Chapter 12: Aunty Em's Garden - Part 1
Two days of walking turned them into zombies. Food ran out after the first day. Water got rationed to sips that barely wet their throats. Monsters harassed them constantly—hellhounds at dawn, harpies at noon, a dracaena at dusk—forcing them to fight exhausted and injured.
By the time they saw the "Aunty Em's Garden Emporium" sign, even Annabeth's tactical caution was overwhelmed by desperation.
"Food," Grover whimpered. His hooves dragged with every step. "I can smell food. Actual food, not berries or questionable roadkill."
"It's a trap," Annabeth said. But her voice lacked conviction. "Has to be. Too convenient."
"Or it's a garden store with a restaurant attached," Percy argued. "Those exist. Normal businesses exist, Annabeth."
Alaric said nothing. He knew exactly what this place was. Had read the page a dozen times. Medusa's lair, disguised as a roadside attraction, where she turned travelers to stone and added them to her garden collection.
But he was also starving. His enhanced metabolism from absorbed bloodlines burned through calories faster than normal, and two days without proper food had left him shaky and weak. The smell of cooking meat—hamburgers, he thought—made his mouth water with painful intensity.
"I could warn them," he thought. "Tell them exactly what's waiting inside. But then they'll ask how I know, and the cover story only stretches so far. And maybe... maybe we can handle this without killing her. Maybe there's a way to change this encounter too."
"Let's at least look," he said. "If it feels wrong, we leave immediately. But we need food. We're not going to make it to Los Angeles at this rate."
Annabeth's grey eyes studied him. Calculating. "You've dreamed about this place."
Not a question. An accusation.
"I've dreamed about a garden full of statues," Alaric admitted. "But not clearly. Just... impressions. Be careful."
They approached the entrance. The garden emporium was gaudy—plastic flamingos, concrete gnomes, an explosion of kitsch that would've been charming if Alaric didn't know what it really concealed. Stone statues were everywhere, each one incredibly detailed. Too detailed. Faces frozen in expressions of terror that should've been impossible to carve.
The door opened before they could knock.
"Oh, you poor dears!" The woman was veiled, wearing sunglasses under the veil, her voice dripping with grandmotherly concern. "You look half-starved! Come in, come in, I was just making lunch. No charge for travelers in need."
"We don't want to impose," Annabeth started.
"Nonsense! I'm Aunty Em, and hospitality is a sacred duty." The woman—Medusa, Alaric's senses confirmed, monster essence radiating from her—gestured them inside. "Please. Let me help."
Percy and Grover were already moving. Drawn by food smell and exhaustion, too desperate to question the convenient rescue. Annabeth followed reluctantly, one hand on her dagger.
Alaric hung back. Studied Medusa with his hellhound senses, his accumulated bloodline instincts, and felt... sadness. She wasn't radiating hunting-predator energy. She felt lonely. Isolated. Desperate for company even as she knew what she'd eventually do to these visitors.
Their eyes met. His mismatched crimson-gold to her hidden gaze behind veil and sunglasses.
"You're not like them, are you, child?" Medusa's voice dropped to a whisper only he could hear. "You taste of my kind. Monster blood flows in your veins."
"I'm a demigod," Alaric said carefully.
"You're a Bloodline Devourer." The words were stated with certainty. "I can smell what you've consumed. Hellhound, Cyclops, Empousai, and more. You're becoming something between human and monster. Something the gods will fear."
"I'm trying to stay human."
"Good luck with that." Her laugh was bitter. "The gods don't let people stay in-between. You're either with them or against them. And if you're too powerful, too different, they'll destroy you just like they destroyed me."
She turned and led them inside before Alaric could respond.
The interior was ordinary. A small restaurant area with plastic tables, hamburgers cooking on a griddle, the smell of grease and charcoal. Medusa moved between kitchen and dining area with practiced efficiency, placing food in front of her starving guests.
Percy and Grover ate like they'd never seen food before. Annabeth ate slower, watching their hostess with suspicion, but hunger won over caution.
Alaric picked at his burger. His stomach demanded food but his mind kept screaming warnings.
