Percy Jackson : Hunters World

Cynthia Morales stared at the cracked ceiling of her latest foster home, a sagging two-story in Rochester, New York, where the summer heat of 2003 clung like a bad dream. She was ten years old, small for her age, with a wiry frame that spoke of too many skipped meals and not enough stability. Her dark hair fell in tangled waves past her shoulders, the kind that resisted brushes and seemed to snag on everything, framing a face that was all sharp angles—high cheekbones inherited from some forgotten Mexican grandmother, olive skin perpetually smudged with dirt or ink, and eyes like polished obsidian, wide and watchful. Those eyes missed nothing; they darted to every shadow, every creak in the old house, as if the world itself was a predator waiting to pounce.The room she shared smelled of mildew and cheap air freshener, its walls papered in faded florals that peeled at the corners. Two bunk beds crammed the space, hers the bottom on the left, piled with a threadbare quilt and a single stuffed wolf she'd found in a dumpster two homes ago. She called it Luna, whispering secrets to it at night when the other girls snored. Right now, Luna stared back with one button eye, a silent witness to Cynthia's insomnia.Downstairs, the TV blared some cartoon, and the laughter of her foster siblings—three boys and a girl, ages five to twelve—mixed with Mrs. Hargrove's weary shouts. "Dinner in five! And Cynthia, set the table this time!" Mrs. Hargrove was a stout woman in her forties, with permed graying hair and a smoker's rasp, her kindness stretched thin by fifteen years in the system. She wasn't cruel, just exhausted, popping antacids like candy while juggling CPS check-ins and a night job at the diner. Mr. Hargrove was a ghost, working construction out of state, sending checks that barely covered the electric bill.Cynthia rolled off the bed, her bare feet hitting the cold linoleum. She tugged on faded jeans with holes at the knees and a hand-me-down T-shirt from the church donation bin—pink, emblazoned with a unicorn that made her stomach turn. Pink wasn't her color; nothing soft was. She padded downstairs, weaving past the chaos of the living room where toys littered the floor like landmines.In the kitchen, she grabbed mismatched plates from the cabinet, stacking them with mechanical precision. Her mind wandered, as it always did, to the before. She didn't remember her mother, just fragments: a warm laugh, the scent of pine and rain, hands braiding her hair under a full moon. Child Protective Services said the woman had dumped her at a fire station in Queens when Cynthia was two, no note, no nothing. Father? Unknown. Typical story in the foster system, but Cynthia's felt heavier, laced with dreams that left her sweating and gasping."Earth to Cyn!" A hand waved in front of her face. She blinked, nearly dropping a plate. It was Mia, her foster sister, eleven and all elbows and knees, with freckles across a button nose and braces that flashed when she grinned. Mia was the closest thing Cynthia had to a best friend here—chatty, loyal, the kind of girl who shared her contraband candy bars and covered for Cynthia's "weird moments.""Sorry," Cynthia muttered, forcing a smile. "Zoned out."Mia leaned in, voice low. "You okay? You look like you saw a ghost again." Her hazel eyes narrowed with concern. Mia knew about the nightmares—Cynthia had woken screaming twice last week, visions of glowing silver arrows piercing shadowy beasts. The other kids teased her about it, calling her "Wolf Girl" after she'd howled in her sleep once. But Mia got it; she had her own scars, faint ones on her arms from a previous home where the dad got too drunk."Yeah, just tired." Cynthia set the last plate down. "What's for dinner? Mystery meatloaf again?"Mia wrinkled her nose. "Worse. Canned spaghetti. But I saved you the good fork—the one without the bend."Cynthia snorted, a rare spark of warmth cutting through her wariness. Mia was good people, the type who dreamed of being a veterinarian, sketching