Finishing in First Place now coming Second

Neither of them seemed particularly inclined to move afterwards, and Matt was quite happy to remain where he was, with Morgan curled against his side and showing every intention of making herself comfortable. Their conversation eventually returned to her childhood, which was how he learned that her name had been her aunt's idea.

Apparently, the woman had been something of an authority on Arthurian legend and had taken one look at her infant niece, considered the unfortunate circumstances surrounding her brother's accident, and decided that Morgan le Fay was an appropriate namesake. Matt wasn't entirely sure what resemblance she'd seen between a newborn baby and a legendary enchantress, but blaming the child for her father's misfortune seemed rather unfair.

Morgan hadn't particularly appreciated the reasoning herself. Nevertheless, she'd developed a considerable fascination with the legends, and Matt soon discovered that she knew far more about King Arthur and his knights than he did. Rather surprisingly, she also seemed inclined to defend Lancelot, whom Matt had always thought possessed one of the stupidest names ever given to a supposedly legendary warrior.

"You'd think someone in the Hunt would be on Guinevere's side," he remarked, earning himself an amused look from the woman resting against him.

"Can you blame Sir Lancelot for what happened with Elaine?" Morgan challenged. "The poor man was enchanted into believing she was Guinevere. Hardly his fault, was it?"

She chuckled at his expression before leaning forward to kiss him, apparently considering the matter settled. Matt returned the affection readily enough, although her argument had brought to mind a rather uncomfortable comparison.

Because, when he considered what had happened to Morgan and the rest of the Hunt, he couldn't exactly disagree with her.

As far as Morgan knew, everything she felt for him was the result of Artemis's blessing. Matt was considerably less certain about that, particularly given how closely the goddess's supposed wishes resembled things he'd said without thinking. And if his suspicions were correct, there was a rather important difference between what Lancelot had done under an enchantment and what Matt might have accidentally done to an entire company of immortal huntresses.

He could only silently pray that Artemis would be as understanding about the whole business as Morgan apparently was about Lancelot.

The prayer reached her quietly, asking forgiveness for her Hunters, and a faint smile touched Artemis’s mouth. Even now, the boy expected her to punish them. She had stood before the whole company and released them from their vows, yet somehow he was still worrying that they would suffer for accepting what she had given.

His care in avoiding her at Camp Half-Blood ought to have prepared her for that. He had evidently listened closely to the stories told about her displeasure, perhaps closely enough that a few words beside the breakfast fire could scarcely outweigh them. Still, those had been her words. He might have credited her with knowing what she meant when she spoke them.

The thought brought more amusement than irritation. There was something rather childish about his apprehension, made endearing by the fact that he was asking for her Hunters’ sake. They had made their affection abundantly clear, and instead of simply congratulating himself on his extraordinary good fortune, he was worrying over what it might cost them.

He could be reassured on that account. Had they hidden forbidden attachments while continuing to profess obedience, she would have had reason to be angry. Here, they had followed her own declaration, and she was pleased with them. Their happiness gave her no cause to withdraw a blessing she had bestowed deliberately, however anxiously their husband might await some dreadful qualification.

It would take him time to become accustomed to his place among them. Until yesterday, he had apparently considered remaining unnoticed the wisest way to conduct himself around the Hunt; now her companions scarcely let him out of their sight. Remembering Pisidice’s delight at being asked to sit beside him, Artemis could concede that he had rather a lot to accommodate.

At least he had thought to be concerned for them. She would see that he acquired the skills to make that concern useful, for travelling with the Hunt would eventually demand more of him than anxious prayers. Zoë could assess his training and discover where he needed work. There would certainly be no difficulty finding someone willing to teach him, though getting his wives to correct his mistakes might require her attention.

Her smile deepened slightly at that prospect. They could be as fond of him as they pleased, but she expected them to teach him properly. The boy had been given a place among some of the finest hunters in the world. With patience and application, he might yet learn to keep up with them.

When the boy eventually slipped away toward the stream, she had an opportunity to reconsider how much training he would need. He left his clothes on the bank and stepped into the water with the unthinking ease of someone accustomed to washing wherever his travels permitted. His build lacked the definition cultivated in the camp’s training grounds, though the old marks across his skin and the strength in his movements deserved a closer look. He had plainly survived enough to learn something. She would have Zoë discover what before putting him through exercises he already knew.

The current gathered around him as he crouched, washing away the dirt with such obliging care that he stopped to watch it. His cautious examination brought a slight smile to her mouth. After the morning he had experienced, apparently even helpful water warranted suspicion.

