𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐩

Chapter ι

Iota - 9
∆

Rob Zombie

  The thing about flying on a pegasus during the daytime is that if you're not careful, you can cause a serious traffic accident on the Long Island Expressway. Cyrus had to keep Blackjack up in the clouds, which were, fortunately, pretty low in the winter. They darted around, trying to keep the white Camp Half-Blood van in sight. It probably would've felt cold to anybody else, with the icy rain splashing against his body.

  He'd only had time to put on some clothes, and get a bag with nectar, ambrosia, and some spare clothes, for him and (y/n), he didn't really know what to get for Nico.

  He and Blackjack lost the van a few times, but Cyrus had a hunting hellhound twice the size of the van to spot and keep himself in track. He also had plenty of certainty they'd go to Manhattan first, so it wasn't so hard to relocate the van without Benny.

  Traffic was bad with the holidays and all. It was mid morning before they got into the city. Cyrus landed Blackjack near the top of the Chrysler Building and watched the white camp van, thinking it would pull into the bus station, but it just kept driving.

  "Where's Argus takin' 'em?" Cyrus muttered.

  Oh, Argus ain't driving, boss, Blackjack told him. That girl is.

  "Which girl?"

  The Hunter girl. With the silver crown thing in her hair.

  "Zoë?"

  That's the one. Hey, look! There's a donut shop. Can we get something to go?

  Cyrus sighed and rolled his eyes. "I'll tell (y/n) to get some." Meanwhile, the van kept snaking its way toward the Lincoln Tunnel. It had never even occurred to Cyrus that Zoë could drive. I mean, she didn't look sixteen. Then again, she was immortal. Cyrus wondered if she had a New York license, and if so, what her birth date said.

  "Well," Cyrus said. "Lets get after them."

  They were about to leap off the Chrysler Building when Blackjack whinnied in alarm and almost threw him. Something was curling around Cyrus leg like a snake. He reached for his sword, but when he looked down, there was no snake. Vines—grape vines—had sprouted from the cracks between the stones of the building. They were wrapping around Blackjack's legs,
lashing down Cyrus's ankles so they couldn't move.

  "Going somewhere?" Mr. D asked.
He was leaning against the building with his feet levitating in the air, his leopard-skin warm-up suit and black hair whipping around in the wind.

  God alert! Blackjack yelled. It's the wine dude!

  Mr. D sighed in exasperation. "The next person, or horse, who calls me the “wine dude” will end up in a bottle of Merlot!"

  "Mr. D." Cyrus tried to keep his voice calm as the grape vines continued to wrap around his legs. "What do ye' want?"

  "Oh, what do I want? You thought, perhaps, that the immortal, all-powerful director of camp would not notice you leaving without permission?"

  "... No?"

  "I should throw you off this building, minus the flying horse, and see how heroic you sound on the way down."

  Cyrus balled his fists. He knew he should keep his mouth shut, but Mr. D was about to kill him or haul him back to camp in shame, and he couldn't stand either idea. "Why do ye' hate me so much? What did I ever do to ye'?"