The Demigod Diaries (The Heroes of Olympus)(39)

He thought the man should scold his child for being so rude, but the father just stared blankly at Claymore.

“Why, yes, hello,” Claymore said, forcing a smile toward the dad. “Is this your son?”

“He just has a quick question for you,” the dad said absentmindedly.

Claymore reluctantly turned his gaze to the boy, who, unlike his father, had eyes burning with fiery determination.

“I suppose this is my fault,” Claymore said as civilly as possible. “I should have allowed you more time to talk at the end of my speech.”

“It’s something important,” the boy said. “So please take this seriously even if it sounds weird, okay?”

Claymore resisted the urge to walk away. He disliked indulging people, but his public face was important to his book sales. He couldn’t have this boy’s idiot father telling the world that they had been cruelly ignored.

“Ask away,” Claymore said. “I’m all ears.”

The boy straightened. Despite being as thin as a twig, he stood nearly as tall as Claymore.

“What happens if someone finds a way to stop death?”

Claymore could feel his blood chill from the change in the boy’s voice. It wasn’t nervous anymore. It was as heavy and cold as stone.

“That would be impossible,” Claymore said. “All living things decay over time. There is a certain point at which we become unable to function. That is—”

“You didn’t answer the question,” the boy interrupted. “Please give me your honest opinion.”

“I don’t have one,” Claymore retorted. “I’m not a fiction writer. I don’t indulge myself in impossibilities.”

The boy frowned. “That’s too bad. Dad, the paper?”

The man pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Claymore.

“It’s our contact information,” the boy said. “If you figure it out, call me, okay?”

Claymore stared at him, trying not to let his confusion show. “You do understand me, don’t you? I can’t answer your question.”

The boy looked at him with solemn eyes. “Please try, Dr. Claymore. Because if you don’t, I’m going to die.”

On the drive home Claymore kept glancing in his rearview mirror. Really, he was pathetic. The boy had just been trying to unnerve him. He couldn’t let himself get upset over something like that.

By the time he reached his driveway, he felt like he had gotten over it. But he still found himself setting his house alarm.

Claymore lived alone in his personally designed house. Among his many talents he was an architect, and he wanted his house to mirror him in every aspect. Impressively modern with clean lines, it was set well back from the road. Its security cameras and barred windows protected his privacy, but inside, the rooms were simply furnished, quiet, and comfortable.

No wife, no kids—there was no one in the house to disturb him. Not even a cat. Especially not a cat.

It was his oasis and his oasis alone. Being here always calmed his frayed nerves.

Yes, his beautiful house did help him get his mind off the boy. But it wasn’t long before he found himself sitting at his desk, reading the card the father had given him.

ALABASTER C. TORRINGTON

273 MORROW LANE

518-555-9530

The 518 area code meant that they might live in Keeseville. And Claymore recalled a Morrow Lane about halfway across town.

Was Alabaster Torrington the boy, or the father? Alabaster was a rather old-fashioned name. You didn’t hear it often, because most parents had the sense not to name their children after rocks.

Claymore shook his head. He should throw away the card and forget it. Scenes from Stephen King’s Misery were stuck in his head. But that’s what the alarm system is for, he told himself; to keep the creepy fans away. If his door got so much as a knock in the middle of the night, the police would be dispatched immediately.

And Claymore was not defenseless. He had a respectable collection of firearms hidden in various places around his house. One couldn’t be too careful.

He sighed, throwing the piece of paper on the table with the rest of his scraps. It wasn’t unusual for him to encounter strange people at events. After all, for every semi-intelligent person who bought his books, there were at least three others who picked them up because they thought they were dieting guides.

All that mattered was the fact that Claymore wasn’t alone in a dark alley with those people. He was safe, he was home, and there was no better place to be.

He smiled to himself, leaning back in his work chair. “Yes, that’s right, nothing to worry about,” he told himself. “Just another day at the office.”

That’s when the phone rang, and Claymore’s smile melted.

What could anyone want at this hour? It was nearly eleven. Anyone sensible was either asleep or curled up with a good book.

He thought about not answering, but his phone didn’t stop ringing—which was very strange, considering that his voicemail usually picked up after the fourth ring. Eventually curiosity won him over.

He stood and walked into his great room. For simplicity’s sake, he only kept one landline in the house. The caller ID read MARIAN LAMIA, 518-555-4164.

Lamia…That was the woman who booked the event.

He frowned and reluctantly picked up the receiver as he sat down on his couch.