The Last Olympian

talking about his blue eyes. Such a handsome boy!”
    “We have to go,” Nico said urgently. “We’ll tell Luke . . . uh, we’ll tell him you said hello.”
    “But you can’t leave!” Ms. Castellan got shakily to her feet, and I backed away. I felt silly being scared of a frail old woman, but the way her voice had changed, the way she’d grabbed Nico . . .
    “Hermes will be here soon,” she promised. “He’ll want to see his boy!”
    “Maybe next time,” I said. “Thank you for—” I looked down at the burned cookies scattered on the floor. “Thanks for everything.”
    She tried to stop us, to offer us Kool-Aid, but I had to get out of that house. On the front porch, she grabbed my wrist and I almost jumped out of my skin. “Luke, at least be safe. Promise me you’ll be safe.”
    “I will . . . Mom.”
    That made her smile. She released my wrist, and as she closed the front door I could hear her talking to the candles: “You hear that? He will be safe. I told you he would be!”
    As the door shut, Nico and I ran. The little beanbag animals on the sidewalk seemed to grin at us as we passed.
    Back at the cliff, Mrs. O’Leary had found a friend.
    A cozy campfire crackled in a ring of stones. A girl about eight years old was sitting cross-legged next to Mrs. O’Leary, scratching the hellhound’s ears.
    The girl had mousy brown hair and a simple brown dress. She wore a scarf over her head so she looked like a pioneer kid—like the ghost of Little House on the Prairie or something. She poked the fire with a stick, and it seemed to glow more richly red than a normal fire.
    “Hello,” she said.
    My first thought was: monster. When you’re a demigod and you find a sweet little girl alone in the woods—that’s typically a good time to draw your sword and attack. Plus, the encounter with Ms. Castellan had rattled me pretty bad.
    But Nico bowed to the little girl. “Hello again, Lady.”
    She studied me with eyes as red as the firelight. I decided it was safest to bow.
    “Sit, Percy Jackson,” she said. “Would you like some dinner?”
    After staring at moldy peanut butter sandwiches and burned cookies, I didn’t have much of an appetite, but the girl waved her hand and a picnic appeared at the edge of the fire. There were plates of roast beef, baked potatoes, buttered carrots, fresh bread, and a whole bunch of other foods I hadn’t had in a long time. My stomach started to rumble. It was the kind of home-cooked meal people are supposed to have but never do. The girl made a five-foot-long dog biscuit appear for Mrs. O’Leary, who happily began tearing it to shreds.
    I sat next to Nico. We picked up our food, and I was about to dig in when I thought better of it.
    I scraped part of my meal into the flames, the way we do at camp. “For the gods,” I said.
    The little girl smiled. “Thank you. As tender of the flame, I get a share of every sacrifice, you know.”
    “I recognize you now,” I said. “The first time I came to camp, you were sitting by the fire, in the middle of the commons area.”
    “You did not stop to talk,” the girl recalled sadly. “Alas, most never do. Nico talked to me. He was the first in many years. Everyone rushes about. No time for visiting family.”
    “You’re Hestia,” I said. “Goddess of the Hearth.”
    She nodded.
    Okay . . . so she looked eight years old. I didn’t ask. I’d learned that gods could look any way they pleased.
    “My lady,” Nico asked, “why aren’t you with the other Olympians, fighting Typhon?”
    “I’m not much for fighting.” Her red eyes flickered. I realized they weren’t just reflecting the flames. They were filled with flames—but not like Ares’s eyes. Hestia’s eyes were warm and cozy.
    “Besides,” she said, “someone has to keep the home fires burning while the other gods are away.”
    “So you’re guarding Mount Olympus?” I asked.
    “‘Guard’ may be too strong a word. But if you ever need a warm place to sit and a home-cooked meal, you are welcome to visit. Now eat.”
    My plate was empty before I knew it. Nico scarfed his down just as fast.
    “That was great,” I said. “Thank you, Hestia.”
    She nodded. “Did you have a good visit with May Castellan?”
    For a moment I’d almost forgotten the old lady with her bright eyes and her maniacal smile, the way she’d suddenly seemed possessed.
    “What’s wrong with her, exactly?” I asked.
    “She was born with a gift,” Hestia said. “She