the fire,” Ella said. “I will mix ingredients.”
“I will dance!” Tyson announced.
I didn’t know whether that was part of the ritual or if he just felt like it, but when a tattooed Cyclops decides to launch into an interpretive dance routine, it’s best not to ask questions.
Ella rummaged in her supply pouches, pulling out herbs, spices, and vials of oils, which made me realize how long it had been since I’d eaten. Why wasn’t my stomach growling? I glanced at the blood moon rising over the hilltops. I hoped my next meal would not be braaaaaains.
I looked around for a torch or a box of matches. Nothing. Then I thought: Of course not. I could have the wood pre-stacked for me, but Diana, always the wilderness expert, would expect me to create my own fire.
I unslung my bow and pulled out an arrow. I gathered the lightest, driest kindling into a small pile. It had been a long time since I’d made a fire the old mortal way—spinning an arrow in a bowstring to create friction—but I gave it a go. I fumbled half a dozen times, nearly putting my eye out. My archery student Jacob would’ve been proud.
I tried to ignore the sound of explosions in the distance. I spun the arrow until my gut wound felt like it was opening up. My hands became slick with popped blisters. The god of the sun struggling to make fire…The ironies would never cease.
Finally, I succeeded in creating the tiniest of flames. After some desperate cupping, puffing, and praying, the fire was lit.
I stood, trembling from exhaustion. Tyson kept dancing to his own internal music, flinging out his arms and spinning like a three-hundred-pound, heavily tattooed Julie Andrews in the Sound of Music remake Quentin Tarantino always wanted to do. (I convinced him it was a bad idea. You can thank me later.)
Ella began sprinkling her proprietary blend of oils, spices, and herbs into the pit. The smoke smelled like a Mediterranean summer feast. It filled me with a sense of peace—reminding me of happier times when we gods were adored by millions of worshippers. You never appreciate a simple pleasure like that until it is taken away.
The valley turned quiet, as if I’d stepped back into Harpocrates’s sphere of silence. Perhaps it was just a lull in the fighting, but I felt as if all of Camp Jupiter were holding its breath, waiting for me to complete the ritual. With trembling hands, I pulled the Sibyl’s glass jar from my backpack.
“What now?” I asked Ella.
“Tyson,” Ella said, waving him over, “that was good dancing. Now show Apollo your armpit.”
Tyson lumbered over, grinning and sweaty. He lifted his left arm much closer to my face than I would have liked. “See?”
“Oh, gods.” I recoiled. “Ella, why would you write the summoning ritual in his armpit?”
“That’s where it goes,” she said.
“It really tickled!” Tyson laughed.
“I—I will begin.” I tried to focus on the words and not the hairy armpit that they encircled. I tried not to breathe any more than necessary. I will say this, however: Tyson had excellent personal hygiene. Whenever I was forced to inhale, I did not pass out from his body odor, despite his exuberant sweaty dancing. The only smell I detected was a hint of peanut butter. Why? I did not want to know.
“O protector of Rome!” I read aloud. “O insert name here!”
“Uh,” Ella said, “that’s where you—”
“I will start again. O protector of Rome! O Diana, goddess of the hunt! Hear our plea and accept our offering!”
I do not remember all the lines. If I did, I would not record them here for just anyone to use. Summoning Diana with burnt offerings is the very definition of Do Not Try This at Home, Kids. Several times, I choked up. I was tempted to add personal bits, to let Diana know it wasn’t just anyone making a request. This was me! I was special! But I stuck to the armpit script. At the appropriate moment (insert sacrifice here), I dropped the Sibyl’s jelly jar into the fire. I was afraid it might just sit there heating up, but the glass shattered immediately, releasing a sigh of silver fumes. I hoped I hadn’t squandered the soundless god’s final breath.
I finished the incantation. Tyson mercifully lowered his arm. Ella stared at the fire, then at the sky, her nose twitching anxiously. “Apollo hesitated,” she said. “He didn’t read the third line right. He probably messed up. I hope