Forgotten memories

A new start... gods damit

"Orion! Did you remember the pastrami?" My grandmother's voice carried from the kitchen the second I stepped into our Brooklyn apartment.

"Yeah, I got it!" I called back, kicking the door shut behind me with my foot. My arms were full of grocery bags, so I shuffled toward the kitchen like a pack mule.

The smell of fresh bread and mustard already hung in the air. Charlotte—Grand Charlotte, as I'd started calling her—was standing at the counter, putting together what looked like an army of sandwiches. It was almost eleven at night, but after flying halfway across the world, neither of us had the energy for a proper dinner. Midnight sandwiches it was.

I set the bags down and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek before pulling out the stuff I'd bought. "You really weren't kidding about being starving," I said with a laugh.

She smiled without looking up. "Traveling does that to you. Besides, you've had worse meals."

She wasn't wrong. Airplane food? Absolutely terrible.

We worked in easy silence for a few minutes, slicing bread and layering meat. Cooking—or, well, making food together—had become our thing. Something normal. Something human. And after everything that had happened the last couple of years, normal felt like a rare luxury. Charlotte insisted on it, mostly because it was something she used to do with my dad when he was my age. Honestly? I didn't mind. It was... grounding.

And yeah, it had been a long year. Almost twelve months since I'd moved in with her, since we went through that whole nightmare of a legal battle to get me U.S. citizenship. (Spoiler: lawyers are expensive.) When that was finally over, we decided to take a "vacation." Except it wasn't really a vacation—it was a work trip disguised as one. We flew to Norway to sell the house I grew up in. Technically, it was mine, but since I was too young when Dad died—and because wills overseas work differently—Charlotte inherited it.

That trip... it wasn't easy. We visited Dad's grave too. This time, it didn't hurt as much as before. Last time, it felt like someone had ripped the floor out from under me. But now? It was more about being there for Charlotte. She cried this time. I just stood with her. That was enough.

Anyway, back in the kitchen, I was halfway through slicing cucumbers when the intercom buzzed.

"I'll get that," Charlotte said, drying her hands on a dish towel as she walked over to the panel on the wall. Our building had this old-school system where the doorman would call up if someone wanted to see us.

She pressed the button and spoke cheerfully. "Hi, Samuel. What is it?"

There was a pause. Longer than usual. Then his voice came through, sounding uncertain. "Uh... ma'am, there's about..." Another pause. I stopped cutting and glanced at Charlotte, who was frowning now. "...there's about fifteen teenage girls asking to speak with you and your grandson."

Charlotte turned to me with the same confused look I was giving her. Fifteen teenage girls? That didn't sound like Girl Scouts selling cookies.

I set the knife down and walked over, pressing the button. "Hey, Sam. Orion here. Quick question—do these girls happen to be wearing silver combat pants?"

There was a beat of silence. Then: "Uh... yeah. Yeah, they do."

I closed my eyes and muttered under my breath, "Of course they do."

Charlotte, still looking totally lost, just smiled like it was some weird inside joke. "Samuel, you can send them up," she said calmly.

***

The apartment was big—by New York standards, anyway. But when you cram seventeen people into it? Yeah, suddenly it feels like a shoebox. I had bought enough groceries to make sandwiches for me and Gran, maybe a few extras... definitely not enough for a small army of silver-clad Hunters. Guess who's running back to the store later? Lucky me.

"What brings, oh, I don't know, half the Hunters of Artemis to our little apartment?" Charlotte asked, her voice perfectly polite but carrying that you better start explaining undertone as she handed out sandwiches like a cafeteria lady.

"And where's Thalia?" I added, because if the Hunters were here and Thalia wasn't, that was... weird.

Phoebe—because of course she was the one in charge—didn't even look up. She was too busy inhaling her sandwich like she hadn't eaten in days. Her wolf, on the other hand, was sprawled out on the floor right next to her chair, happily chewing on a slice of pastrami that had slipped out of the bread. The wolf looked at me with those glowing eyes, and suddenly I heard a voice in my head:

Can I get more of that delicious meat?

I groaned. "You've got to be kidding me." Still, I tore off another piece and handed it over. The wolf practically wagged its tail as it gulped it down. Great. Now I'm the official meat dispenser.

Phoebe wiped her mouth and finally spoke. "It's a long story, but Thalia's out with the other half of the Hunters. Recruitment mission." She gave the wolf a scratch behind the ear like nothing was weird about any of this. "Short version? We need your help... convincing some people to fight."

"Uh... okay?" I tilted my head. "That sounds ominous. Who exactly are we convincing and who exactly are we fighting?"

Phoebe didn't answer right away. Instead, she glanced toward Charlotte, who was still hovering nearby. After a second, Charlotte got the hint. She smiled politely, handed Phoebe another sandwich, and walked back into the kitchen, probably to grab more food.

The second she was out of earshot, Phoebe leaned in, her expression serious. "Have you ever noticed that your father's sword is... different from the others at camp?"

My eyes flicked down to the necklace around my neck. Without saying a word, I pulled it off, and in a flash of gold light, it lengthened into a golden spatha. The metal gleamed in the dim apartment light, practically humming with energy.

Phoebe stared at it for a beat before nodding. "Yeah. That's not normal celestial bronze. And the design? It's Roman. Definitely Roman. Do you know how your dad even got this thing?"

I shook my head. "Not a clue. Why?"

She stood up like that explained everything. "Because it matters. A lot. We need to get moving to San Francisco. And you're coming with us."

I blinked at her. "San Francisco? What does my dad's sword have to do with California?"

Phoebe didn't answer. She just gave me a look, one of those I could tell you, but I'd rather keep you in suspense looks. Then, just like that, the Hunters started packing up their gear like this was totally normal, like showing up at someone's apartment at midnight to drag a demigod across the country was an everyday thing.

Charlotte walked back in, holding a plate stacked with more sandwiches, and froze. "What... exactly is going on here?" Her eyes swept over the Hunters strapping on quivers and checking bows like they were about to storm a fortress.

I gave her a crooked smile and a shrug. "Field trip?"

She sighed and shook her head like she was too tired to deal with this level of weirdness. "Do you want me to pack the rest of these sandwiches to go?"

"Yeah," I said, trying not to laugh. "That'd be great."

After throwing my stuff into a backpack—and making sure to keep the sandwiches away from the wolves—I walked over and hugged her tight. She kissed my cheek and whispered, "Be good. And don't die."

I smiled and nodded. "I'll try."

And with that, I slung my bag over my shoulder, joined the Hunters, and stepped out into the night.