The Hidden Oracle (The Trials of Apollo #1)(38)

“Yes.”

“Ellis?”

“Yes, it’s me,” I said. “I’m Ellis.”

“I love you, man,” Sherman sobbed.

Still, it took all our strength to lead him out of the trees. I was reminded of the time Hephaestus and I had to wrestle the god Hypnos back to bed after he sleepwalked into Artemis’s private chambers on Mount Olympus. It’s a wonder any of us escaped without silver arrows pincushioning our posteriors.

We led Sherman to the archery range. Between one step and the next, he blinked his eyes and became his normal self. He noticed our hands on his arms and shook us off.

“What is this?” he demanded.

“You were walking into the woods,” I said.

He gave us his drill sergeant glower. “No, I wasn’t.”

Kayla reached for him, then obviously thought better about it. Archery would be difficult with broken fingers. “Sherman, you were in some kind of trance. You were muttering about Ellis and Miranda.”

Along Sherman’s cheek, his zigzag scar darkened to bronze. “I don’t remember that.”

“Although you didn’t mention the other missing camper,” I added helpfully. “Cecil?”

“Why would I mention Cecil?” Sherman growled. “I can’t stand the guy. And why should I believe you?”

“The woods had you,” I said. “The trees were pulling you in.”

Sherman studied the forest, but the trees looked normal again. The lengthening shadows and swaying green hands were gone.

“Look,” Sherman said, “I have a head injury, thanks to your annoying friend Meg. If I was acting strange, that’s why.”

Kayla frowned. “But—”

“Enough!” Sherman snapped. “If either of you mention this, I’ll make you eat your quivers. I don’t need people questioning my self-control. Besides, I’ve got the race to think about.”

He brushed past us.

“Sherman,” I called.

He turned, his fists clenched.

“The last thing you remember,” I said, “before you found yourself with us…what were you thinking about?”

For a microsecond, the dazed look passed across his face again. “About Miranda and Ellis…like you said. I was thinking…I wanted to know where they were.”

“You were asking a question, then.” A blanket of dread settled over me. “You wanted information.”

“I…”

At the dining pavilion, the conch horn blew.

Sherman’s expression hardened. “Doesn’t matter. Drop it. We’ve got lunch now. Then I’m going to destroy you all in the three-legged death race.”

As threats went, I had heard worse, but Sherman made it sound intimidating enough. He marched off toward the pavilion.

Kayla turned to me. “What just happened?”

“I think I understand now,” I said. “I know why those campers went missing.”





Tied to McCaffrey

We might end up in Lima

Harley is evil

NOTE TO SELF: trying to reveal important information just before a three-legged death race is not a good idea.

No one would listen to me.

Despite last night’s grumbling and complaining, the campers were now buzzing with excitement. They spent their lunch hour frantically cleaning weapons, lacing armor straps, and whispering among one another to form secret alliances. Many tried to convince Harley, the course architect, to share hints about the best strategies.

Harley loved the attention. By the end of lunch, his table was piled high with offerings (read: bribes)—chocolate bars, peanut butter cups, gummy bears, and Hot Wheels. Harley would have made an excellent god. He took the gifts, mumbled a few pleasantries, but told his worshippers nothing helpful.

I tried to speak with Chiron about the dangers of the woods, but he was so frantic with last-minute race preparations that I almost got trampled just standing near him. He trotted nervously around the pavilion with a team of satyr and dryad referees in tow, comparing maps and issuing orders.

“The teams will be almost impossible to track,” he murmured, his face buried in a Labyrinth schematic. “And we don’t have any coverage in grid D.”

“But, Chiron,” I said, “if I could just—”

“The test group this morning ended up in Peru,” he told the satyrs. “We can’t have that happen again.”

“About the woods,” I said.

“Yes, I’m sorry, Apollo. I understand you are concerned—”

“The woods are actually speaking,” I said. “You remember the old—”

A dryad ran up to Chiron with her dress billowing smoke. “The flares are exploding!”

“Ye gods!” Chiron said. “Those were for emergencies!”

He galloped over my feet, followed by his mob of assistants.

And so it went. When one is a god, the world hangs on your every word. When one is sixteen…not so much.

I tried to talk to Harley, hoping he might postpone the race, but the boy brushed me off with a simple “Nah.”

As was so often the case with Hephaestus’s children, Harley was tinkering with some mechanical device, moving the springs and gears around. I didn’t really care what it was, but I asked Harley about it, hoping to win the boy’s goodwill.