“So why us?” Piper said. “Why now?”

“In your case,” I said, “I can only guess Caligula wants you out of the way. If you are distracted by your father’s problems, you are no threat, especially if you’re in Oklahoma, far from Caligula’s territory. As for Meg and her dad…I don’t know. He was involved in some sort of work Caligula found threatening.”

“Something that would’ve helped the dryads,” Grover added. “It had to be, based on where he was working, those greenhouses. Caligula ruined a man of nature.”

Grover sounded as angry as I’d ever heard him. I doubted there was higher praise a satyr could give a human than calling him a man of nature.

Piper studied the waves on the horizon. “You think it’s all connected. Caligula is working up to something—pushing out anyone who threatens him, starting this Burning Maze, destroying the nature spirits.”

“And imprisoning the Oracle of Erythraea,” I said. “As a trap. For me.”

“But what does he want?” Grover demanded. “What’s his endgame?”

Those were excellent questions. With Caligula, however, you almost never wanted the answers. They would make you cry.

“I’d like to ask the Sibyl,” I said, “if anyone here knows how we might find her.”

Piper pressed her lips together. “Ah. That’s why you’re here.”

She looked at Meg, then at the gas grill, perhaps trying to decide what would be more dangerous—going on a quest with us, or remaining here with a bored child of Demeter.

“Let me get my weapons,” Piper said. “We’ll go for a ride.”

“DON’T judge,” Piper warned as she reemerged from her room.

I would not have dreamed of it.

Piper McLean looked fashionably ready for combat in her bright white Converses, distressed skinny jeans, leather belt, and orange camp tee. Braided down one side of her hair was a bright blue feather—a harpy feather, if I wasn’t mistaken.

Strapped to her belt was a triangular-bladed dagger like the kind Greek women used to wear—a parazonium. Hecuba, future queen of Troy, sported one back when we were dating. It was mostly ceremonial, as I recalled, but very sharp. (Hecuba had a bit of a temper.)

Hanging from the other side of Piper’s belt…Ah. I guessed this was the reason she felt self-conscious. Holstered to her thigh was a miniature quiver stocked with foot-long projectiles, their fletching made from fluffy thistles. Slung across her shoulder, along with a backpack, was a four-foot tube of river cane.

“A blowgun!” I cried. “I love blowguns!”

Not that I was an expert, mind you, but the blowgun was a missile weapon—elegant, difficult to master, and very sneaky. How could I not love it?

Meg scratched her neck. “Are blowguns Greeky?”

Piper laughed. “No, they’re not Greeky. But they are Cherokee-y. My Grandpa Tom made this one for me a long time ago. He was always trying to get me to practice.”

Grover’s goatee twitched as if trying to free itself from his chin, Houdini-style. “Blowguns are really difficult to use. My Uncle Ferdinand had one. How good are you?”

“Not the best,” Piper admitted. “Nowhere near as good as my cousin in Tahlequah; she’s a tribal champion. But I’ve been practicing. Last time Jason and I were in the maze”—she patted her quiver—“these came in handy. You’ll see.”

Grover managed to contain his excitement. I understood his concern. In a novice’s hands, a blowgun was more dangerous to allies than to enemies.

“And the dagger?” Grover asked. “Is that really—?”

“Katoptris,” Piper said proudly. “Belonged to Helen of Troy.”

I yelped. “You have Helen of Troy’s dagger? Where did you find it?”

Piper shrugged. “In a shed at camp.”

I felt like pulling out my hair. I remembered the day Helen had received that dagger as a wedding present. Such a gorgeous blade, held by the most beautiful woman ever to walk the earth. (No offense to the billions of other women out there who are also quite enchanting; I love you all.) And Piper had found this historically significant, well-crafted, powerful weapon in a shed?

Alas, time makes bric-a-brac of everything, no matter how important. I wondered if such a fate awaited me. In a thousand years, somebody might find me in a toolshed and say Oh, look. Apollo, god of poetry. Maybe I can polish him up and use him.

“Does the blade still show visions?” I asked.

“You know about that, huh?” Piper shook her head. “The visions stopped last summer. That wouldn’t have anything to do with you getting kicked out of Olympus, would it, Mr. God of Prophecy?”

Meg sniffed. “Most things are his fault.”

“Hey!” I said. “Er, moving right along, Piper, where exactly are you taking us? If all your cars have been repossessed, I’m afraid we’re stuck with Coach Hedge’s Pinto.”

Piper smirked. “I think we can do better than that. Follow me.”

She led us to the driveway, where Mr. McLean had resumed his duties as a dazed wanderer. He meandered around the drive, head bowed as if he were looking for a dropped coin. His hair stuck up in ragged rows where his fingers had raked through it.

On the tailgate of a nearby truck, the movers were taking their lunch break, casually eating off china plates that had no doubt been in the McLeans’ kitchen not long before.

Mr. McLean looked up at Piper. He seemed unconcerned by her knife and blowgun. “Going out?”

“Just for a while.” Piper kissed her father on the cheek. “I’ll be back tonight. Don’t let them take the sleeping bags, okay? You and I can camp out on the terrace. It’ll be fun.”

“All right.” He patted her arm absently. “Good luck…studying?”

“Yep,” Piper said. “Studying.”

You have to love the Mist. You can stroll out of your house heavily armed, in the company of a satyr, a demigod, and a flabby former Olympian, and thanks to the Mist’s perception-bending magic, your mortal father assumes you’re going to a study group. That’s right, Dad. We need to go over some math problems that involve the trajectory of blowgun darts against moving targets.

Piper led us across the street to the nearest neighbor’s house—a Frankenstein’s mansion of Tuscan tiles, modern windows, and Victorian gables that screamed I have too much money and not enough taste! HELP!

In the wraparound driveway, a heavyset man in athleisure-wear was just getting out of his white Cadillac Escalade.

“Mr. Bedrossian!” Piper called.

The man jumped, facing Piper with a look of terror. Despite his workout shirt, his ill-advised yoga pants, and his flashy running shoes, he looked like he’d been more leisurely than athletic. He was neither sweaty nor out of breath. His thinning hair made a perfect brushstroke of black grease across his scalp. When he frowned, his features gravitated toward the center of his face as if circling the twin black holes of his nostrils.

“P-Piper,” he stammered. “What do you—?”

“I would love to borrow the Escalade, thank you!” Piper beamed.