Chains of Normality (PJO)

I am standing in the attic of the Big House, staring at a warped wooden table piled with cracked shields, broken spears, and what I’m fairly certain is a taxidermied Pegasus head. I am pretending to sort things while actually doing very little.

Annabeth is the only reason I volunteered. When Chiron asked for help cataloging centuries of historical artifacts—centaur-speak for garbage—Annabeth's eyes lit up like he’d just offered her the blueprints to a New Olympus. Me? I raised my hand for different reasons.

Look, in any normal setting—even standing next to a professional supermodel—Annabeth Chase is a knockout. The only reason she isn't the undisputed "most beautiful" at Camp Half-Blood is because we have the Aphrodite cabin. It’s impossible to compete with the daughters of the Goddess of Love, Beauty, and Sex in terms of appearance. Objectively, Piper McLean, the Cherokee Barbie, is the hottest girl at camp, followed by Silena’s classic, soft beauty in second, and my bitch of an ex, Drew, in third.

But while the Aphrodite girls are all soft curves and perfume, Annabeth looks like a fitness model. Surviving over a decades worth of monster attacks, a dozen quests, and two wars had left her with a stomach so toned and tits so perky it makes her orange camp tee look like high fashion, as well as long legs leading up to her best feature: her thicc, juicy, ass.

An ass she is practically begging me to grab as she bends over a crate to lift an object wrapped in heavy oilcloth.

The movement makes her frayed denim shorts ride up and I let out a low, appreciative whistle. "Damn, Annabeth. Those shorts should come with a warning label. You trying to give me a heart attack?"

Her shoulders go rigid. "Seriously, Trevor? I’m trying to work."

I lean back against the warped table, flashing a grin. I’m a son of Hermes; we’re built on charm and confidence. "Come on. I’m just saying you look good. Real good. A guy’s allowed to appreciate the view."

She drops the bronze helm back into the crate with a heavy thud and turns. Her storm-gray eyes are calculating, like she was deciding exactly which of my pressure points to hit first.

"You haven’t moved a single item in twenty minutes," she says, her voice dangerously flat. "You’ve been holding that same book upside down for an hour. Did you actually volunteer to help, or did you just want an excuse to stare at me like a creep?"

"I volunteered because it’s the only way to get you alone," I say, pushing off the table. I walk towards her, trying to look smooth.

Annabeth lowers her center of gravity as I approach, her eyes weary. "Well, you’ve got me alone. Now what?"

I come to a stop right in her personal space. She’s a few inches shorter than me, so I end up looming over her. "Depends on you," I say. "I heard through the grapevine that you and the water boy called it quits. That right?"

“Percy and I are taking a break," she snaps, not moving an inch. Her voice is like a sheet of ice. "Not that it’s any of your business."

Perfect. That’s the opening I’ve been waiting for. I soften my smile into the one I usually save for girls who claim they’re 'not looking for anything serious.'

“Then go out with me,” I say. “One date. Dinner in the city, mortal style. No monsters, no prophecies, no saving the world. Just you and me.”

Annabeth might not be an Aphrodite girl, but that might be for the best. While she isn't as hot as they are, unlike those girls, she wouldn't play games. She wouldn't lead me on just to dump me in front of the whole camp as part of a cruel initiation rite. She’s stable, she’s brilliant, and she’s the perfect rebound target.

Annabeth blinks once, slowly, like she’s waiting for the punchline to a very stupid joke. When it doesn’t come, she exhales a sharp breath through her nose. “No.”

"Oh, come on," I needle. "I'm single. You're single. Why not have some fun for once?"

"I didn't break up with Percy because I wanted to be in a relationship with someone else, Trevor. I did it because I needed space to figure out who I am without a quest or a boyfriend attached to me. Nothing personal, but I'm not interested."

"And can't dating me be part of 'finding yourself'?" I give her the most charming smile a son of the God of Lies can muster. "I’m easy. I’m fun.” I reach out, letting my hand slide toward her arm. "I can make you forget all about Tartarus."

The world blurs.

The next thing I know, I'm blinking up at the cobweb-draped rafters, my back throbbing against the floorboards. She had flipped me so fast I didn't even see her hands move. Pain shoots through my ribs, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of the humiliation crawling up my neck.

Annabeth stands over me, her feet planted wide among the scattered relics. Her gray eyes are blazing with something sharp and unforgiving. She doesn't yell—Annabeth never needs to—but her voice cuts through the silence like a bronze blade.

"I said no, Trevor. More than once." She crosses her arms, the movement pulling her damp shirt tighter across her breasts. "And then you thought touching me would change my mind?"

"You're overreacting," I spit, pushing up on my elbows. "I was just—"

"Just nothing," she says, her nostrils flaring. "You do not touch me. And you never bring up Tartarus. Are we clear?"

I glare at her, my pride stinging. It’s the wrong response. I see the kick coming, but I’m in no position to dodge. Her boot connects clean with my jaw, and the entire right side of my face explodes in white-hot pain.

"The fuck is your problem?" I roar, clutching my face. She nearly unhinged the damn thing.

"You do not touch me without permission. Are. We. Clear?"

I want to lunge at her. It’s only the knowledge that she’d probably end me that stays my hand. We both fought in the Titan and Giant wars, but there’s a massive gap between us. I fought the mooks—the faceless Dracaenae and Hellhounds. Annabeth, on the other hand, went toe-to-toe with Kronos in the Olympian Throne Room and faced down Giants in the pit. She looks at me now like I’m a minor inconvenience she could crush without breaking a sweat.

