The Demigod Diaries (The Heroes of Olympus)(40)

“Yes, hello, Claymore speaking.” He did not attempt to mask the annoyance in his voice. This was his home, and forcing him to answer a phone call was no better than intruding in person. He hoped Lamia had a good reason.

“Mr. Claymore!” She said his name like she was announcing he’d won the lottery. “Hello, hello, hello! How are you doing?”

“Do you realize what hour it is, Ms. Lamia?” Claymore asked in the most severe voice he could muster. “Do you have something important to tell me?”

“Yes, I do! In fact, I wanted to talk to you about it immediately!”

He sighed. This person made him go from mildly annoyed to just plain infuriated in a grand total of thirty seconds.

“Well, then, don’t just exclaim pointlessly,” he snarled. “Spit it out! I’m a busy man and do not take kindly to being disturbed.”

The line went silent. Claymore was half convinced he’d scared her off. But finally she continued in a much colder voice.

“Very well, Mr. Claymore. We don’t have to go through the pleasantries, if that’s what you wish.”

He nearly laughed. It sounded like this woman was outright trying to be intimidating.

“Thank you,” Claymore said. “What exactly do you want?”

“You met a child tonight, and he gave you something,” Lamia said. “I want you to hand that over to me.”

He frowned. How did she know about the boy? Was she watching him?

“I don’t appreciate your following me, but I guess at this point that hardly matters. All the child gave me was a piece of paper with his address on it. I wouldn’t feel comfortable giving it to you, someone I met only yesterday.”

There was another pause. Just as Claymore was about to put down the phone, the woman asked, “Do you believe in God, Mr. Claymore?”

He rolled his eyes, disgusted with the woman. “You don’t know when to stop, do you? I don’t believe in anything that I cannot see or feel myself. So if you are asking me from a religious context, the answer is no.”

“That’s a shame,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “It makes my job that much harder.”

Claymore slammed down the receiver.

What was that woman’s problem? She had started the conversation by practically saying, “I’ve been stalking you,” and then tried to convert him. So much for her being a nice grandmother.

The phone rang again—Lamia’s ID—but Claymore had absolutely no intention of picking it up. He unplugged his phone, and that was the end of that.

Tomorrow, perhaps, he’d file a police report. Clearly Ms. Lamia was deranged. Why on earth would she want that boy’s address? What did Lamia want with him?

Claymore shivered. He felt a strange urge to warn the child. But no, this wasn’t his problem. He would just let the psychos thin themselves out, if that’s what they wished. He wasn’t going to step into the crossfire.

Especially not tonight. Tonight, he needed to sleep.

Claymore knew that curiosity and excitement could twist a person’s dreams. But that didn’t explain this one.

He found himself in a vast room, old and dusty. It looked like a church that hadn’t been cleaned in a century. There was no light except for a soft green shimmer at the far end of the room. The source of the light was obscured by a boy standing in the aisle directly in front of him. Though Claymore couldn’t see clearly, he was sure it was the same kid from the auditorium. What was he doing in Claymore’s dream?

Claymore was what people called a lucid dreamer, someone who usually knows when they’re dreaming and can wake up at will. He could have woken himself now if he’d wanted to, but he decided not to just yet. He was curious.

“She’s found me again,” the boy said. He wasn’t addressing Claymore. His back was turned, and he seemed to be talking to the green light. “I don’t know if I can fight her off this time. She’s closing in on my scent.”

For a moment there was no answer. Then, finally, a woman spoke from the front of the room. Her tone was stoic and without humor, and something about it sent a shiver up Claymore’s spine.

“You know I cannot help you, my child,” she said. “She is my daughter. I can’t raise my hand against either of you.”

The boy tensed like he was ready to argue, but he stopped himself. “I—I understand, Mother.”

“Alabaster, you know I love you,” the woman said. “But this is a battle you brought upon yourself. You accepted Kronos’s blessing. You fought with his armies in my name. You can’t simply turn to your enemies now and ask for forgiveness. They will never help you. I have bargained to keep you safe thus far, but I cannot interfere in your fight with her.”

Claymore frowned. The name Kronos referred to the Titan lord of Greek mythology, son of the earth and the heavens, but the rest made no sense. Claymore had hoped to gain some insight from this dream, but now it seemed like garbage—more mythology and legends. It was nothing but useless fiction.

The boy, Alabaster, stepped toward the green light. “Kronos wasn’t supposed to lose! You said the odds of winning were in the Titans’ favor! You told me Camp Half-Blood would be destroyed!”

When the boy moved, Claymore could finally see the woman that he was talking to. She knelt at the end of the aisle, her face raised as if in prayer to a dirty stained glass window above the altar. She was dressed in white robes covered with ornate silver designs, like runes or alchemy symbols. Her dark hair barely came down to her shoulders.