Stars. Ever since Zoë was a young girl, she has wanted to become one of the great constellations that watch over the land. The gods place those they favor among the stars, and she has always wished to be one of the chosen.
Her sisters and she, however, deal in the realm of twilight. She grew up in the Garden of the Hesperides, tending the mythical plants and feeding Ladon, the dragon that guards Lady Hera’s sacred golden apple tree. One of Zoë’s earliest memories is of kneeling on the lush grass beside the thick, scaly body, holding out lamb’s meat toward the fearsome mouth.
The dragon sniffs at the meat, and the girl flinches in spite of herself.
Arethusa puts her hands on Zoë’s shoulders. “Go on,” she encourages. “He will not bite thee. The lamb’s meat is far tastier than thine.”
“You are sure?”
“I would not lie to thee, little sister.”
Zoë takes a breath and holds the meat out again. Ladon’s black eyes regard her for a moment. Then he snaps the meat up whole, neatly, so that all she feels is a swift wind as his jaws shut. She laughs delightedly and the dragon snorts, sending a wave of eucalyptus-scented breath over her.
Ladon is nothing to fear, Zoë thinks.
“You must be careful,” Arethusa lectures. “He will love thee as long as you do not do something foolish. Ladon is not a pet.”
“Of course, sister,” Zoë says, though privately she wonders how she could ever fear this creature.
Time passes lazily in the Hesperides’ garden, but pass it does. Zoë grows, catching up to her sisters, spending her days feeding Ladon and learning how to tend the myriad plants in the garden of twilight.
“You are forever staring at the sky, Zoë,” Erytheis says one night. “What does it hold for you?”
“The constellations,” Zoë says. “I like them.”
“Whatever for? They are just stars.”
“The gods placed them there. They are important.”
“If you are thinking you will join them someday, little sister, you are wrong,” Aegle told her. “The gods have not placed someone in the sky in ages.”
Zoë does not contradict her sister, but she thinks, Someday I will join those heroes of old. Someday, I will do something wonderful enough to earn a place in the stars.

Zoë’s life changes for good the evening a man stumbles into the garden. She is alone, sitting in a secluded place and gazing at the sky, wondering about things. Her sisters never find her in this spot, perhaps because it is near the entrance to the garden, where they rarely venture.
Zoë stares at the heavily muscled youth before her. She has never seen a man before besides her father, and even he rarely speaks to his daughters. To be so close to something so foreign awes her so much she cannot speak.
“Hello, pretty one,” he says, his voice deep.
Zoë is silent, still trying to find her voice. She notices he wears a lion skin around him like a cape.
“Perhaps you can help me,” he goes on. “My name is Heracles, and I seek something in this garden.”
“I am Zoë,” she finally manages. “My sisters and I tend this garden.”
“Perfect,” he says, and gives her such a brilliant smile that she is dazzled. “I am on a quest, pretty one. Do you think you can help me?”
Zoë nods breathlessly. She has never been called “pretty” before, and this young man is handsome and strong-looking…and he wants her help. “What is thy quest?”
“I need those apples,” Heracles tells her, pointing to the center of the garden.
“It is impossible,” Zoë says immediately. “Ladon will kill thee.”
Heracles smiles. “I do not think so,” he says.
“My father will not allow it.”
“Can you help me, then, pretty one? Do you know a way around this Ladon, and your father?”
Zoë bites her lip. She knows she shouldn’t help this man, this stranger, but there is a warmth in her belly that encourages her to do so anyway. “Come back tomorrow, at dusk,” she says. “I will have a plan for thee.”
Heracles smiles. “I will be here,” he promises, and is gone.
The next night, Zoë waits in her hiding place, body afire with nerves. Her plan is risky and delicate and has many things that can go wrong, but she thinks it may work.
Heracles appears right at dusk, as promised. “Hello, pretty one,” he says.
“Hush,” Zoë says, glancing at the quickly-darkening sky. “We must be swift, and silent. Are you ready?”
“Of course. Where might I be going, pretty one?”
“Give me thy hand. I will lead thee through the garden.”
Zoë pulls Heracles through the garden as fast as she dares, wanting to get him out of there but not wanting her sisters—or Ladon—to hear them. “Hurry!” she says. “Or he will find us!”
“I’m not afraid,” Heracles tells her.
“You should be!” Zoë pulls him behind a thorn bush and peers over it.
“There is no need to run,” Heracles says, sounding amused. “I have bested a thousand monsters with my bare hands.”
