Chapter 2 - Chapter 2: The Satyr's Trail

Cynthia Morales clutched the crumpled map in her fist, the words half-blood burning in her mind like a brand. It was two days after the hellhound, late afternoon in Rochester, and the foster house buzzed with its usual chaos—Mrs. Hargrove yelling at Tommy for spilling juice, Mia practicing cartwheels in the living room. Cynthia sat cross-legged on her bunk, Luna the wolf tucked under her arm, her obsidian eyes flicking to the window. The world outside looked too normal: kids on bikes, a mail truck rumbling by. But she knew better now. Normal was a lie.Her palm still ached from the glass shard, the cut healed too fast, leaving a faint silver scar that shimmered oddly in the light. Child of the huntress. The dream voice lingered, cool and distant, like wind through pines. Cynthia wasn't sure what it meant—Artemis? The goddess from those myths Mia read aloud sometimes? It felt too big, too impossible. But the hellhound's golden dust on her skin? That was real. So was the itch under her ribs, urging her to move.She packed light: a backpack swiped from Jamal's closet, stuffed with two protein bars from Mia's stash, a water bottle, her silver-scarred pocketknife (blunt but comforting), spare socks, and the map. No note—running away meant no goodbyes. Mia would worry, maybe cry, but Cynthia couldn't drag her into this. Protect the pack, her instincts whispered.Slipping out was easy. Mrs. Hargrove was distracted by dinner prep; the back door clicked shut behind her like a secret. Cynthia darted through the yard, past the mangled fence (repaired with chicken wire), and into the alley shadows. Heart pounding, she headed east first—counterintuitive, but the map said skirt the city, then south toward Long Island. Four hundred miles. On foot? Impossible. But buses, hitched rides, whatever it took.Night fell fast, streetlights buzzing like angry wasps. Cynthia stuck to back roads, hood up over her tangled dark waves, her wiry frame melting into dusk. Hunger gnawed, but adrenaline kept her going. Around midnight, near a gas station on the city's edge, she heard it: hooves clopping on pavement, too rhythmic for a horse.She froze behind a dumpster, knife out. A figure emerged from the fog—short, maybe five feet, with curly brown hair, goat legs poking from ripped jeans, and small horns peeking through his beanie. A satyr. Not the goofy one from Mia's camp stories; this one had sharp hazel eyes, a scruffy beard, and a reed pipe dangling from his neck. He sniffed the air, nostrils flaring, then locked onto her hiding spot."Hey, easy there, kid," he called, hands up. His voice was gravelly, Brooklyn accent thick. "Name's Tully. Satyr scout. I smelled you a mile off—wildfire and moonlight, strong as a fresh pine. You're the one from the pine tree postmark, right?"Cynthia's grip tightened on the knife, her sharp-angled face pale under smeared dirt. He looked ridiculous—fur-tufted legs, hooves polished like he'd tried to blend in—but those eyes were ancient, knowing. "How'd you find me? And what the Hades are you?"Tully chuckled, low and wary, glancing over his shoulder. "Long story short? Satyrs sniff out half-bloods. Kids like you—demigod blood, mortal mom or dad crossed with a god. Draws monsters like flies to honey. That hellhound? Just the appetizer. You got a scent that's... unique. Huntress vibe. Dangerous."Her breath hitched. Demigod. It fit, terrifyingly. "So I'm... a half-blood? Like Hercules crap? Prove it."He pulled a compass from his pocket—not metal, wood-carved with Greek letters. It spun wildly toward her. "See? Points to power. Yours is off the charts, but twisted. Gods don't usually..." He trailed off, rubbing his horns. "Look, I ain't spilling the gods' laundry. Chiron—camp director—handles intros. But yeah, you're one of us. Camp Half-Blood's your safe zone. Long Island, strawberry fields. I