Movement among the trees drew her attention toward a copper-haired Hunter easing her way down the bank. The woman paused behind a trunk, watching him for a moment before setting her bow and quiver carefully out of sight. There was little practical reason to approach so quietly, and the smile she failed to suppress made her intentions sufficiently clear.

Artemis remained where she was. Her companions were discovering uses for their training that she had certainly never taught them, while their husband continued studying the stream as though it were the only thing likely to surprise him.

By the time his allotted time with Morgan came to an end, Matt had developed a rather inconvenient appreciation for the woman. She was sweet, considerably sweeter than he suspected he would ever get used to, and despite how eagerly their afternoon had begun, they'd spent much of it simply lying beneath the oak together, talking while she curled up against him.

He hadn't particularly minded. The only real difficulty came when they finally separated, and he discovered that he smelled thoroughly of her. Her perfume, her sweat, and several other reminders of their afternoon that he wasn't especially inclined to investigate. Morgan had seemed rather pleased about that last part, although Matt suspected walking back into camp smelling quite so unmistakably of a woman would attract more attention than he wanted.

Fortunately, there was a stream nearby.

Stripping out of habit, he waded into the water and began washing himself, only to discover that the stream seemed unusually cooperative. The current curled around his legs, carrying away dirt and sweat with an efficiency that made him pause and look downstream. Even the water appeared to be helping him along.

Wonderful. Apparently, he could add unusually accommodating rivers to the growing list of things he didn't entirely understand.

The familiar prickling sensation crept across the back of Matt's neck before he heard anyone approaching. Years of avoiding monsters had taught him to pay attention to that particular warning, and he turned towards the trees, already regretting having left his clothes and weapons on the bank.

What he found was Phoebe.

The redheaded Huntress stood at the water's edge, looking positively delighted to have found him. Her copper-red hair spilled over one shoulder, leaving the closely shaved side of her head exposed, while the white tank top did little to conceal the powerful physique and impressivley large boobs, he'd already had several opportunities to appreciate. Thickly muscled arms hung at her sides, and the broad smile spreading across her painted lips suggested she had something rather more enjoyable in mind than their previous confrontation.

Matt recognised that expression. He'd seen it earlier that morning, shortly before she'd hauled him away from Zoë and kissed him with enough enthusiasm to make him wonder whether breathing was strictly necessary. Considering she'd also attempted to throttle him the previous night, he was beginning to suspect that Phoebe had very little interest in doing anything by halves.

"I drew the second-longest lot!" she announced, looking rather pleased with herself.

"Right." Matt glanced towards the bank, where his clothes lay beyond immediate reach. Morgan had drawn the longest, which meant Phoebe was next. He'd known that when the lots were drawn, although somehow he'd imagined having rather more warning before she came looking for him. "So I suppose that means you're..."

"Next!" Phoebe supplied enthusiastically, already stepping into the stream. Water splashed around her boots as she closed the distance, apparently giving little thought to getting them wet. "One hundred and sixty-two minutes, Matt. That's all we have, and I'm not wasting a moment of it!"

Her excitement was almost infectious, although Matt found himself considerably more preoccupied with the fact that she was now standing directly in front of him. The Huntress was taller than he was, something made especially obvious when she placed those powerful hands on his shoulders and leaned down towards him. The grip was surprisingly gentle, but he remembered perfectly well how little effort she'd needed to shove him against a tree. He also remembered what had happened when she'd got hold of him that morning, and the rather pleasant memories made maintaining an appropriate degree of caution considerably harder.

"Phoebe, I haven't actually finished washing..."

Whatever answer she might have given was apparently less important than what she intended to do next. Her arms extended towards him, framing his view of her face as she bent closer, copper-red hair slipping forward around her shoulders. From this distance he could see the excitement shining in those bright blue eyes, the eager parting of her glossy red lips and the way her breathing had quickened.

There was something almost comical about seeing a woman who had spent three thousand years hunting monsters looking so thoroughly delighted at the prospect of kissing him. Particularly when that same woman had been threatening to kill him less than a day ago.

Then again, considering how she'd behaved that morning, Matt suspected she had been looking forward to having him to herself for quite some time.

He opened his mouth to say something, though whether it was another objection about his unfinished bath or a warning to take things a little easier this time, he never quite decided.

Phoebe had evidently waited long enough.

Her smile widened, and with a happy little sound that seemed utterly at odds with the fearsome warrior he'd first encountered, she leaned the remaining distance and pressed her lips firmly against his, apparently determined to make the most of every one of those one hundred and sixty-two minutes.