horses in her notebook during school. They'd bonded over recess kickball, Cynthia's freakish aim always winning games, Mia cheering loudest. But even Mia didn't know everything. Like how Cynthia could make stray cats follow her with a glance, or how bullies backed off after she stared them down, their noses inexplicably bleeding.Dinner was a roar of overlapping voices. The boys—Tommy (5, sticky-fingered terror), Jamal (8, aspiring rapper), and Kyle (12, wannabe tough guy)—fought over seconds while Mia gossiped about school. Cynthia ate quietly, pushing noodles around her plate, her thoughts drifting to the "incidents."It started young. At seven, in her first foster home near Buffalo, a neighbor's dog had lunged at her during a walk. Instead of biting, it whimpered and fled, tail tucked. The family called her a "witch baby," moved her out after a week. At eight, in Syracuse, she'd aced a math test without studying—numbers just clicked, patterns unfolding like maps in her head. The teacher accused cheating; her foster mom believed it, smacked her with a spoon. Then the shadows: flickers at the edge of vision, growling things that made her palms itch for a weapon.Lately, the problems escalated. School was a minefield. Last month, during gym class dodgeball, a kid named Ricky—big for third grade, with a buzzcut and a mean streak—had hurled a ball at her head. Cynthia ducked, but it veered mid-air, smacking Ricky instead. He hit the floor howling, nose gushing. Coach called it a fluke; kids whispered "freak." Ricky's crew started tripping her in halls, stealing her lunch. Cynthia fought back once—shoved Ricky into lockers, her small fist connecting with his jaw like it had a mind of its own. Suspension for her, of course. "Aggressive tendencies," the report said.CPS reviewed her file after that. "Unstable. Prone to violence. Possible trauma responses." They'd bounced her to the Hargroves, "one last chance before group home." Mrs. Hargrove tried—family game nights, church youth group—but Cynthia felt like an intruder, her instincts screaming run, hunt, survive.After dinner, the kids scattered. Cynthia washed dishes with Mia, suds splashing as they whispered plans for the weekend."Let's sneak to the creek," Mia said, eyes lighting up. "I found arrowheads there last time. Real Indian ones!"Cynthia hesitated. The creek was woods-edge, wild and tangled—a pull she couldn't explain. "Maybe. If Mrs. H doesn't notice.""Nah, she's got bingo tonight." Mia dried a plate, then sobered. "Hey, Cyn... you ever think about your real mom? Like, what if she's out there?"The question stabbed. Cynthia gripped a glass too hard; it cracked in her hand. "Ow!" Blood welled from a sliver.Mia gasped. "Jeez! Here—" She grabbed a towel, wrapping Cynthia's palm. "You're like a bull in a china shop sometimes."Cynthia forced a laugh, but her mind raced. Clumsy? No. Stronger than I should be. The cut stung less than it should, already clotting. "Dunno. Probably a junkie who couldn't hack it. Forget it."But she couldn't. That night, as rain pattered the window, Cynthia lay awake, Luna clutched tight. Mia snored softly above her. The house creaked like bones settling. Then, a new sound: low, guttural, from the backyard.Her heart hammered. Just a dog. Stray. But the growl deepened, vibrating through the floorboards. Against better judgment, she slipped from bed, barefoot in her nightshirt. The stairs groaned under her light steps. Mrs. Hargrove was out; the boys' snores rumbled from their room.In the kitchen, moonlight sliced through blinds, silvering the linoleum. Cynthia peered out the back door. Yellow eyes glowed in the shadows beyond the chain-link fence—massive, slitted like a wolf's but wrong, too intelligent. The thing paced, muscular shoulders rippling under matted black fur, lips peeling back from fangs longer than her fingers. A hellhound, though she didn't know the name yet. Drool sizzled on grass.Panic surged, but so did something primal. Cynthia's skin prickled, veins humming with liquid moonlight. Fight. Run. Hunt. She