"Crystal," I ground out, my jaw clenched in agony.

"Good." She turns back to her crate, brushing her hands on her shorts as if touching me had dirtied her hands.

"You're going to help me finish this inventory. Mouth shut, eyes on the gear, and your distance respectable. When we're done, you stay on the opposite side of camp from me. Permanently."

I haul myself to my feet, ribs protesting. "Fine," I mutter. Bitch, I think.

I go back to my table and actually sort. A cracked Mycenaean shield to the left, a dented Trojan axe to the right, and the taxidermied Pegasus head gets shoved into a corner. I find a pair of magic earrings in a small lacquered box and toss them onto the 'unknown' pile while I plot.

She's stronger, but I’m a son of Hermes. We don't win with muscles; we win with shadows. A plan starts to form: I’d get a mortal smartphone and steal her invisibility cap. With those two, I'd be able to follow her around and take candid photos undetected. A small smile forms on my lips as I imagine her reaction to naked pictures of her being plastered around camp; maybe even posted online for all to see if I was feeling particularly spiteful. Everything would take time to arrange, but in the end, I would be victorious. My jaw would heal. Her pride wouldn't.

Fifteen minutes pass. My Hermes-given senses assure me she hasn't checked on me once. For a hero of her caliber, she has remarkably little situational awareness. Or maybe she’s just too proud to think I’d dare strike back. Hubris has undone better heroes than her.

I slowly turn my head to look at her, a taunting smile on my lips. I want to see her arrogant expression one last time before I tear her down. It’s only then that I realize she has propped up a polished bronze shield on her table.

Annabeth's reflection meets my eyes. “What did I tell you about staring, Trevor?”

Styx.

“I wasn't staring. I just... I got stuck on these.” I grab the earrings from the box and hold them up. “Any idea what era?”

Annabeth isn't buying it. "I warned you," she says, turning around. Her expression has shifted from mere annoyance to something predatory. She starts to slowly stalk forward, and I find myself backing up until the wall meets my shoulder blades. "But you didn't listen. You know, part of me was actually hoping you wouldn't. I am going to enjoy this."

I look around frantically for an exit, but I'm cornered. The door is behind her. The window is too narrow to dive through. The floorboards are too solid to break. There is no way out.

Annabeth is close enough now that I can feel the heat rolling off her skin, and running isn't an option anymore. I fall into a loose boxing stance and tighten my hands into fists. It is only when my left hand tightens around the small lacquered box that I remember I'm still holding those earrings, and I have a crazy idea.

I’ve watched campers gamble on mystery artifacts before. Billy Bob once slipped on a cursed signet ring and spent the next year with THIEF branded across his forehead in glowing red letters; he cried for weeks, but at least he didn’t burn alive like Samantha did when she drank from that golden goblet. Luke got lucky with winged shoes that let him fly. Annabeth has a Yankees cap that lets her turn invisible. The odds are fifty-fifty: agonizing pain or impossible power. Right now, with her storm-gray eyes locked on mine and her fist half-raised to finish what she’d started, fifty-fifty feels like a bargain.

I tear open the box, yanking the earrings free—heavy gold dangling teardrop rubies that feel strangely warm—and jam them through my earlobes without ceremony. The sharp sting of the gold piercing my skin barely registers against the throb of my jaw.

Annabeth reaches me a heartbeat later. Her hand snaps up for what should be a brutal open-palm slap across my injured face, but the blow never lands. Her fingers freeze inches from my cheek. They tremble once, then drift down to hang loose at her side. The fury in her face drains away like water through a cracked vase, leaving her features strangely slack. She blinks, slow and confused, looking like someone who had just walked into a room and completely forgotten why.

“Trevor,” she says, her voice suddenly mild, almost puzzled. “We should probably finish cataloging before Chiron comes looking for the inventory logs.”

My hands are still raised in a **** boxing stance. "We... cool?"

She frowns. For a second, I think the rage is going to come back, but she just looks at me with an eerie, detached curiosity. "Why wouldn't we be?"

“Because I was—” I swallow the rest of the words. Whatever these earrings are doing to her brain, I didn't want to risk undoing by remind her why she was mad in the first place.

Annabeth tilts her head, a strand of blonde hair falling over her shoulder. “You were what? Looking? That’s fine. People look, Trevor. It’s normal.”

She turns and walks back to her crate with a casual gait, as if the last half-hour of **** and threats had been nothing more than a daydream.

I stay backed against the wall, my heart hammering against my ribs, when a faint, dual-toned whisper echoes straight into my skull. It's not a voice so much as an instinct. The right earring projects an aura that makes my actions—no matter how offensive, creepy, or out of line—seem utterly unremarkable and acceptable to those around me. It's this earring that had defused Annabeth's anger. The left earring is even more powerful. It lets me make changes on a global scale. Whatever I declare is 'normal' becomes so for everyone in the world.

I slowly relax my stance, my legs feeling like jelly. I let my gaze drag over her again, making no effort to hide it this time. Annabeth sees me watching her through the reflection of the bronze shield, but she doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t snap. She doesn’t care.

A slow, dark smile spreads across my lips. Maybe my **** won't take that much time to arrange after all.