Daughter of Wine

Hazel

Everything smells like poison. Two days after leaving Venice, I still can't get the noxious scent of eau de cow monster out of my nose. 

The seasickness doesn't help. The Argo II sails down the Adriatic, a beautiful glittering expanse of blue, but I can't appreciate it thanks to the constant rolling of the ship. Above deck, I try to keep my eyes fixed on the horizon, the white cliffs that always seem just a mile or so to the east. What country is that, Croatia? I'm not sure. I just wish I could be on solid land again. 

The thing that nauseates me most is the weasel. 

Last night, Hecate's pet Gale appeared in my cabin. I woke up from a nightmare, thinking, What is that smell? I found the furry rodent propped on my chest, staring at me with its beady black eyes. 

Nothing like waking up screaming, kicking off your covers, and dancing around your cabin while a weasel scampers between your feet farting. 

My friends rushed to my room to see if I was okay. The weasel was difficult to explain. I could tell that Leo was trying hard not to make a joke. 

After breakfast, I stand at the port rail, trying to settle my stomach. Next to me, Gale runs up and down the railing, passing gas. Fortunately, the strong wind of the Adriatic helps whisk it away. 

Calli is pacing back and forth across the deck a little ways away, her thyrsus in her hand like a walking stick, and she's mumbling to herself. Her amphisbaena scar is still pink and fresh. She removed the stitches last night. 

This past week I've come to admire her so much more. Sure, she's still a bit aloof, but she's become a strong leader for us. And after hearing the story of the amphisbaena and how she gave herself stitches, I've developed a whole new level of respect for her. She's way tougher than she lets on.

I look back to the white cliffs in the distance and think about why Hecate sent Gale the polecat. 

She's here to see how it goes. 

Something is about to happen. I'm going to be tested. 

I don't understand how I'm supposed to learn magic with no training. Hecate expects me to defeat some super-powerful sorceress, the lady in the gold dress who Leo described from his dream. But how?

I spend all my free time trying to figure it out. I stared at my spartha, trying to make it look like a walking stick. I tried to summon a cloud to hide the full moon. I concentrated until my eyes crossed and my ears popped, but nothing happened. I can't manipulate the Mist. 

The last few nights, my dreams have gotten worse. I found myself back in the Fields of Asphodel, drifting aimlessly among the ghosts. Then I was in Gaea's cave in Alaska, where my mother and I had died as the ceiling collapsed and the voice of the Earth Goddess wailed in anger. I was on the stairs of my mother's apartment building in New Orleans, face-to-face with my father, Pluto. His cold fingers gripped my arm. The fabric of his black wool suit writhed with imprisoned souls. He fixed on me with his dark angry eyes and said: The dead see what they believe they will see. So do the living. That is the secret.

He'd never said that to me in real life. I have no idea what it means.

The worst nightmares seem like glimpses of the future. I'm stumbling through a dark tunnel while a woman's laughter echoes around me.

Control this if you can, child of Pluto, the woman taunts.

And always, I dream about the images I'd seen at Hecate's crossroads: Leo falling through the sky; Calli, illuminated by firelight, grasping at something I can't see while tears pour out of her face; Percy and Annabeth lying unconscious, possibly dead, in front of black metal doors; and a shrouded figure looming above them—the giant Clytius wrapped in darkness.

Next to me on the rail, Gale the weasel chitters impatiently. I'm tempted to push the stupid rodent into the sea.

I can't even control my own dreams, I want to scream. How am I supposed to control the Mist?

I'm so miserable, I don't notice Frank until he's standing at my side. "Feeling any better?" he asks.

He takes my hand, his fingers completely covering mine. I can't believe how much taller he's gotten. He has changed into so many animals, I'm not sure why one more transformation should amaze me...but suddenly he's grown into his weight. No one can call him pudgy or cuddly anymore. He looks like a football player, solid and strong, with a new center of gravity. His shoulders have broadened. He walks with more confidence.

What Frank did on that bridge in Venice...I'm still in awe. None of us had actually seen the battle, but no one doubts it. Frank's whole bearing has changed. Even Leo has stopped making jokes at his expense.

"I'm—I'm all right," I manage. "You?"

He smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "I'm, uh, taller. Otherwise, yeah. I'm good. I haven't really, you know, changed inside...."

His voice holds a little of the old doubt and awkwardness—the voice of my Frank, who always worries about being a klutz and messing up.

I feel relieved. I like that part of him. At first, his new appearance had shocked me. I'd been worried that his personality changed as well.

Now I'm starting to relax about that. Despite all his strength, Frank is the same sweet guy. He's still vulnerable. He still trusts me with his biggest weakness—the piece of magical firewood I carry in my coat pocket, next to my heart.

"I know, and I'm glad." I squeeze his hand. "It's...it's actually not you I'm worried about."

Frank grunts. "How's Nico doing?"

I'd been thinking about myself, not Nico, but I follow Frank's gaze to the top of the foremast, where Nico is perched on the yardarm.

Nico claims that he likes to keep watch because he has good eyes. I know that isn't the reason. The top of the mast is one of the few places on board where Nico can be alone. The others had offered him the use of Percy's cabin, since Percy is...well, absent. Nico adamantly refused. He spends most of his time up in the rigging, where he doesn't have to talk with the rest of the crew.

Since he'd been turned into a corn plant in Venice, he's only gotten more reclusive and morose.

"I don't know," I admit. "He's been through a lot. Getting captured in Tartarus, being held prisoner in that bronze jar, watching Percy and Annabeth fall..."

"And promising to lead us to Epirus." Frank nods. "I get the feeling Nico doesn't play well with others."

Frank stands up straight. He's wearing a beige T-shirt with a picture of a horse and the words PALIO DI SIENA. He only bought it a couple of days ago, but now it's too small. When he stretches, his midriff is exposed. 

I realize I'm staring. I quickly look away, my face flushed.

"Nico is my only relative," I say. "He's not easy to like, but...thanks for being kind to him."

Frank smiles. "Hey, you put up with my grandmother in Vancouver. Talk about not easy to like."

"I loved your grandmother!"

Gale the polecat scampers up to us, farts, and runs away.

"Ugh." Frank waves away the smell. "Why is that thing here, anyway?"

I'm almost glad I'm not on dry land. As agitated as I feel, gold and gems would probably be popping up all around my feet.

"Hecate sent Gale to observe," I say.

"Observe what?"

I try to take comfort in Frank's presence, his new aura of solidity and strength.

"I don't know," I say at last. "Some kind of test."

Suddenly the boat lurches forward.