scanned for a weapon—kitchen knife? Too short. Then her eyes locked on the broom by the fridge, handle splintered but sturdy.The door rattled. The beast lunged, fence buckling like foil. Claws scraped metal. Cynthia yanked the door open—no time for locks—and bolted into the rain-slick yard, broom gripped like a spear. "Stay back!" Her voice cracked, but fierce.Mia stirred upstairs, mumbling. Don't wake them. Protect them.The hellhound vaulted the fence, landing with a thud that shook puddles. It towered twice her height, reeking of sulfur and rot, eyes burning like coals. Cynthia swung the broom low, instinct guiding her. The handle connected with its foreleg—crack!—wood splintering, but the beast yelped, staggering.Rain plastered her hair, blurring vision. Faster. Smarter. She dodged left as jaws snapped air, fangs grazing her sleeve. Her mind flashed to dodgeball, to every playground scrap: feint, strike, evade. The hellhound lunged again; Cynthia vaulted a lawn chair, landing on its back. She drove the jagged broom-end into its neck.Golden dust erupted, the monster dissolving into powder that stung her eyes and filled her nostrils with metallic tang. Cynthia collapsed to knees in mud, gasping, broom shards clutched like trophies. The yard was empty again, just rain and torn fence."What... what was that?" Her whisper shook. Not a dog. Not real. But the pain in her side—bruise from a glancing claw—throbbed real enough.Footsteps pounded inside. Mrs. Hargrove burst onto the porch, robe flapping, face pale under curlers. "Cynthia! What in God's name—""A dog," Cynthia lied, scrambling up. "Big stray. I scared it off."Mrs. Hargrove eyed the fence, the mud, Cynthia's torn nightshirt. No body, no blood—just dust washing away. "You could've been killed, girl! Inside, now. We're calling animal control in the morning."Cynthia nodded numbly, trudging in. Mia hovered at the stairs, wide-eyed. "You okay?""Yeah." But as Mrs. Hargrove fussed with bandages, Cynthia's gaze drifted to the window. Shadows shifted unnaturally. And in her dream later—fitful, feverish—a woman's voice echoed, cool and commanding: Daughter of the moon. The hunt calls you. Seek the hill...She woke drenched, Luna tumbled to the floor. School that day dragged—math whizzed by, but Ricky's glare burned. At recess, she sat alone under the oak, picking at scabs. Mia joined, plopping down with a juice box. "Heard about the dog. Badass, Cyn. But... you sure it was just a—"A teacher called Mia away. Cynthia stayed, mind churning. Monsters. Voices. Strength. Her file said "delusional tendencies." What if it was more?After school, routine check: social worker visit. Ms. Patel, brisk in a pantsuit, flipped through papers at the kitchen table. "Progress report, Cynthia. Mrs. Hargrove says incidents down, but last night?""Handled it," Cynthia mumbled.Ms. Patel's dark eyes softened behind glasses. She was kind, one of the few—South Asian like Cynthia's vague roots, always slipping her extra bus tokens. "You're smart, kid. Top of your class. But the fights, the running away attempts... we need stability. Group home if this doesn't stick."Cynthia shrugged, but inside, dread coiled. Group home means more eyes, less wild.Ms. Patel sighed, packing her briefcase. "One more thing. A letter came—anonymous donor? Scholarship inquiry for 'gifted youth programs.' Weird timing." She slid an envelope across: plain, stamped with a pine tree.Cynthia pocketed it, feigning boredom. That night, under covers with flashlight, she tore it open. No letter—just a map, hand-drawn, leading west: Half-Blood Hill, Long Island. Find the strawberry fields. You're not alone.Her pulse raced. Coordinates matched camp legends Mia babbled about from TV. But the postscript, in elegant script: Child of the huntress. Blood calls to blood.Huntress? Her mind reeled—dream lady, arrows, wolves. Half-blood? Pieces slammed together: monsters real, strength unnatural, mom not mortal.Cynthia crushed the paper, heart thundering. She wasn't crazy. She was something else. A half-blood.