Chapter 7 - Chapter 7: Questions Without Answers

By the time Cynthia Morales turned twelve, Camp Half-Blood had worn away some of the sharp, skittish edges foster care had carved into her. She'd grown taller over the last year, just enough that her orange camp T-shirt no longer hung like a borrowed curtain. Her body had changed in quieter ways too—arms roped with lean muscle from endless archery and hand-to-hand drills, legs steady and sure beneath her shorts, shoulders pulling back with a kind of unconscious confidence.Her face had softened from "too thin" to something gentler: high cheekbones less hollow, olive skin warm from days in the sun, dark waves usually tied back at the nape of her neck with a strip of leather. There was a quiet sort of beauty to her now—nothing flashy, but the kind that made people's eyes linger a second longer than before. It was in the way she moved: controlled, balanced, like she was always half a step from dropping into a fighting stance and half a step from slipping into the shadows. Her obsidian eyes had deepened too, still wide and serious, but carrying more thought behind them—naive in some ways, but no longer clueless.None of that answered the question that gnawed at her worst at night: who had put her here?She stood alone at the archery range in the late afternoon heat, bow in hand, the sun a white coin sinking above the treeline. The targets downrange were shredded from days of practice, straw bleeding out under a constellation of Cynthia's arrows. She drew and loosed again—smooth, excellent form, fingers relaxed, shoulders calm. The arrow flew dead center, feather fletching quivering.Apollo, she thought, not for the first time. God of archery. Light. Music. She wasn't musical, unless you counted humming off-key around the campfire, but the bow felt like an extension of her body. She could shoot in rain, in wind, in near-darkness; at night, it was like the moon whispered to her hands which way to tilt. Apollo made sense, at least on paper.She lowered the bow, chewing the inside of her cheek. "But I'm not… bright like his kids," she muttered under her breath. That wasn't self-pity; it was observation. Apollo cabin kids glowed—literally sometimes. They were loud and golden and full of jokes and poems. Cynthia could talk, sure, but she was quieter, more careful with her words, more likely to listen than to shout a song.Her mind drifted, as it often did, to other names.Athena? Some of the older campers had suggested it—Annabeth once, offhandedly, while they were sketching in the shade. "You're good at reading fights," she'd said. "You notice angles, weak spots. That's very Athena."Cynthia liked the idea of that. Athena's kids were smart in a way she actually recognized: problem-solving, seeing patterns. She'd found she could pick up new moves after seeing them twice, could predict Clarisse's next charge by the way the Ares girl set her feet. She could memorize camp layouts without trying. She liked quiet, and books, and planning ambush routes in the woods with Annabeth.But when she watched the Athena cabin in the pavilion—heads bent over blueprints and Latin and strategy boards—something always felt slightly off. They lived for plans. Cynthia… didn't. She liked instincts, the feel of reacting in the moment. She was smart in a different way, more gut than textbook.Hermes? That one stung a little, because it would almost be too neat. Hermes cabin had taken her in, packed her onto a narrow bunk, fed her, pranked her, teased her, protected her in their own chaotic way. She moved quietly, could sneak past most campers without them noticing. She'd learned to palm small things when she was hungry in the city—an apple here, a bus pass there. Luke had taught her how to throw a knife and how to spot a lie; Travis and Connor had taught her how to climb roofs without breaking her neck.She liked fast footwork, quick decisions, dodges and feints. A messenger god's kid wouldn't be the worst thing.But every time she looked up at the sky, waiting for a glowing caduceus or a flutter of winged sandals above her head, nothing happened. Year one. Year two. Twelve now, and still unclaimed.She set the bow down with a little more force than she meant to and rubbed her wrists. "So who are you?" she asked the empty air, voice flat but not bitter. Just tired. "Too busy to say hello?"The unspoken rules rang in her head:Big Three? Out. Zeus, Poseidon, Hades had sworn off kids decades ago. And Artemis—Annabeth had told her that one early, practically with footnotes—was a maiden goddess. Sworn never to have children.So those doors