Stranger Danger, or: How Not to Buy Dean Martin Vinyl

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Dorian had been at camp for only a few days now, but since joining camp he had been in active combat, healing fellow campers, and having a general sense of existential dread. However, that didn't deter the son of Apollo, in fact it actually strengthened his resolve. His resolve to be useful. You see, he was always the one back home to help people when they're down. Take on his sibling's chores when they didn't feel like doing them. He even would use his birthday money to buy his siblings things he knew they liked when he could tell they were feeling down. So, when Dorian saw the job board and saw a chance to contribute in a way that he actually felt confident in he jumped at the opportunity. The problem was, he knew next to nothing about how to achieve his goal.

The job was to assemble a care package for the Camp Director Chiron. At first Dorian thought it was a joke. Chiron, like from the myths; that's when he realized that he was in fact a real being. After the shock came the dread. How on earth was he supposed to gather items an immortal half horse man would like? Does Chiron have friends, and would those friends even talk to someone like Dorian? So many questions, so he started discretely going around to the camp counselors to ask them questions about Chiron. The results were actually quite surprising. He found out that Chiron had... let's say eclectic taste.

From his informal survey he found out a couple things. One; Chiron was a huge Dean Martin fan. Two; he love the card game pinochle. Three; Chiron loved history (not surprising), literature, and poetry. This was surprisingly was something Dorian could work with. So he set out to make his care package. First he needed to source the goods, so he decided to go out and find a gift shop that might have just what he needed. He looked at a map and saw something nearby that might actually work pretty well. Something called the Curio Cabin. So being the very smart guy he was, he headed out of camp without telling anyone and with only his magical weapon and no armor. What could possibly go wrong.

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After a bit of a walk along the farm roads on Long Island Dorian spotted the Curio Cabin off the side of the road. Down a snaking gravel driveway down a wooded drive Dorian found the shop. It was a run down looking log cabin that looked like it was in the middle of nowhere. Above the front door there was a large neon sign with flowing cursive writing saying: The Curio Cabin. Dorian pushed through the old door, the hinges squeaking as he did so.

Dorian began browsing the isles as he entered. He saw some miniature marble columns and tiny plastic Pegasus toys. Postcards featuring Greek temples, and Mount Olympus, Grapevine keychains, laurel wreath headbands, scented candles: “Olympian Ambrosia,” “Underworld Spice,” “Cloudberry Nectar” Some of those were oddly specific, Dorian thought, but what came next became even weirder. As he went deeper into the shop he saw: “Homeric Lyres” and panpipes that play notes without touching them, old coins with faces Dorian doesn’t recognize, dated centuries before Christ, a case of “rare seeds,” labeled only in ancient Greek, a snow globe with a tiny moving centaur camp—except sometimes the centaurs glance up and make eye contact, jars of “Imported Shadow” (swirling, ink-dark, and cold through the glass), candies that smell like summer labeled Forget Me Nows, a locket that whispers “Help me” in Greek, windchimes strung with bones and keys, ringing even when the air is still, and a ledger on the counter, always open, always empty... except Dorian could swear he saw his name at the top for just a moment.

That's when he figured out he wasn't alone. Almost imperceptibly quiet Dorian felt a presence behind him. That's when he saw her. The proprietor of Curio Cabin is an elegant woman in her late forties. She was tall and almost statuesquely graceful, with cloud-gray hair coiled into a careful braid. Her eyes are a warm, deep brown at first glance, but catch the light wrong and a flicker of amber shines through, almost reptilian. She wears a vintage wrap dress printed with swirling vines, a heavy cameo brooch at her throat, and velvet slippers that make no sound on the wooden floor. Her fingers are long, nails perfectly manicured, skin a little too smooth. There’s not a wrinkle or scar to be seen.

She smiles in a slow, practiced way, as if she’s remembering how to shape her mouth. "Welcome to The Curio Cabin. I'm Chloe, how may I give you assistance today child?" She asked Dorian. Her voice was velvet and honeyed, with a faint accent that he can't quite place. Tt shifts; sometimes Greek, sometimes vaguely English, sometimes impossible to place. Her jewelry glints from her wrists and ears: tiny charms in the shapes of eyes, snakes, and moons.

Dorian glances up at her and get a weird feeling in his gut. But he pushes that aside and smiles at her. "Oh uh... Hi. I'm looking for some stuff for my Camp Director. Do you have any Dean Martin vinyl records?"

The woman weird smile squirmed on her face as she laughed. Her laugh was a low, thrumming sound, and her teeth were a little too perfect, a little too sharp. "Of course child. Follow me and I shall show you." She said with a flourish of her dress she glided deeper into the store. Dorian followed the hairs pricking at the back of his neck.

As they made their way back Dorian was walking behind Chloe and that's when he started noticing odd things. The woman's reflection in a mirror that they passed by wasn't quite right. Her face elongates, lips peeled back to reveal jagged, animalistic fangs that never quite fit her human jaw. The warm brown of her eyes was swept away. Now they’re vertical, gold-green slits like a serpent’s, the pupils narrowing with hunger or delight.

Dorian pauses and stares at her. She stops, the form looking "normal" as he stares at her. The mirror reflection is still off. "I uh... I actually should probably go. I just realized I left my wallet at camp."

