The Demigod Diaries (The Heroes of Olympus)(38)

Claymore was just an actor, performing for his patrons like any good showman would during a magic show. And this boy had just volunteered to be part of his act.

At this point the entire audience was staring at the child. The man sitting next to him—the boy’s father, Claymore assumed—shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

With so much attention focused on him, Claymore doubted the child would even have the strength to breathe. He looked so frail—skinny and awkward, probably the butt of many a joke at his school.

But then the seemingly weak boy did something surprising. He stood up and found his voice.

“We don’t know,” the boy said. His entire body was shaking, but he met Claymore’s gaze. “You criticize every single idea people have about the afterlife. After all your research, why are you asking us for an answer? Haven’t you found one yourself?”

Claymore didn’t respond immediately. Had the boy said “heaven” or “reincarnation,” he would have snapped back like a whip, but these comments were different. They made his act come to a screeching halt. The audience turned their eyes on him with a berating gaze, as if they found it easier to cling to the boy’s simplistic words than to Claymore’s life’s work.

But like any good showman, Claymore had a backup plan. He didn’t let more than five seconds pass. Any longer, and he would have seemed nervous. Any shorter, and it would seem like he was lashing out. After the appropriate pause, he gave his rehearsed response.

“I’m asking all of you because I am still searching for the answer myself,” he said, gripping the podium. “And the most complicated truths sometimes come from the simplest places. When I am on my deathbed, I want to know with unwavering certainty what lies ahead of me. I’m sure each and every one of you feels the same way.”

The audience applauded. Claymore waited for them to finish.

“My new book, Road to Death, will be in stores soon,” he concluded. “If you want to know more, I’d be honored to have you read it. And now I wish you good night. I hope you all find the answers you seek.”

A few in the audience gave him a standing ovation. Claymore flashed one last smile before walking offstage. But once he was away from their eyes, he scowled.

This was what his life had come to—being paraded around from one event to another like some circus animal. He was a visionary, but at the same time, a joke. Maybe a dozen people in the audience even remotely understood his work. He knew even fewer would accept it.

The sheer ignorance of his fans disgusted him.

“Mr. Claymore!” His host trotted backstage, and Claymore bent his frown into a smile. She was the one paying his fee, after all.

“You were a hit, Mr. Claymore!” she said, nearly jumping out of her high heels. “We’ve never had such a crowd!”

The woman landed back on her feet, and Claymore was surprised that her heels didn’t shatter under her weight. That was probably an impolite thought, but this woman almost matched him in height, and Claymore was considered a tall person. The best way to describe her would be as a stereotypical grandmother, the kind who bakes cookies and knits sweaters. She was larger than most grandmas, however. And her enthusiasm was fierce, almost like a hunger. A hunger for what? he wondered. Claymore assumed more cookies.

“Thank you,” he said, gritting his teeth. “But it’s Doctor Claymore, actually.”

“Well, you were amazing!” she said, smiling ear to ear. “You’re the first author we’ve sold out for!”

Of course I would fill the auditorium in a tiny town like this, Claymore thought. More than one reviewer had called him the greatest mind since Stephen Hawking. Even as a child, he’d used his silver tongue to make him seem little less than a god to his peers and teachers. Now he was looked up to by politicians and scientists alike.

“I preach the truth, and people long for the truth about death,” he said, quoting his new book.

The woman seemed a bit starstruck and no doubt would have kept praising him for hours, but she had served her purpose; so Claymore used the opportunity to make his departure. “I need to retire to my home now, Ms. Lamia. Have a good night.”

With those words, he walked out of the building and into the crisp night air.

He never would have agreed to speak in backwater Keeseville, New York, if he didn’t own a home here. The massive auditorium stuck out like a sore thumb in this quaint little town where he’d moved to pursue his writing in peace.

With its population barely breaking two thousand, Claymore guessed that the huge crowd tonight must have come from all over the state. He was a special event, a once-in-a-lifetime thing. But for Claymore it was busywork, something his publishers required of him. Just another day at the office.

“Dr. Claymore, wait!” a voice called after him, but he ignored it.

If it wasn’t his sponsor, he didn’t have to answer. There was no point…the event was over. But then someone grabbed his arm.

He turned and glared. It was that boy, the same one who had tried to make a fool of him.

“Dr. Claymore!” the boy said, panting. “Hold on. I need to ask you something.”

Claymore opened his mouth to reprimand the child, but then he stopped.

The boy’s father stood a few feet behind him. At least, Claymore assumed it was the father. They shared the same brown hair and lanky physique.