were closed."Not that I want a god of thunder for a dad," she muttered. Lightning freaked her out enough already."Talking to yourself?" a voice said.She turned to see Annabeth approaching from the path, a notebook tucked under one arm, blond hair in its usual practical ponytail. At twelve, Annabeth had lengthened too—lean muscle, quick hands, gray eyes somehow older than most adults Cynthia had met. Her Camp Half-Blood shirt bore a streak of charcoal, probably from whatever sketch she was working on."Just the air," Cynthia said, picking up her bow again. "It doesn't answer, either."Annabeth stopped beside her, tracking the chewed-up target. "You're destroying my cabin's reputation," she said, just a hint of a smile. "People are going to think you're one of us if you keep hitting bullseyes like that."Cynthia huffed a tiny laugh. "Maybe your mom's just shy.""Athena doesn't do shy," Annabeth said dryly. Her gaze lingered on Cynthia's bow hand, then her stance. "But maybe she appreciates competence. You're wondering again, aren't you?""About my parent?" Cynthia nodded, adjusting her grip. "Yeah. A bit.""Have any theories?"Cynthia shrugged, eyes going back to the target. "Apollo's the obvious one. Archery. Sun. I guess Hermes, because…" She gestured vaguely toward the cabins, meaning the chaos that was her bunk. "You all took me in. Athena because of you." She dropped her hands, suddenly aware of how silly it sounded. "Or no one. Maybe I'm a glitch.""You're not a glitch," Annabeth said, in that clipped way she had when she thought someone was being stupid. "The gods aren't subtle about family. If they haven't claimed you yet, there's a reason. It doesn't mean they aren't watching.""That's… not super comforting," Cynthia said, but she filed it away. Not claimed didn't have to mean not wanted—but it felt too close sometimes.Annabeth hesitated. "At least… you're not one of the Big Three," she added. "That's… complicated."Cynthia nodded. "And Artemis is off the table, right?"Annabeth blinked. "Yeah. Maiden goddess. No kids. The Hunters swear off all that anyway." She squinted at Cynthia like she was measuring something. "Why?""Just checking," Cynthia said quickly. She'd never really considered Artemis seriously—moonlight and wolves and all the stories about her followers—but it was nice to rule something out, at least. Narrow down the emptiness.Annabeth fell into step beside her as they walked away from the range. "Whatever it is," she said, "it'll make sense later. Chiron says the gods like timing. And drama.""Could they pick less drama?" Cynthia muttered."Never," Annabeth said. "They're the gods."They headed toward the pavilion together, the late afternoon fading into that brief, golden hour when the camp seemed to glow. Nymphs laughed near the creek, satyrs played pipes, the cabins threw shadows long and cool. Cynthia felt that old, familiar tug when she passed the younger unclaimed kids—a group gathered near the Hermes cabin steps, a couple of them looking anxiously at the sky every few minutes.She slowed. "I'll catch up," she told Annabeth.Annabeth followed her gaze and nodded once. "I'll save you a seat," she said, walking on.Cynthia dropped onto the steps next to a boy who couldn't be more than nine, hair sticking up in every direction like he'd lost a fight with a pillow. He hugged his knees, eyes rimmed red."Hey," she said, bumping his shoulder lightly. "First week?"He nodded without looking at her."First monster?"He shuddered. "It had… claws. And three heads.""Hydra," she said. "Nasty." She nudged him again. "You're here. That means you won."He sniffed. "Hermes cabin said… my parent will claim me. Soon." His voice cracked on the last word."Maybe," she said. She'd learned not to promise what she couldn't deliver. "But even if they take their sweet time, you've got us." She jerked a thumb toward the cabin. "Many bunkmates. Many bad jokes. It's kind of like having a dozen annoying siblings."He finally risked a glance at her. "Doesn't it bother you?" he asked. "Not knowing?"Cynthia stared out across the yard, the pine tree on the hill against the sky. "Yeah," she said quietly. "A lot. But… it bothers me more thinking about little kids freaked out and alone. So I try to keep busy."He didn't answer, but he leaned a little closer, and that was enough.The days rolled on like that—training, chores, games, helping new arrivals. Cynthia kept doing what she did best: excelling at archery, hand-to-hand, and knives; moving spears like she'd been born with one in hand; convincing herself she didn't mind being the older unclaimed sister in Hermes