CARNIFEX. jason grace

02. SUSPICION, RECOLLECTION, AND NOT-LIES

Three days after Aisara's eventful clawing-from-the-Underworld act, Annabeth does not trust the Underworld-spawn anymore than she had in the first place.

There is something familiar about her. Annabeth can't place it. Every time she thinks she grasps it—the cold black hair, the shadow underneath her eyes, or the uncanny way her wings unfurl, the image in her mind mists and fades.

But she knows something is off.

Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer. Chiron had told her that once—about Quintus—and Annabeth heeds his advice now. So when the vision from Hera comes, about a boy with a blackened shoe, she finds Aisara in the training arena, dueling Clarisse, the daughter of Ares.

Aisara's by no means the best fighter. Not like Clarisse anyways. Her movements are too abrupt and short. She's dueling with two dummy swords today, black hair tied up, and eyes shaded by her hat. Sweat dribbles down her face, as Clarisse knocks her on her back.

"Good one," she hears Aisara say faintly, before Aisara spots her. Aisara gives Clarisse a nod before jogging over.

Aisara's the type of girl Annabeth wished she looked like when she was young. Dark hair, brown eyes. Her facial expression is smooth, without looking too intimidating, that portrays an air of take-me-seriously. She's careful in her stance, legs shoulder width apart. Her eyes are hooded, but lined with faint shadows, the tell tale swoop of black eyeliner smeared with sweat. Her shirt is coated with it—the sweat, Annabeth means—and it's the same shirt she had been found in, a light beige shirt that looks almost black with her sweat. Her face is red form exhaustion, but still, she commands a certain air.

Annabeth is sure it is purposeful. It's what makes her wary.

"We can get you another shirt," Annabeth says, as Aisara approaches. "You've been wearing that shirt for days."

Aisara shrugs. "Don't worry. I washed it."

"That's not my concern. I mean—we can get you other clothes."

Aisara tenses. "I'm good."

Annabeth hesitates at that. There's a point of tension in Aisara's eyes but it fades as quickly as it came. It sets Annabeth on edge.

"You're not bad," Annabeth says instead, changing the subject. "At swordplay. Could clean up some footwork though."

"I don't usually fight like this." Aisara's voice is perfectly staccato. It is slightly unnerving.

"So you've fought monsters before?"

"You could say that." She tilts her head, as if considering Annabeth for a moment. Annabeth gets the distinct feeling she's being dissected like one of the puzzles her father always loved.

"Come on," Annabeth finds herself saying. She tosses Aisara her golden dagger she had found on the field, where Aisara had originally been found. Aisara catches it without flinching. It morphs into a ring that Aisara slides on her finger. "I have a favor to ask of you."

✵

Butch is waiting with the chariot Annabeth had barely managed to convince Will Solace to lend out. On the way, Annabeth explains to Aisara her vision from Hera—a vision of a boy with a blackened shoe, who would hold answers—and Aisara doesn't ask a single question. Odd.

At the chariot, Annabeth watches as Aisara shifts, hesitantly.

"It's safe," Annabeth assures her. "The chariot, I mean. Butch is a good driver."

Said driver merely grunts in reply. Aisara surveys him.

"I can fly myself," Aisara says, stretching out her wings. Annabeth can already imagine what her father, Dr. Chase, would question—what's the wingspan? How far is the minimum flapping distance to maintain altitude?—but Annabeth is not her father, and has already accepted that, sometimes, the godly world isn't supposed to make sense.