Forgotten memories

Unwanted Guest

Before dinner, Tyson Percy and I went down to the sword arena. Quintus was glad to have company. He still wouldn't tell us what was in the wooden crates, but he did teach us a few sword moves. The guy was good. He fought the way some people play chess—like he was putting all the moves together and you couldn't see the pattern until he made the last stroke and won with a sword at your throat.

"Good try," he told me. "But your guard is too low."

He lunged and I blocked.

"Have you always been a swordsman?" I asked.

He parried my overhead cut. "I've been many things."

He jabbed and I sidestepped. His shoulder strap slipped down, and I saw that mark on his neck—the purple blotch. But it wasn't a random mark. It had a definite shape—a bird with folded wings, like a quail or something.

"What's that on your neck?" I asked, which was probably a rude question, but you can blame my ADHD. I tend to just blurt things out. Quintus lost his rhythm. I hit his sword hilt and knocked the blade out of his hand.

He rubbed his fingers. Then he shifted his armor to hide the mark. It wasn't a tattoo, I realized. It was an old burn...like he'd been branded.

"A reminder." He picked up his sword and forced a smile. "Now, shall we go again?"

He pressed me and Percy hard, not giving us time for any more questions. While we fought, Tyson played with Mrs. O'Leary, who he called the "little doggie." They had a great time wrestling for the bronze shield and playing Get the Greek. By sunset, Quintus hadn't even broken a sweat, which seemed kind of strange; but Tyson, Percy and I were hot and stick, so we hit the showers and got ready for dinner.

I was feeling good. It was almost like a normal day at camp. Then dinner came, and all the campers lined up by cabin and marched into the dining pavilion. Most of them ignored the sealed fissure in the marble floor at the entrance—a ten-foot-long jagged scar that hadn't been there last summer, but I was careful to step over it.

***

The next morning started out like any other day at camp—sun shining, campers laughing, me minding my own business at the Artemis table while working on some pancakes. For about five blissful minutes, everything was normal.

And then the "Intruder" horn blared.

The entire dining pavilion froze. Forks clattered onto plates, chairs scraped back, and instantly everyone was on their feet, weapons drawn. You'd think we were about to be stormed by a horde of monsters. I half-expected a drakon to come charging through the strawberries.

Before we even made it past the pavilion steps, the horn blasted again. False alarm.

Groans rippled through the crowd. A few campers grumbled about wanting their bacon back, and everyone slowly drifted back to their tables. I caught Christine's eye across the way. She gave me a little shrug, like well, that was pointless.

I sighed and sat back down, picking up where I'd left off with my pancakes—only to notice a very familiar shadow fall across my plate. I looked up, smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth.

"Well, well. Here to sucker-punch me again, Phoebe?" I asked, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Phoebe stood there, all broad shoulders and wrestler's build, looking like she'd just walked out of a WWE match and straight into silver camouflage. The Hunters' standard gear fit her like armor, and she wore it like it was her personal brand. Her ginger hair blazed like wildfire, shaved close on the sides, the strip down the middle catching the sunlight so it almost glowed. She had that kind of presence that made most guys twice her size think, yeah, maybe I'll pick a different fight today. And the last time we'd met? Let's just say her "hello" had been a fist directly to my face.