Zoë turns to look at him, amazed that he doesn’t understand. “Not this one,” she whispers. “Ladon is too strong. You must go around, up the mountain to my father. It is the only way.”
“I do not trust your father,” he says.
“You should not. You will have to trick him. But you cannot take the prize directly. You will die!” And I do not want thee to die, she adds silently.
Heracles has the audacity to chuckle. “Then why don’t you help me, pretty one?” he asks.
Zoë hesitates, not wanting to admit the truth. “I…I am afraid. Ladon will stop me. My sisters, if they found out…the would disown me.”
“Then there’s nothing for it,” Heracles decides. He stands, rubbing his hands together.
“Wait!” Zoë says. She bites her lip, thinking hard. She can’t send this hero into battle without some kind of weapon, not against Ladon. Hands trembling, she reaches into her hair and pulls out a long, white hair ornament Hespere put in just that morning. “If you must fight, take this. My mother, Pleione, gave it to me. She was a daughter of the ocean, and the ocean’s power is within it.” Zoë looks up at the man standing over her. “My immortal power.”
She breathes on the pin and watches as it glows faintly, gleaming white like polished abalone. She knows there is certainly no going back now.
Heracles laughs, not unkindly. “A hairpin? How will this slay Ladon, pretty one?”
“It may not. But it is all I can offer, if you insist on being stubborn.”
Heracles’s face softens and he reaches down to take the pin. Zoë watches with a feeling of finality as the hairpin lengthens into a three-foot celestial bronze sword.
Heracles holds the blade appraisingly. “Well balanced,” he says. “Though I usually prefer to use my bare hands. What shall I name this blade?”
Zoë can think of no better name than the one that springs to her mind. “Anaklusmos. The current that takes one by surprise. And before you know it, you have been swept out to sea.” Much like me, she thinks.
Trampling noises erupt nearby and Zoë’s heart leaps in her throat. “Too late!” she cries as Ladon hisses. “He is here!”
Heracles springs from behind the bush, sword at the ready. Zoë knows it is a cowardly thing to do, but she covers her eyes, unable to watch this clash between her old life and her new one.
An eternity seems to pass while she sits there, waiting.
Strong, broad hands pull her own away from her eyes, and then she is looking at Heracles. His face shines. “I have done it,” he says. “Thank you, my pretty one.” And he kisses her, strong and full, on the mouth.
Zoë is left reeling for a moment but has the presence of mind to grab his wrist before he leaves. “Remember me,” she whispers. “Please.”
“Of course, pretty one,” Heracles soothes her. “Without you, I could not have done it. I will not forget this.”
And then he is gone.

Zoë is up to greet the morning sun the next day. She knows what is coming and is unsurprised when her sisters line up to face her, shoulder-to-shoulder like a squadron. They mean to take courage in their numbers, Zoë supposes, though they seem reluctant to speak.
Erytheis examines her nails as she talks. “Zoë, you must leave this garden.”
“I know,” Zoë says.
This stops her sisters short. There is a pause, and then Aegle says, “You know what you’ve done, then.”
“I do.”
“It’s for your own good, Zoë,” Hespere tells her. “Our father would kill you. Ladon would never let you near him again.”
“Yes.” Zoë is calmer than she expected to be. Perhaps she knew this would be her destiny all along.
Arethusa crosses her arms. “Then go, Zoë,” she says, a note of finality in her voice. “Leave this garden and never return. You will not be welcomed if you do.”
“I understand.” Zoë takes one last look at the beautiful garden, at Ladon slumbering under the now-empty tree. “Farewell, sisters.”
Arethusa’s face is stony. “We have no other sister,” she says.
Zoë dips her chin in understanding. She turns her back on the Hesperides, whom she was once one of but now no longer feels connected to. She feels freer, somehow. This is my new life, she thinks as she walks through the garden for the last time. I am going to do something with myself. I know it.
She takes one more glance over her shoulder at the threshold, for luck, before leaving the garden of twilight for good.

Zoë wonders about Heracles almost daily. Perhaps now that she has left the garden, she thinks, he will find her. One night, she looks up at the stars to see a new constellation glittering above—a warrior, brandishing a sword.
Realization dawns slow and cold. He was placed in the stars, Zoë thinks. She cannot believe it—Heracles is dead and immortalized in the stars, just as she has always wanted. He never came back for her.
He never would have completed those labors without me! Zoë rages, feeling hurt and angry and betrayed all at once. And not a word said about me—and now everyone will remember his name.
