Daughter of Poseidon

Texan Blues and the Cowherd

It was almost dark by the time I stepped into the diner. 

I had realised that the gods probably knew of my betrayal when there was a huge thunderstorm over new York, as reported on the news in the holey diner that I was sitting in, off the beaten track. All around me, families from the local towns were eating burgers and drinking malts and sodas.

It took ten minutes for the waitress to come over. She raised her darkly pencilled eyebrow skeptically. "Well?" She said.

"We, um, I want to order dinner." I reminded myself to not talk in plurals.

"Who is we?"

"I said 'I'."

"Whatever you say . . ." She said, rolled her eyes, then flipped to a fresh page on her paper pad. "What are you going to have?"

"Food."

"Look kid, less of the lip." She had grumbled patronizingly, though she looked like a kid herself.

"Look who's talking." I said. I was tired, annoyed and hungry.

"So what are you going to have?" She said through gritted teeth.

"Um . . . Hamburger and fries."

"You have money to pay for it?" She asked, eyeing my dishevelled state.

I didn't have time to reply as, just then, a rumble shook the whole building; a motorcycle the size of a baby elephant had pulled up to the curb. All conversation in the diner stopped and everyone's attention focused on the object of the sound. The motorcycle's headlight glared red, its petrol tank had flames painted on it, and a shotgun holster was riveted to either side, complete with guns. The seat was leather and the guy on the bike would've made pro wrestlers scream with fright.

He was dressed in a tight t-shirt and black jeans and a black leather duster, like the sort of sweeping coat that cowboys wore, with a hunting knife strapped to his thigh. He wore red wraparound shades that looked oddly like this year's RayBan's, and he had the cruellest, most brutal face I'd ever seen. It was handsome, I guess, but wicked-with cheeks that were scarred from many, many fights.

As he walked into the diner, an aura of violence seemed to diffuse through the place and I suddenly felt very, very angry. All the people rose, as if they were hypnotized, but the biker waved his hand dismissively and they all sat down again. Everybody went back to their conversations, as if hypnotized. The waitress blinked, as though confused, and asked me again, "Do you have money to pay for it?"

The biker said, "It's on me. " He slid into my booth. I told myself to stay calm, although I wanted to punch the guy. But I'd read in Annabeth's books that that was what you felt like in the presence of the god of war and I didn't think punching him would really be a good idea. I didn't paticularly want to be cursed for the rest of my existence.

"Hey cousin," I said. "How's it going?"

"Watch it pal," Ares replied. "I'm still a god to you."

"And my idiotic older cousin who's forever getting into fights."

"I said watch it." He growled, then resumed a haughty air. "Besides, I am the god of war."

He gave me a wicked grin and continued: "So you're old Seaweed's kid, huh?" I think being scared, or surprised, may have been more sensible. But instead I felt like I was looking at the kids who used to bully me at school. I wanted to rip his head off.

"Well, you're Clarisse's dad," I said.

"Well, say it."

"You're turning into Edward Cullen with his catchphrase, 'say it out loud'. All you need to do is call me Bella."