Page 6 of The Sun and the Star

‘We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,’ said Nico.

Will managed a smile. His warmth was genuine – like it always was, since he was basically aliteralray of sunshine – and it softened Nico just a bit. ‘We can,’ he said. ‘Just maybe not now, Nico. Austin and Kayla just left. The camp is calm. Serene.Quiet. Let’s just appreciate the break, okay?’

Nico nodded, but he wasn’t sure how he was supposed to do what Will had requested. When had heevergot a break before? If it wasn’t dead Roman emperors, it was his father. Or Minos. Or his stepmother, Persephone. It had been years since that particularincident had happened, but he wasstillannoyed about being turned into a dandelion. Adandelion! It was an affront to his aesthetic!

And there were other things he didn’t want to remember. Darker things. Ghosts who would probably visit him eventually. Nico stuffed it all down – making a grumpy little ball of darkness inside his chest. Then he forced a smile as he listened to Will talk about all the things they could do that autumn while they stayed at camp.

It would be fine. Everything would be fine.

It always came rushing back to Nico in his dreams.

When he’d first confessed to Will that he was hearing a particularly haunted voice from the Underworld, Nico worried he shouldn’t have said anything. Sometimes Will didn’t seem to understand what it meant for Nico to be … well,Nico. The Underworld spooked Will, to be frank, but Nico needed to tellsomeonewhat was happening to him.

Months earlier, Nico had sensed his friend Jason Grace’s death, which had sent him into a tailspin of grief and rage. By the time Lester and Meg had arrived at Camp Half-Blood at the start of summer, Nico’s emotions were so volatile that he’d raised the dead more than once by accident. (There is nothing more disconcerting than waking in the morning and finding a freshly incarnated zombie standing over you, ready to take your breakfast order.)

Will had listened to him attentively, like he always did. Afterwards he’d posed a few questions, mostly about whether the voice had anything to do with the flashbacks Nico hadalsobeen having lately. Will had stayed quiet for a while and then asked, ‘Are you sure it’s not post-traumatic stress disorder?’

Sometimes Nico’s brain thought of a joke and it came out of his mouth a second later without any sort of filter at all. That’s exactly what happened when he blurted out, ‘My wholelifeis a disorder!’

Will hadn’t laughed at that.

Instead, he’d suggested that maybe Nico should talk to Mr D. For all Dionysus’s faults, he was an Olympian god with experience in these matters: dreams, visions and altered states of consciousness.

He’s also the god of madness, Nico thought. He tried not to dwell on that, or the implications of Will making such a suggestion.

‘I’d rather do almost anything else,’ Nico countered. ‘Can the guy even make it through a single conversation without sarcasm, an insult, or a combination of the two?’

Will grinned. ‘Can you?’

Nico had spent the rest of the day trying to recover from Will murdering him with those two words. Still, there was some truth to what Will had said. This wasn’t the first time Nico had dealt with flashbacks or PTSD. He remembered coaching his sister Hazel Levesque through her own devastating flashbacks after she’d spent time in the Underworld. He’d even had a frank conversation with Reyna Avila Ramírez-Arellano about post-traumatic stress and how it related to the memories of her father. Yet he’d never really turned that gaze inwards. Washedealing with the same kind of thing? Honestly, how could he not be? But he was sure the voice was something else.

After dinner on the day he’d confided to Will, Nico got up the nerve to speak with Mr D. He told the director about his flashbacks during the day, the repetitive dreams, the voice from deep within Tartarus. (He did not, however, tell Mr D the details of the Oracle’s prophecy. That still felt too raw, too personal for a first conversation.)

Mr D sat back in his deck chair, turning his can of Diet Coke in his fingers. With his unkempt black hair, blotchy complexion, and wrinkled leopard-pattern camp shirt, Dionysus looked more like a hung-over Vegas conventioneer than a god.

To Nico’s surprise, Mr D didn’t tell him to go away or make any snarky comment at Nico’s expense.

‘We need to get to the bottom of this.’ Mr D’s violet eyes were unsettling, like crystallized wine … or blood. ‘I want to see you each morning at breakfast. You are to report on your dreams and keep me apprised if anything new comes up.’

The ball of darkness in Nico’s chest pressed against his stomach. He would’ve preferred Mr D being dismissive and rude. Seeing the god so serious was disturbing.

‘Every day?’ he asked. ‘Are you sure that’s necessary?’

‘Believe me, Nico di Angelo, I’d rather not have my breakfast spoiled with your silly mortal problems, but, yes, itisnecessary if you’d like to keep your consciousness intact. And try to have some interesting dreams, will you? Not the usual boringI was flying,I was being chased,I was singing onstage in my underweartripe.’

So it had become a routine. Mr D talked to Nico each morning, the god’s plate piled high with sausage and eggs while Nico’s was usually empty except for a few strawberries. That too concerned Mr D, who, as the god of festivity, disapproved of anyone not enjoying food. ‘I know you’ve got the whole gaunt-and-pale-son-of-Hades thing going on, but you’re still human. You need to eat.’

Nico shrugged. ‘I guess I’m used to being hungry. It doesn’t really bother me.’

Mr D grunted. ‘But your appetite is getting worse. Along with the flashbacks, and the voice in your dreams –’

‘It’s nothing I can’t handle,’ Nico insisted.

Mr D pushed his plate away. He turned his whole body towards Nico. ‘Look here, boy. After living in exile at Camp Half-Blood all these wretched years, I’ve learned that you mortals are surprisingly resilient.’

‘Exactly –’ Nico began.

Mr D held up a hand. ‘I’m not done. You may be resilient, but you’re stillhuman. There is no need to punish yourself with hunger just because it’s what you’re used to. For your mind to heal, your body must also.’

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