She is so overcome with anger—at him for ignoring her, at herself for trusting him—that she sits at the base of a tree and cries for the first time in her long life. “How could he?” she whispers to the sky, wondering if anyone is listening.
“Men are fond of betraying those who love them,” a voice says nearby.
Zoë jumps and turns to see an auburn-haired young woman sitting on a log. “Who are—?”
The woman smiles. Zoë notices that her eyes are silvery-yellow, the exact shade of the full moon hanging above the trees.
“I am Artemis,” she says, “goddess of the moon and the hunt.”
Zoë has never met an Olympian before, but she can guess at the protocol. She immediately bows her head. “My lady,” she says. “My name is Zoë.”
“A lovely name,” Artemis muses. “‘Life,’ yes, very fitting. And is that it? Just ‘Zoë?’”
Zoë thinks for a moment. Her name means life, but she knows existence on the earth means death as well. You cannot have one without the other, she thinks, and, unbidden, her mind falls on a purple-flowered plant she remembers from the garden.
She looks up to meet the goddess’s gaze. “My name is Zoë Nightshade,” she says, and she knows it is right.
Artemis smiles. “Zoë Nightshade,” she says, “I think you may be interested in joining my Hunt.”

Not too long after the conversation in the woods, Zoë kneels before the goddess of the moon, prepared to accept her new life. “I pledge myself to the goddess Artemis,” she recites. “I turn my back on the company of men, accept eternal maidenhood, and join the Hunt.” Even as she speaks the words, an image of Heracles springs, unbidden, to her mind. She wants to hate him. She should hate him. Yet she knows he made her who she is, and she can’t deny it.
“I accept,” Artemis says. “Remember your pledge. It is now your life.”
Zoë lifts her head to see the goddess regarding her strangely. The newly made huntress wonders, briefly, if Artemis knows what she thought as she gave her oath.
Some time passes. Zoë finds the Hunters to be more of a family to her than her sisters ever felt, and she doesn’t know if this makes her happy or sad. What she does know is that, finally, she belongs somewhere.
Artemis pulls her aside one night. “Walk with me, my huntress,” she says, and Zoë obliges.
It does not take long for Artemis to get to her point. “Zoë, you have served me well so far,” she says. “I would very much like it if you would consider becoming my lieutenant.”
Zoë looks at her goddess, the one she’s devoted her life to for the past century, and sees a smile on her face. She returns it, happily.
“Of course, my lady,” she says. “I would be honored.”
Artemis holds out a silver circlet and gestures for Zoë kneel. “Wear this with pride and with honor, my huntress,” she says as she settles the circlet on Zoë’s brow. “You have earned it.”
The circlet feels right, Zoë decides, like it belongs there. If she’s lucky, it will stay there for many years to come.

“Where are the stars going, my lady?” Zoë asks one night, sitting on a grassy knoll a short distance from the Hunters’ camp.
Artemis smiles, a little sadly, and tucks an errant strand of black hair back into Zoë’s circlet. “They are disappearing, my huntress. The humans’ false light blots them out.”
“But are they still there?”
“They are hidden, but yes, they are still there. They still watch over.” Artemis looks at her lieutenant. “Do you have a favorite, Zoë?”
“I do not think so,” Zoë says after a pause.
“Mm,” Artemis says, and again Zoë wonders if Artemis knows what is going through her mind. “Perhaps you will find one, in time. I myself favor Orion.” She points to the blocky constellation, her finger tracing his glittering belt.
“Did you not put him there yourself, my lady?”
Artemis smiles slightly. “I did,” she says. “And that is why I favor it. I would not create a bad constellation.”
Zoë laughs and the goddess joins her, their mirth rising into the sky to nestle for a moment among the stars.

One night, Zoë leads a group of Hunters through a forest somewhere in the northeast of the country, tracking a cockatrice. Zoë knows her Hunters are growing tired; it has been a while since they made camp. She is just about to signal the Hunters to stop and break for the night when one of her scouts, a girl named Cynthia, comes running back.
“Zoë, there is a campfire up ahead,” she says.
“A campfire?” Zoë frowns.
“Three young demigods. They appear to be on their own.”
“Allow me to handle this,” Zoë says. “But be prepared—if they attack, we will reciprocate.”
