Page 29 of The Wild Zone

The thought made my mouth taste like cardboard.

I’d never shot a bow before. Or handled a firearm. Those were areas where Mom had not allowed me to follow in Olivia’s footsteps.

My sister had fallen in love with archery at summer camp when she was nine years old. Mom had progressed her to an air rifle and trained her in sharpshooting at ten. When I asked to do the same, Mom said it was too dangerous. Like I was so incompetent, I’d accidentally hurt someone.

None of that was Zuri’s fault. Still, I couldn’t help feeling a little bitter as she scored another bull’s-eye.

Out of morbid curiosity, I grabbed an extra bow and arrow from a quiver stand. I positioned myself like I’d seen the other campers (not Zuri) do it, painstakingly nocked the arrow, drew back the bowstring, and focused on the target.

Then I realized the archery range had gotten quiet.

I glanced over to find every camper on the range watching me, including Zuri. I wondered if some of them had heard that my mom was an Olympic sharpshooter. That seemed like the sort of gossip Apollo kids would be interested in.

Now they seemed to be expecting something just as great from me with a bow and arrow. This was even worse than my recurring dream where I’m onstage in my underwear.

“Oh, hey!” I laughed nervously and lowered the bow. “I’ll save you some time. I’m nothing like my mom. A fact I’m reminded of daily.” I set down the bow and arrow. “I was just checking the balance on this bad boy. And, yup, it’s balanced!”

Zuri frowned. “Katie…”

“Sorry. I’ve got a…thing.” I waved at her over my shoulder and hurried away, my face burning with embarrassment. “Have fun!”

I walked until I found myself near the edge of camp. The strawberry fields spread into the distance. A group of satyrs and campers were inspecting the plants, picking the ripe berries and filling crates that were destined for restaurants in New York City. According to Apollo’s super-interesting orientation film, the camp’s farm made enough money to fund a scholarship program for campers who went on to college—assuming they lived that long, of course.

I knew I was getting close to the forge when I heard the clang of metal against metal. On either side of an open work area, two brick furnaces shimmered with heat, raising the temperature at least ten degrees. Despite that, Blacksmithing was clearly a popular class. At least twenty kids from various cabins labored and sweated at the anvils, pounding their hammers against glowing red arrowheads under the supervision of a tall, ripped Black guy who I assumed was head counselor of the Hephaestus cabin. Showers of sparks from the molten metal made the pavilion look like a low-altitude fireworks festival.

“Flat and pointy, people!” said the counselor, shaping his hand like a blade. “Those arrows need to fly fast and hit hard!” He gave me a friendly smile as I walked over. “ ’Sup. New camper, right? I’m Beckendorf.”

“Hey.” I shook his hand—or rather, my hand disappeared in his enormous, calloused grip. “Katie.”

“Welcome to the forge.” Then he frowned, as if he’d just remembered something. “Any news about your cabinmate?”

He meant Grant. Apparently, he didn’t quite buy Clarisse’s theory that Grant had run back home to play video games.

That made me feel a little more hopeful. But I couldn’t tell a counselor I’d just met the whole truth about our run through the Wild Zone, so I simply shrugged. “Nothing yet. I wish he was here, but what can you do?”

“Hmm.” Beckendorf stepped to one side so I could watch the other campers at work. “Well, we’re making arrowheads today if you want to watch for a bit and then jump in.”

I smiled politely. “Actually, I was kind of hoping to make my own thing.”

Beckendorf spread his arms wide. “Great! What’d you have in mind?”

“Oh…” I realized I hadn’t thought this through. “Not sure,” I said. “I want a big weapon. Like, with a handle as tall as you are, maybe? And a blade maybe as long as your arm-span?”

Beckendorf chuckled. “So, the dimensions are one Beckendorf by one Beckendorf? That’s going to make for an unwieldy weapon for someone your size. No offense.”

“Ha-ha.” I hoped my eye wasn’t twitching as much as it felt like it was. “Yeah, but you know, I’m an Ares kid. God-level strength, and all that.”

I flexed both arms. I don’t know why. The gods never do that.

Beckendorf’s forehead wrinkled. He grabbed a notepad and a piece of charcoal. “Can you draw it?”

“I’ll try….” I took the pad and charcoal and sketched a long pole with a curved blade extending from the top at a ninety-degree angle.

Beckendorf’s frown deepened. “That’s a scythe. Why would you want a scythe?”

As soon as I tried to speak, I choked up. My eyes welled with tears. I hadn’t planned to break down in front of a complete stranger, but it had been a long few days.

The next thing I knew, I was sitting on a bench in one corner of the forge, sipping cold water from a canteen and dabbing my eyes with Beckendorf’s handkerchief. He sat next to me patiently while I tried to pull myself back together.