Rick Riordan
The Last Olympian - 05
at us as we passed.
Back at the cliff, Mrs. O'Leary had found a friend.
A cozy campfire crackled in a ring of stones. A girl about eight years old was sitting cross-
legged next to Mrs. O'Leary, scratching the hellhound's ears.
The girl had mousy brown hair and a simple brown dress. She wore a scarf over her head so
she looked like a pioneer kid—like the ghost of Little House on the Prairie or something. She poked
the fire with a stick, and it seemed to glow more richly red than a normal fire.
"Hello," she said.
My first thought was: monster. When you're a demigod and you find a sweet little girl alone in
the woods—that's typically a good time to draw your sword and attack. Plus, the encounter with Ms.
Castellan had rattled me pretty bad.
But Nico bowed to the little girl. "Hello again, Lady."
She studied me with eyes as red as the firelight. I decided it was safest to bow.
"Sit, Percy Jackson," she said. "Would you like some dinner?
After staring at moldy peanut butter sandwiches and burned cookies, I didn't have much of
an appetite, but the girl waved her hand and a picnic appeared at the edge of the fire. There were
plates of roast beef, baked potatoes, buttered carrots, fresh bread, and a whole bunch of other
foods I hadn't had in a long time. My stomach started to rumble. It was the kind of home-cooked
meal people are supposed to have but never do. The girl made a five-foot-long dog biscuit appear
for Mrs. O'Leary, who happily began tearing it to shreds.
I sat next to Nico. We picked up our food, and I was about to dig in when I thought better of
it.
I scraped part of my meal into the flames, the way we do at camp. "For the gods," I said.
The little girl smiled. "Thank you. As tender of the flame, I get a share of every sacrifice, you
know."
"I recognize you now," I said. "The first time I came to camp, you were sitting by the fire, in
the middle of the commons area."
"You did not stop to talk," the girl recalled sadly. "Alas, most never do. Nico talked to me. He
was the first in many years. Everyone rushes about. No time for visiting family."
"You're Hestia," I said. "Goddess of the Hearth."
She nodded.
Okay . . . so she looked eight years old. I didn't ask. I'd learned that gods could look any way
they pleased.
"My lady," Nico asked, "why aren't you with the other Olympians, fighting Typhon?"
"I'm not much for fighting." Her red eyes flickered. I realized they weren't just reflecting the
flames. They were filled with flames—but not like Ares's eyes. Hestia's eyes were warm and cozy.
"Besides," she said, "someone has to keep the home fires burning while the other gods are
away."
"So you're guarding Mount Olympus?" I asked.
"'Guard' may be too strong a word. But if you ever need a warm place to sit and a home-
cooked meal, you are welcome to visit. Now eat."
My plate was empty before I knew it. Nico scarfed his down just as fast.
"That was great," I said. "Thank you, Hestia."
She nodded. "Did you have a good visit with May Castellan?"
For a moment I'd almost forgotten the old lady with her bright eyes and her maniacal smile,
the way she'd suddenly seemed possessed.
"What's wrong with her, exactly?" I asked.
"She was born with a gift," Hestia said. "She could see through the Mist."
"Like my mother," I said. And I was also thinking, Like Rachel "But the glowing eyes thing—"
"Some bear the curse of sight better than others," the goddess said sadly. "For a while, May
Castellan had many talents. She attracted the attention of Hermes himself. They had a beautiful
baby boy. For a brief time, she was happy. And then she went too far."
I remembered what Ms. Castellan had said: They offered me an important job . . . It didn't
work out. I wondered what kind of job left you like that.
"One minute she was all happy," I said. "And then she was freaking out about her son's fate,
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