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Bronte couldn't stop from staring at her Latin teacher. There were a few times when he was talking, but she didn't pick up on what he was saying.
Percy would have to elbow her in the side, just to get her to stop drooling.
"And you say I have a drooling problem," he muttered.
Bronte was quick to wipe her mouth. "Shut up," she replied, looking away to cover her blush.
They passed by the volleyball pit and saw some campers playing a game. Several of them stopped mid-game to nudge each other and point. One pointed at the Minotaur horn in Percy's hand and another whispered, "That's him."
Bronte glared at the campers, even though she didn't know them. They didn't know what her or Percy went through to survive. It angered her that they judged them for assuming things.
She pushed Percy forward, forcing him to take his eyes off of the campers. "Ignore them," she told him.
Most of the campers were older than them. Their satyr friends were bigger than Grover and Cooper, all of them trotting around in orange CAMP HALF-BLOOD t-shirts, with nothing else to cover their bare shaggy hindquarters.
Bronte felt an uncomfortable sensation taking over her when they stared. It was as if she did something wrong, even though she knew she didn't. Percy grew shy, cowering back a little. She knew she had to be the bigger person and help him, especially since he always did when she acted like that.
She saw Percy look back at the farmhouse. She followed in suit, her eyes growing wide. It was a lot bigger than she'd realized–four stories tall, sky blue with white trim, like an upscale seaside resort.
Something caught Percy's eye in the attic, but Bronte didn't see it. Her eyes were still fixed on the main part of the building. A shadow had moved across the window, making a curtain move. For a second, Percy felt as if they were being watched.
"What's up there?" he asked Chiron.
He looked up to where Percy was pointing, just for his smile to fade. Bronte wasn't sure what he had seen or what Chiron was hiding, but knew it wasn't anything good.
"Just the attic," Chiron answered.
"Somebody lives there?"
"No," he said with finality. "Not a single living thing."
The way he answered made Bronte think. The way he emphasised 'living thing', as if something non-living could be up there.