was tracking another scent, but yours hit like a truck. Come with? Monsters are closing in."Cynthia weighed it. Trust a goat-man? Insane. But alone, she'd be hellhound chow again. His face—round, earnest, with laugh lines despite the worry—didn't scream liar. "Fine. But lie, and I gut you."Tully grinned, fangs peeking. "Deal. Call me Tull. Let's hoof it."They moved fast, Tully's hooves silent on gravel. He explained in bursts as they skirted highways: gods real, walking among mortals via Mist (that haze hiding magic from normals). Half-bloods train at camp, quests, prophecies. "Your parent's divine—Greek pantheon. Powers leak out. Strength, smarts, weird luck. But monsters hunt us. Empousai, dracaenae, worse." He didn't name hers. Cynthia probed—Zeus? Athena?—but he dodged. "Reveal's for camp. Secrets keep us alive."First night, they camped in a state park thicket, Tully enchanting crickets to hush. Cynthia barely slept, mind racing: Who am I? Why huntress? Tully whittled arrows, his thoughts drifting to failed searches. Kid's got edge. Too old for newbie shakes. Hope she lasts.Dawn broke muggy. They hitched a ride with a trucker—beefy guy oblivious to Tully's disguise (Mist trick)—to Scranton. Cynthia stared out the window, her olive skin flushed, dark hair frizzing in humidity. Tully chattered myths to distract: Percy Jackson rumors, a new kid stirring waves. "Water powers. Tough nut." Cynthia filed it away, envy prickling. I just get dogs from hell.Trouble hit near Allentown. A dracaenae—snake-lady, half-woman half-viper, gold scales glinting, forked tongue hissing—ambushed from a culvert. "Demigod flesh!" she shrieked, twin swords flashing. Cynthia's instincts ignited; she snatched a tire iron from the trucker's junk pile, eyes silvering faintly.Tully piped panic—roots snaring the monster's tail—but she charged. "Eyes on me, snake-face!" Feint left, strike right; the iron cracked scales, drawing green ichor. The dracaenae slashed; Cynthia rolled, mud-soaked, slicing its wrist. Tully finished it—hoof to skull, dust burst. They ran, gasping."Nice moves," Tully panted, impressed. Kid fights like born. "Instincts screaming yet?""All the time," she admitted, adrenaline buzzing. Her thoughts whirled: Stronger. Faster. This is me.Day two blurred: stolen bikes, bus hops, dodging I-80 traffic. No real rest—naps in ditches, protein bars crumbling. Cynthia's wiry legs burned, blisters raw, but Tully's pipe healed minor cuts with lullabies. Hunger clawed; they swiped apples from orchards.Near Newark, monsters doubled. Venturing cyclops—eight feet, hairy, one milky eye, club like a tree trunk—barreled from woods. "Snack time!" it bellowed. Tully froze. "Too big. Run!"They bolted, Cynthia's lungs fire. The cyclops hurled rocks—boom!—shattering pavement. She glanced back: Tully limping, hoof sprained. Can't leave him. Ducking into subway tunnels, they lost it in steam pipes, emerging stinking of rust.Tully wheezed, beard slick with sweat. "Good call. Live to fight." His mind nagged: She's protector type. Rare spark.Night two: no camp. Fields by rail yard, stars mocking. Cynthia shivered in her hoodie, thoughts fracturing. Mom—god? Foster kid goddess spawn? Tully shared jerky, voice soft. "You're tough, Cyn. Camp'll explain the rest. Gods... complicated."She nodded, exhaustion heavy. Huntress. What if Artemis hates mortals?Final push: dawn, feet numb, through Jersey Pine Barrens. Monsters sniffed close—howls echoing. Tully piped cover, but his steps faltered. "Almost... Thalia's tree."Long Island gleamed distant. Then, the hill: lush green, strawberry scent sweet, a massive pine crowning it—twisted branches like welcoming arms. Golden eagle soared overhead.Cynthia crested first, vision spotting. Made it. Legs buckled; world tilted. Tully lunged—"Cyn!"—but too late. She collapsed face-down in wild strawberries, darkness swallowing her whole