She laughed again, that low thrumming sound coming deep from her throat. "Worry not child. What you have with you is more than enough." She come closer to Dorian that weird smile still unsettling the Son of Apollo.

"Oh... I insist. I know I'll feel bad if I take something from here and not pay you." He said instinctively his hand reaching for his ring.

The smile on her face became more predatory, more feral. "You have already paid child."

That's when things changed. Her dress fell away into shadow, revealing her lower half: a glistening, muscular serpent tail, scales the color of storm clouds and wet slate, coiled and ready to strike. The velvet slippers dissolved, and her hands lengthened, fingers tipped with black talons. Her skin took on a faint blue-gray sheen, like someone not quite alive.

Her scent shifted to something sweet and rotting like candy apples left too long in the sun, and something wild underneath. "Would you like some candy child? I'm sure you will find it delicious." Her voice changed. The velvet and honey voice dropping and as she spoke her voice doubled, echoing, and the S’s dragged out, coiling in the air like smoke.

"No, my mom taught me not to take candy from strange monsters." Dorian said as he twisted his onyx ring and whispered the word lyra. All of a sudden a celestial bronze bow appeared in his hand and a quiver of celestial bronze arrows on his back. He got into a ready stance, pulling an arrow and notching it.

Chloe sprang at Dorian a wicked predatory smile playing across her features as she rushed at the son of Apollo. Dorian barely had time to leap aside. The Lamia’s tail lashed, splintering the ancient wooden display beside him. Ceramic coins and Pegasus figurines shattering in a spray of dust. He rolled, the bowstring trembling against his cheek, and loosed his first arrow. Golden light shimmered as it flew; Chloe twisted, impossibly quick, and the arrow thudded harmlessly into the floorboards.

She coiled, her shadow stretching across the cluttered shop, eyes locked on Dorian. “You demigods always taste so delicious, too bad you never tried any of my delicious candies. They're non-GMO!” she hissed, baring those monstrous teeth.

Dorian stumbled backwards, bumping into a shelf stacked with jars. “Moonlit Dew” rained to the ground, shattering in a sudden haze of cold mist. The Lamia lunged, fangs snapping, claws raking across a tower of vinyl records that rained down like deadly frisbees. Dorian ducked, barely dodging the flying discs.

Dorian sprinted for the door, but the Lamia was faster. Her tail slammed down, blocking his path, the floorboards groaning beneath her weight. “You’re not leaving, child,” she crooned, voice doubled, echoing with hunger. “You’ll stay, just like all the others. Just a taste-”

He clenched his fist, willing the sunlight from the broken window to gather in his palm. He remembered his lessons, his own powers: Photokinesis. Light blossomed, dazzling-bright, golden and sharp. He thrust it at her face. The Lamia shrieked, recoiling, clawed hands flying to her eyes. Shadows writhed around her, lashing out, but Dorian ducked and rolled beneath her tail, scrambling toward the shattered front door.

She recovered faster than he hoped. The Lamia’s tail whipped out, catching his ankle, dragging him backward, splinters tearing at his jeans. Dorian fumbled for another arrow, twisted in her grip, and fired blindly behind him. The arrow struck her wrist. It was just a graze, but the celestial bronze burned. She howled, flinging him into a shelf of magical trinkets. A locket burst open, shrieking in Greek, and a snow globe toppled, shattering at his feet.

Glass bit his hands, but Dorian didn’t stop. He grabbed the first thing within reach; a handful of Forget Me Now candies. Dorian flung them at her face. The Lamia snarled, mouth snapping, the candies bursting into clouds of perfumed dust. For a moment, she wavered, eyes cloudy, her form flickering between human and beast.

Seizing his chance, Dorian surged up, light blazing from his hands, flooding the shop with sunfire. The Lamia wailed, shrinking away, scales blistering in the radiance.

Dorian sprinted, stumbling, for the exit. He dove through the door just as the Lamia’s tail struck, splintering the jamb. As he ran he grabbed a few items off the shelves and darted outside. He tumbled onto the gravel, blinking in the harsh afternoon sun, the gift shop smoldering with a faint, sickly light behind him.

Heart pounding, hands shaking, he clutched his bow and his hastily snatched care package; a Dean Martin record, a battered pinochle deck, a single unbroken apple, a book of Greek poetry, and a single novelty mug.

He didn’t look back. Not until the cabin was lost in the trees. The son of Apollo took his hard fought treasures with him as he made the silent walk back to camp. He tried not to think about the sickly-sweet smell that still clung to his clothes and the small tremor in his hands as he held onto his prizes.

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Later that evening Dorian sat inside the Arts and Crafts cabin in camp with a wicker basket full of the goods he had procured from the Lamia's shop. Inside are: A vinyl record of Dean Martin's Live from Las Vegas album, a battered pinochle deck with Greek heroes printed on the cards, a book of assorted Greek poetry, a single novelty mug that says 'World's #1 Camp Director', an apple, and some various horse care products he grabbed from the stable master after he returned. He then set to writing a card for Chiron that reads:

Dear Chiron

I have not been here long, but from what I have heard from everyone here is just how much of an impact you've had on everyone. So, this is just a small token of us showing our gratitude.

With Lots of Love

Dorian Ashford and All The Campers At Camp Half-Blood

After tying a bow on the basket and placing the card inside Dorian walked over to the Big House to bring his hard fought present to the Camp Director.