will be fun."

 

"Fun," Rachel repeated. "Lots of fun."

 

Her father exited the room. He left the door open behind him.

 

Rachel stared at the portrait of me. Then she walked to the easel next to it,

which was covered in a sheet.

 

"I hope they're dreams," she said.

 

She uncovered the easel. On it was a hastily sketched charcoal, but Rachel was a

good artist. The picture was definitely Luke as a young boy. He was about nine

years old, with a wide grin and no scar on his face. I had no idea how Rachel

could've known what he looked like back then, but the portrait was so good I had

a feeling she wasn't guessing. From what I knew about Luke's life (which wasn't

much), the picture showed him just before he'd found out he was a half-blood and

had run away from home.

 

Rachel stared at the portrait. Then she uncovered the next easel. This picture

was even more disturbing. It showed the Empire State Building with lightning all

around it. In the distance a dark storm was brewing, with a huge hand coming out

of the clouds. At the base of the building a crowd had gathered . . . but it

wasn't a normal crowd of tourists and pedestrians. I saw spears, javelins, and

ban- ners — the trappings of an army.