When you think about a demigod quest, what comes to your mind?
Sleeping in the woods?
Fighting monsters?
Cryptic messages from gods who have their own agendas?
Moments of self-reflection that drive growth?
Well, you'd be right—in theory, anyway. That's usually what these quests are supposed to be like, but our trip to Santa Monica wasn't really any of those things.
The only time our backs were ever against the wall was when they had all of the first-class passengers wait to board, and we had to wait for a lady with a stroller to go first.
You see, ever since my uncle visited me, monster attacks were few and far between. I had no way of knowing for sure, but I had this nagging suspicion that they knew I was going to retrieve their lord's symbol of power or something.
Well, at least the ones coming from uncle's kingdom.
Not that I was complaining. With the money he fronted us, Piper and I got another one of those Amtrak trains all the way to Santa Monica. Not the run-down, rinky-dink one we'd been on earlier, either.
This one was sleek and futuristic. And, even though we'd been first-class to start with, we'd mysteriously gotten upgraded to our own private cabin—complete with a television, our own waitstaff, unlimited snacks, and a built-in bathroom.
Not suspicious at all, but hey—you don't look a gift horse in the mouth.
On the way to Santa Monica, the train veered through rolling plains and desert landscapes, passing by miles of towering rock formations that glowed orange under the fading daylight. Cacti dotted the horizon, and every once in a while, the view opened onto a winding river or a sleepy small town that felt a world away from the hustle and bustle we'd just left behind.
Piper and I got to know each other a bit better between reruns of Friends. When I first learned that Piper's mother was Aphrodite, I assumed that meant she would be all style tips and heart-shaped doodles— some of the girls at camp were like that—but she was nothing like the stereotype. She was grounded and had a knack for reading people that went far beyond her inherited charmspeak.
She mentioned her father, Tristan McLean, a famous actor—but never in a braggy way—more like it was just another puzzle piece she was still fitting into place.
During the quieter moments, while the laugh track rolled, she'd open up about how strange it felt to have a parent plastered on movie posters and magazine covers. In return, I told her all about my mom —how she'd been offered a life of luxury by my dad but chose to earn everything herself; how she cared for me so deeply she was willing to marry Smelly Gabe.
Between back-to-back episodes, she and I shared enough stories, jokes, and insecurities that the days seemed to blur—and, for once, our quest felt almost normal.
I could lean back and imagine a life like this and just forget about all the pressure around me. Even if it was just for a second. The only downside of the whole thing was that it was nighttime when we arrived, and I wasn't really in the mood to die at night.
We walked into one of those hotels—you know, the kind that screams corporate America, with stuffy businessmen waddling around in suits, dragging wheeled luggage like it's their security blanket. The kind of place where you half-expect to see a convention on Innovative Ways to Waste Time in Meetings. It was sort of funny, actually.
Piper and I walked into the hotel, and no one paid us any attention. We squeezed through the entrance, sandwiched in between two men in suits. The bellhop didn't even spare us a second glance. No one really made a big deal out of the two dirty children who just walked in.
Maybe they thought we were hobos. I mean, we were in Santa Monica. We saw our fair share of hobos as we got off the train, but you'd think hotels would be a little stricter about who can enter.
My dirty sneakers squeaked against the floor as we wandered around. The tiles were so polished I could practically see my reflection—honestly, it made me feel a little guilty for messing it up. That is, until one of the receptionists gave me the look.
You know, the one that says, wow, did this garbage bag just grow legs and walk in here? And just like that, any guilt I felt was gone.
Poof. I steered Piper toward his check-in desk. The bald man sitting behind it looked up at me, fighting the urge to be annoyed. He plastered on a wooden smile and said, "Greetings, as a reminder, this isn't the YMCA. We do not cater to young street urchins, and our hotel does not allow loitering."
"You'll cater to these ones," I said, smiling as sweetly as possible. "Our benefactor, Mr. H, should have called ahead."
Piper shifted at my side, her fingers twitching as if she wanted to speak up, but I shot her a glance, hoping she'd let me handle it. We were supposed to be keeping a low profile, after all—not that it was easy when a receptionist was practically glaring a hole through my forehead.
The man's eyes flicked to Piper for a moment, then back to me, annoyance now etched into every line on his face. "Really?"
"What's your name?"
"Ricardo," The bald man said. His nose wrinkled. "Sir."
"Well then, Ricardo. I happen to be Mr. H's nephew. Do you want me to call him and have him confirm? I'd be more than happy to refer you to him."
"That won't be needed," Ricardo cleared his throat and looked back at the monitor screen. I heard a few mouse clicks. "Ah. Found it. You were just under a different reservation."
"Was I?"
"Yes. Sir. Mr. H has requested that you and your companion be placed in the presidential suite for the night," He sniffed and slid a key across the table. I held the key in my hands—it was one of those rectangular ones, but there was a giant skull on it instead of a room number. "Top floor."
"Ah. You're a good man, Ricardo," I said. At the mention of the presidential suite, every single adult in line behind us looked at us with wide eyes. I think one lady even bowed a little.
Piper and I shuffled into one of the elevators. I tried to ignore the surprised gasps of the adults behind us as I hit the topmost button. Was this place really that great? A couple of minutes passed, and we walked onto the carpeted floors.
Red lines and golden swirls crisscrossed from left to right, framing a beautiful lotus pattern that continued until one singular door. I took a second to look out the window. It perfectly showcased Santa Monica—the buildings were lit up. The night lights were on, casting a warm and colorful glow over the city.
People were walking on the sidewalks, laughing and smiling with ice cream cones. A feeling of dread settled in my stomach. No one knew what was about to happen tomorrow. All these people were just going to keep living their lives, unaware of the fact that a whole other world existed, right under their very noses.
"Fancy," Piper spoke up from behind me, drawing me out of my macabre thoughts. I think she could tell I was stressed out. She put a hand on my shoulder. "It's a good thing your uncle really likes you."
"Yeah, I guess," I said, my eyes still trained on the bustling city. I looked a little past it towards the pier. I shook myself a bit. "Let's check out the room."
Piper shot me a worried glance but nodded. We both walked towards the room. As we got closer, the card floated out of my pocket. It spun in place a few times and then disappeared. The door opened itself. Sharing a shrug, we stepped into the doorway. I didn't have much experience with hotels, but man, this one was insane.
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