THE HEALER| Heroes of Olympus

o n e

I loved that Jason was old. 

He complained that joints hurt. His legs shook as he tried to climb the hill, his lungs rattled like a box of rocks.

His fingers were gnarled and bony. Bulging blue veins webbed the backs of his hands. And his face was the best part. It was all wrinkling and droopy, like a old man.

He even had that old-man smell – mothballs and chicken soup. He'd gone from sixteen to seventy-five in a matter of seconds, but the old-man smell happened instantly. 

"Almost there." Piper smiled at him. "You're doing great." 

Easy for us to say. We were disguised as Greek serving maids. Even in our white sleeveless gowns and laced sandals, we had no trouble navigating the rocky path.

Piper's mahogany hair was pinned up in a braided spiral. Silver bracelets adorned her arms. She resembled an ancient statue of her mom, Aphrodite, which I found a little intimidating.

I glanced uphill. The summit was still a hundred yards above.

"Worst idea ever." Jason leaned against a cedar tree and wiped his forehead. "Hazel's magic is too good. If I have to fight, I'll be useless."

"It won't come to that," I promised.

My blonde hair was pinned up and I wore a Greek style white dress with gold jewelry decorating my arm. In my hair I wore a bright blue harpy feather – a souvenir from last night's attack. The feather didn't exactly go with my disguise, but I liked wearing it as a sign of my accomplishment, defeating an entire flock of demon chicken ladies by by myself while I was on duty.

"We infiltrate the palace," I said. "We get the information we need, and we get out."

Piper set down her amphora, the tall ceramic wine jar in which her sword was hidden. "We can rest for a second. Catch your breath, Jason."

From her waist cord hung her cornucopia – the magic horn of plenty. Tucked somewhere in the folds of her dress was her knife, Katoptris. Piper didn't look dangerous, but if the need arose she could dual-wield Celestial bronze blades or shoot her enemies in the face with ripe mangoes.

Below us, Afales Bay glittered, the water so blue it might've been dyed with food coloring. A few hundred yards offshore, the Argo II rested at anchor. Its white sails looked no bigger than postage stamps, its ninety oars like toothpicks. I imagined my friends on deck following our progress, taking turns with Leo's spyglass, trying not to laugh as they watched Grandpa Jason hobble uphill.

"Stupid Ithaca," he muttered.I found the island very pretty. A spine of forested hills twisted down its center.

Chalky white slopes plunged into the sea. Inlets formed rocky beaches and harbors where red-roofed houses and white stucco churches nestled against the shoreline.

The hills were dotted with poppies, crocuses and wild cherry trees. The breeze smelled of  blooming myrtle. All very nice – except the temperature was about a hundred and five degrees. The air was as steamy as a Roman bathhouse.

It would've been easy for Jason to control the winds and fly to the top of the hill, but nope. For the sake of stealth, he had to struggle along as an old dude with bad knees and chicken-soup stink. It was quite hilarious. 

I thought about my last climb, two weeks ago, when we had faced the bandit Sciron on  the cliffs of Croatia.

What we were about to face would be much worse than a bandit.

"You sure this is the right hill?" he asked. "Seems kind of – I don't know – quiet."

I studied the ridge line. "The ruins are up there," I promised. "I saw them in my vision. And you heard what Hazel said. "The biggest – "