cabin. The question of her parent sat heavy but familiar, like a stone in her pocket. Some days she didn't feel it. Other days it dragged.It was on one of those dragging days that everything else in camp seemed to tilt.The smell hit her first: ozone and rain, sharp as the crack of a whip. Cynthia was leaving the forge area—hands sore from another mediocre attempt at swinging a hammer correctly—when the sky darkened out of nowhere. The afternoon sun vanished behind black clouds piling over the valley, thunder grumbling low and mean.She paused in the path, frowning. No one mentioned a storm. The hair on her arms prickled.At the hill's crest, a shape stumbled past Thalia's pine—the magical barrier shimmering around it as it let something through. For a split second, against the flash of lightning, Cynthia saw the outline: a boy, dripping wet, half-carrying, half-dragging another shape toward the Big House. A third figure—smaller, limping—hurried beside them.Curiosity and instinct kicked in together. She broke into a jog, then a run, feet slapping the muddy path. By the time she reached the foot of the hill, she could make out more details: the boy in front was maybe twelve, black hair plastered to his head, clothes torn and smoking in places like he'd been on the wrong side of a lightning strike. His eyes, a vivid sea-green even from a distance, were wide with panic and exhaustion.The smaller shape beside him—curly hair, fake-looking feet soaked through sneakers—was a satyr. Grover, she realized as she got closer. She'd seen him a few times at camp, always nervous, always kind.Between them, slumped, was a woman—no, not a woman. A second later, Cynthia realized it was a goat-legged boy, unconscious, and her brain scrambled the picture. Lightning flashed again, and the whole world went stark white."Help!" Grover bleated, voice hoarse. "Somebody—!""I got it!" Cynthia shouted, sprinting the last few yards. Rain started in earnest, cold needles on her skin.Up close, she could see how bad it was. The black-haired boy—who had to be new, she'd never seen him before—was shaking with effort, arms hooked under Grover's armpits as he dragged him. Grover's chins bobbed limply; his eyes were half-open, unfocused."What happened?" she demanded, grabbing Grover's other side without waiting for permission. Her shoulders bunched, muscles protesting, but between the two of them they managed a better grip."Car… Minotaur… my mom—" the boy gasped, words tripping over each other. He smelled like rain and smoke and something older, like salt water. His eyes flicked over her briefly, confused and desperate. "Camp. Grover said… hill…""Okay, okay," Cynthia said, voice going automatically calm in a way it never had back in foster homes. This she understood: people hurt, needing movement. "Big House. This way. I'll help."She shifted her weight, hoisting Grover more firmly, ignoring the way his sodden jacket soaked into her shirt. The three of them half-stumbled, half-ran down the hill path, thunder booming overhead.Satyrs and nymphs scattered to make way as they approached the Big House. Cynthia caught glimpses of campers at the cabins, faces turned up at the storm, whispers starting."Chiron!" Grover croaked. "He made it—Percy made it—"The front door banged open. Chiron, in full centaur form now, filled the doorway, eyes wide as he took in the scene. Mr. D hovered behind him, holding a can of Diet Coke like it was a shield."Bring him in," Chiron ordered, voice all business. His gaze flicked over the soaked boy at Cynthia's side—Percy, apparently—and something like recognition flashed there. "Quickly."Cynthia tightened her grip on Grover and shouldered the door open with her hip, helping drag the satyr inside. Percy stumbled in next to her, breath ragged, eyes still darting like he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing.The Big House's familiar smell—lemon cleaner, old wood, a hint of something mythic under it all—washed over Cynthia as they crossed the threshold. She'd been in the medbay enough to know the way; her feet found the route automatically."This way," she said quietly to Percy, nodding down the hall.He didn't answer, but he followed, one hand still clamped on Grover's arm like he was afraid to let go.Together, they hauled Grover down the corridor toward the infirmary, Cynthia's thoughts buzzing with questions she didn't have time to ask, and one quiet certainty beneath all the noise:Whoever this Percy Jackson was, he'd just crashed into camp like a thunderbolt.And somewhere, high above the storm clouds, some god was paying very close attention.