The Last Olympian

handsome. You have your father’s eyes.”
    She turned toward the pictures of Hermes above the sink. “Now there’s a good man. Yes, indeed. He comes to visit me, you know.”
    The clock kept ticking in the other room. I wiped the peanut butter off my face and looked at Nico pleadingly, like Can we get out of here now?
    “Ma’am,” Nico said. “What, uh . . . what happened to your eyes?”
    Her gaze seemed fractured—like she was trying to focus on him through a kaleidoscope. “Why, Luke, you know the story. It was right before you were born, wasn’t it? I’d always been special, able to see through the . . . whatever-they-call-it.”
    “The Mist?” I said.
    “Yes, dear.” She nodded encouragingly. “And they offered me an important job. That’s how special I was!”
    I glanced at Nico, but he looked as confused as I was.
    “What sort of job?” I asked. “What happened?”
    Ms. Castellan frowned. Her knife hovered over the sandwich bread. “Dear me, it didn’t work out, did it? Your father warned me not to try. He said it was too dangerous. But I had to. It was my destiny! And now . . . I still can’t get the images out of my head. They make everything seem so fuzzy. Would you like some cookies?”
    She pulled a tray out of the oven and dumped a dozen lumps of chocolate chip charcoal on the table.
    “Luke was so kind,” Mrs. Castellan murmured. “He left to protect me, you know. He said if he went away, the monsters wouldn’t threaten me. But I told him the monsters are no threat! They sit outside on the sidewalk all day, and they never come in.” She picked up the little stuffed Medusa from the windowsill. “Do they, Mrs. Medusa? No, no threat at all.” She beamed at me. “I’m so glad you came home. I knew you weren’t ashamed of me!”
    I shifted in my seat. I imagined being Luke sitting at this table, eight or nine years old, and just beginning to realize that my mother wasn’t all there.
    “Ms. Castellan,” I said.
    “Mom,” she corrected.
    “Um, yeah. Have you seen Luke since he left home?”
    “Well, of course!”
    I didn’t know if she was imagining that or not. For all I knew, every time the mailman came to the door he was Luke. But Nico sat forward expectantly.
    “When?” he asked. “When did Luke visit you last?”
    “Well, it was . . . Oh goodness . . .” A shadow passed across her face. “The last time, he looked so different. A scar. A terrible scar, and his voice so full of pain . . .”
    “His eyes,” I said. “Were they gold?”
    “Gold?” She blinked. “No. How silly. Luke has blue eyes. Beautiful blue eyes!”
    So Luke really had been here, and this had happened before last summer—before he’d turned into Kronos.
    “Ms. Castellan?” Nico put his hand on the old woman’s arm. “This is very important. Did he ask you for anything?”
    She frowned as if trying to remember. “My—my blessing. Isn’t that sweet?” She looked at us uncertainly. “He was going to a river, and he said he needed my blessing. I gave it to him. Of course I did.”
    Nico looked at me triumphantly. “Thank you, ma’am. That’s all the information we—”
    Mrs. Castellan gasped. She doubled over, and her cookie tray clattered to the floor. Nico and I jumped to our feet.
    “Ms. Castellan?” I said.
    “AHHHH.” She straightened. I scrambled away and almost fell over the kitchen table, because her eyes—her eyes were glowing green.
    “My child,” she rasped in a much deeper voice. “Must pro tect him! Hermes, help! Not my child! Not his fate—no!”
    She grabbed Nico by the shoulders and began to shake him as if to make him understand. “Not his fate!”
    Nico made a strangled scream and pushed her away. He gripped the hilt of his sword. “Percy, we need to get out—”
    Suddenly Ms. Castellan collapsed. I lurched forward and caught her before she could hit the edge of the table. I managed to get her into a chair.
    “Ms. C?” I asked.
    She muttered something incomprehensible and shook her head. “Goodness. I . . . I dropped the cookies. How silly of me.”
    She blinked, and her eyes were back to normal—or at least, what they had been before. The green glow was gone.
    “Are you okay?” I asked.
    “Well, of course, dear. I’m fine. Why do you ask?”
    I glanced at Nico, who mouthed the word Leave.
    “Ms. C., you were telling us something,” I said. “Something about your son.”
    “Was I?” she said dreamily. “Yes, his blue eyes. We were