none of this ever happened. But if you recognize yourself in these pages—if you feel something stirring inside—stop reading immediately. You might be one of us.

And once you know that, it's only a matter of time before they sense it too, and they'll come for you.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

My name is Andy Jackson.

"Why use a nickname? Her name is beautiful," Aphrodite questioned, and Artemis rolled her eyes.

"How are we supposed to know?" Artemis said.

I'm twelve years old. Until a few months ago, I was a boarding student at Yancy Academy, a private school for troubled kids in upstate New York.

"What's New York?" Athena questioned Apollo, eager to learn knowledge from the future.

"A city in the far future," Apollo answered after thinking on it for a few moments.

"How far in the future?" Aphrodite asked, looking upset.

"Many millennia from now."

The gods prepared themselves for one of Aphrodite's tantrums but she simply sat back. "Alright." She nodded.

Am I a troubled kid?

"Please say yes," Hermes grinned.

Yeah. You could say that.

Hermes grinned even wider. "We're going to get along."

I could start at any point in my short miserable life to prove it, but things really started going bad last May, when our sixth-grade class took a field trip to Manhattan— twenty-eight mental-case kids and two teachers on a yellow school bus, heading to the Metropolitan Museum of Art to look at ancient Greek and Roman stuff.