"You're wondering why I help travelers," Medusa said. She'd removed her veil now—keeping the sunglasses on, the only barrier between her curse and their deaths. "After all, I'm a monster. That's what the stories say."
"The stories say a lot of things," Percy offered through a mouthful of burger. "Most of them are wrong."
"Smart boy." Medusa's smile was sad. "But the stories about me are true. I was beautiful once. A priestess of Athena. Then Poseidon... took what he wanted. In Athena's temple. And when the goddess found out, she punished me. Not him. Me. Turned me into this."
She gestured at herself. At the snake hair hidden under her hat, at the eyes that could kill with a glance.
"That's not fair," Percy said. His voice was small. Twelve years old and trying to process divine injustice. "You were the victim."
"The gods don't care about fair, child. They care about power. And when you threaten their power, even accidentally, they destroy you."
She looked at Alaric when she said it. Making sure he understood. Making sure he knew this applied to him too.
"The gods make monsters of those who don't fit their designs," Medusa continued. "Who dare to be different or powerful in ways that threaten them. You understand that, don't you, Bloodline Devourer?"
Alaric's fork clattered against his plate. Percy and Grover looked up, confused. Annabeth's eyes narrowed.
"I understand," Alaric said quietly. Because he did. He was terrified of exactly that—of his absorbed bloodlines changing him into something the gods would eliminate. Of becoming a threat just by existing.
"We should go," Annabeth said abruptly. She'd put the pieces together, seen through the hospitality to the threat beneath. "Thank you for the meal, but we need to—"
"You're Athena's daughter." Medusa's voice shifted. Bitter and sharp. "I can see it in your eyes. That calculating intelligence. Just like your mother."
"We're leaving." Annabeth stood, hand on her dagger.
"How fitting." Medusa reached for her sunglasses. "Athena's child and Poseidon's son, both here together. The gods who ruined me, standing before me in miniature. Do you know how long I've waited for this opportunity?"
"Don't!" Alaric shouted. The Gate of Babylon erupted, shields summoning frantically—bronze mirrors that could catch her reflection, redirect her gaze. "We don't want to fight you!"
"But I want to fight you." Medusa's fingers touched her sunglasses. "Or more accurately, I want revenge. And you'll make beautiful statues."
Percy uncapped Riptide. Grover pulled out his pipes. Annabeth's invisibility cap went on.
And Alaric stood between Medusa and his friends, shields hovering, mind racing through options. He could fight her. Could probably win—he had the techniques, the bloodlines, the sheer power to match her. But she was a victim. Cursed by gods for being violated. Punished for surviving.
"This is the moral complexity the books didn't show," he realized. "Medusa's a monster, yes. But she was made a monster by gods who refused to accept responsibility. Killing her is justice for her future victims but injustice for what was done to her. And I don't know which matters more."
"You were wronged," he said desperately. His shields trembled, barely holding. "We know that. Athena was wrong. Poseidon was wrong. But killing us won't fix anything!"
"No." Medusa's smile was horrible. "But it will feel satisfying. And you, little blood-drinker, you're the most interesting meal I've had in centuries. Let's see what happens when gorgon meets chimera."
Her sunglasses came off.
Alaric's shields caught her gaze, reflecting it back, and Medusa hissed in fury. Her snake hair erupted fully—dozens of serpents, each one venomous and angry—and the garden emporium transformed from restaurant to battlefield in a heartbeat.
Statues toppled. Tables shattered. Percy charged with Riptide raised, and Alaric realized with sinking certainty that they were going to kill her.
Because that's what heroes did. They killed monsters. Even monsters who deserved mercy.
Even monsters who were victims first.
The battle consumed him. Medusa's speed was incredible—centuries of practice translating into combat mastery. Her snake hair struck like whips, forcing Alaric to summon new shields constantly. Percy fought from one side, Annabeth from another (invisible but attacking whenever openings appeared), and Grover's panic music kept Medusa disoriented.
They were winning through coordination and numbers. But winning didn't feel like victory.
"I'm sorry," Alaric whispered as his blade found an opening.
Medusa's eyes—one last moment before death—met his with understanding.
"You will be," she said. "When the gods turn on you too."
Then Percy's Riptide found her neck, and she dissolved into golden dust.
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