Daughter of Wine

Frank

I sling my bow and quiver over my shoulder. Immediately, they morph into a regular backpack. I love that. I never would've known about the quiver's camouflage power if Calli hadn't sensed it's magic and Leo hadn't figured out how it works. 

Leo! Calli! The voice of Mars rages in my head. They must die!

Throttle them! Ares cries. Throttle everyone! Who are we talking about again?

The two begin shouting at each other again, over the sound of bombs exploding in my skull. 

I steady myself against the wall. For days, I've listened to those voices demanding the death of Leo Valdez and Callida Rivera. 

After all, Leo started the war with Camp Jupiter by firing the ballista into the Forum. And Calli, well, Calli drove the entire Roman army into a frenzy of madness and grapes. Sure, Leo had been possessed, and Calli had to to get us out of there, but still Mars demands vengeance. Leo makes things harder by constantly teasing me, and Ares demands that I retaliate for every insult. 

I keep their voices at bay, but it isn't easy. 

On our trip across the Atlantic, Leo said something that still sticks in my mind. When we learned that Gaea put a bounty on our heads, Leo wanted to know for how much. 

I can understand not being as pricey as Jason or Percy, he'd said, but am I worth, like, two or three Franks?

Just another one of Leo's stupid jokes, but the comment hit a little too close to home. Calli had elbowed him, a sign to shut up, and I appreciated that, but it doesn't change the fact that he said it. On the Argo II, I definitely feel like the least valuable player. Sure, I can turn into animals. So what? My biggest claim to helpfulness so far has been changing into a weasel to escape from an underground workshop, and even that had been Leo's idea. I'm better known for the Giant Goldfish Fiasco in Atlanta, and, just yesterday, for turning into a two-hundred-kilo gorilla only to get knocked senseless by a flash-bang grenade. 

Leo hasn't made any gorilla jokes yet, but it's only a matter of time. 

Kill him!

Torture him! Then kill him!

The two sides of the war god seem to be kicking and punching each other inside my head, using my sinuses as a wrestling mat. 

Blood! Guns!

Rome! War!

Quiet down, I order. 

Amazingly, the voices obey. 

Okay, then, I think. 

Maybe I can finally get these annoying screaming mini-gods under control. Maybe today will be a good day. 

My hope is shattered as soon as I climb on deck. 

"What are they?" Hazel asks. 

The Argo II is docked at a busy wharf. On one side stretches a shipping channel about half a kilometer wide. On the other spreads the city of Venice, with red-tiled roofs, metal church domes, steepled towers, and sun-bleached buildings in all the colors of Valentine candy hearts. 

Everywhere there are statues of lions. There are so many, I figure the lion must be the city's mascot. 

Where streets should be, green canals etch their way through the neighborhoods, each one jammed with motorboats. Along the docks, the sidewalks are mobbed with tourists shopping at the T-shirt kiosks, overflowing from stores, and lounging across acres of outdoor cafe tables, like pods of sea lions. I'd thought Rome was full of tourists. This place is insane.