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way at this camp.”
    “Is he dangerous?” she asked.
    Nico managed a dry smile. “Very. To his enemies. But he’s not a threat to Camp Jupiter. You can trust him.”
    “Like I trust you,” Hazel said bitterly.
    Nico twisted his skull ring. Around him, bones began to quiver as if they were trying to form a new skeleton. Whenever he got moody, Nico had that effect on the dead, kind of like Hazel’s curse. Between them, they represented Pluto’s two spheres of control: death and riches. Sometimes Hazel thought Nico had gotten the better end of the deal.
    “Look, I know this is hard,” Nico said. “But you have a second chance. You can make things right.”
    “Nothing about this is right,” Hazel said. “If they find out the truth about me—”
    “They won’t,” Nico promised. “They’ll call a quest soon. They have to. You’ll make me proud. Trust me, Bi—”
    He caught himself, but Hazel knew what he’d almost called her: Bianca. Nico’s real sister—the one he’d grown up with. Nico might care about Hazel, but she’d never be Bianca. Hazel was the simply the next best thing Nico could manage—a consolation prize from the Underworld.
    “I’m sorry,” he said.
    Hazel’s mouth tasted like metal, as if gold nuggets were popping up under her tongue. “Then it’s true about Death? Is Alcyoneus to blame?”
    “I think so,” Nico said. “It’s getting bad in the Underworld. Dad’s going crazy trying to keep things under control. From what Percy said about the gorgons, things are getting worse up here, too. But look, that’s why you’re here. All that stuff in your past—you can make something good come out of it.
    You belong at Camp Jupiter.”
    That sounded so ridiculous, Hazel almost laughed. She didn’t belong in this place. She didn’t even belong in this century.
    She should have known better than to focus on the past, but she remembered the day when her old life had been shattered. The blackout hit her so suddenly, she didn’t even have time to say, Uh-oh . She shifted back in time. Not a dream or a vision. The memory washed over her with such perfect clarity, she felt she was actually there.
    Her most recent birthday. She’d just turned thirteen. But not last December—December 17, 1941, the last day she had lived in New Orleans.

H AZEL WAS WALKING HOME ALONE from the riding stables. Despite the cold evening, she was buzzing with warmth. Sammy had just kissed her on the cheek.
    The day had been full of ups and downs. Kids at school had teased her about her mother, calling her a witch and a lot of other names. That had been going on for a long time, of course, but it was getting worse. Rumors were spreading about Hazel’s curse. The school was called St. Agnes Academy for Colored Children and Indians, a name that hadn’t changed in a hundred years. Just like its name, the place masked a whole lot of cruelty under a thin veneer of kindness.
    Hazel didn’t understand how other black kids could be so mean. They should’ve known better, since they themselves had to put up with name-calling all the time. But they yelled at her and stole her lunch, always asking for those famous jewels: “Where’s those cursed diamonds, girl? Gimme some or I’ll hurt you!” They pushed her away at the water fountain, and threw rocks at her if she tried to approach them on the playground.
    Despite how horrible they were, Hazel never gave them diamonds or gold. She didn’t hate anyone that much. Besides, she had one friend—Sammy—and that was enough.
    Sammy liked to joke that he was the perfect St. Agnes student. He was Mexican American, so he considered himself colored and Indian. “They should give me a double scholarship,” he said.
    He wasn’t big or strong, but he had a crazy smile and he made Hazel laugh.
    That afternoon he’d taken her to the stables where he worked as a groom. It was a “whites only” riding club, of course, but it was closed on weekdays, and with the war on,