She approaches the little camp with one hand on her hunting knife and stands in the shadows just outside the circle of light cast by their campfire, judging when best to enter. From her hiding place, she can see the camp’s occupants. One is a small blonde girl, no older than seven. The other girl looks to be about twelve, with sharp features and dark, spiky hair. The third half-blood seems a couple of years older than the dark-haired girl, is blond, and male. Zoë’s hand tightens involuntarily on her knife hilt. She would have preferred it if they were all girls.
“Luke, I’m cold,” the blonde girl says. Her voice is weary.
“Get closer to the fire, Annabeth,” the older girl says. “You’ll warm up in a little bit.”
Annabeth? What an odd name, Zoë thinks. She takes a breath and steps into the clearing. No time like the present.
As she assumed, the three half-bloods jump to attention at the sight of her, drawing weapons. The boy angles himself in front of the younger girl, even though she has a weapon and he doesn’t, as far as Zoë can tell.
Zoë raises her hands. “I mean you no harm,” she says.
“Who are you?” the older girl demands.
Zoë appraises her. She carries herself fiercely and looks strong, and it occurs to Zoë that she has the makings of a good Hunter.
“My name is Zoë Nightshade,” she says. “I am the lieutenant of the Hunters.” She makes a signal behind her back and the other Hunters melt out of the trees. The blonde girl lets out a small gasp.
“The Hunters?” the boy—Luke—says. “I’ve never heard of them.”
Zoë regards him coldly. “I would not expect it,” she says. “We follow the goddess Artemis. We travel at her side, hunting monsters.”
The dark-haired demigod lowers her spear but doesn’t ease her defensive stance. “Artemis, huh?” she says. “That sounds…interesting. I’m Thalia.”
“Well met,” Zoë says. She glances back at the other Hunters. Cynthia inclines her head—go on. “Thalia, perhaps you would speak to me for a moment? I have something to ask thee.”
Thalia ponders for a moment before nodding. “Okay. As long as it doesn’t take too long.” As she walks past the younger girl, Annabeth, she ruffles her hair with a little smile before continuing on her way.
Luke tries to follow her, only to find his path blocked by Zoë.
“I do not recall inviting thee,” the Hunter says coldly.
“I’m not letting Thalia go alone,” he protests.
“Do not test me, half-blood. No harm will come to her.” Zoë meets his gaze to let him know she means business—and almost looks away when she sees the darkness and anger simmering just under the surface. This one will cause problems, she thinks.
Zoë joins Thalia outside the campfire’s circle. The girl looks up at the sky, studying the moon. “Do you really hunt with Artemis?”
“We do,” Zoë says, settling herself on a tree stump. “She grants us eternal youth, and in exchange, we follow her loyally.”
“Wow. Eternal youth? That sounds…really cool.”
Zoë permits herself a small smile. “It is indeed,” she agrees.
Thalia looks at her. “Is there any way for me to join?” she asks. “I mean—could I join?”
“If you wish it,” Zoë says. “That is what I wished to speak to thee about. You would do well with the Hunters, I think.”
“Really?” Thalia turned to look at her. “What do I have to do?”
“Speak an oath.”
“That’s it? What’s the oath say?”
Zoë glances back at the campfire, where a few of the Hunters have settled opposite Luke and Annabeth. The younger demigod watches the silver-clad girls with interest, but Luke’s eyes are trained on Thalia.
“You must renounce the company of men,” Zoë says, “swear yourself to the goddess, and pledge to join the Hunt.”
A small frown creases Thalia’s brow. “‘Renounce the company of men?’” she repeats. “You mean…”
“Never spend time with a male again.”
“Even Luke?”
Zoë raises an eyebrow and says nothing, letting Thalia reach the conclusion herself.
“But Luke’s my family! I can’t leave him.”
“Thy fellow Hunters would become thy family. It is not a difficult transition to make. We have all done it.”
Thalia begins shaking her head. “I can’t do that. He’s done so much for me.”
Zoë clenches her fist around her hunting knife’s hilt. She hates this, the denial and the insistence that boys mean something. “And you will do so much more without him. Believe me, Thalia.”
“I won’t.” Thalia meets Zoë’s eyes. “I can’t do it. I won’t join you.”
Zoë can hardly believe it. “You are refusing my offer? This does not come often, Thalia. Many would jump at the chance.”
“Not me.” Thalia crosses her arms. “You can shove your offer. I don’t want anything to do with it.”
Zoë’s temper flares. “You are being stupid. This boy will let you down someday, and then you will understand.”
Thalia’s eyes spark and Zoë thinks she smells ozone. “Get out of my camp.”
“I will not take orders from thee, half-blood.”
“You think you can come in and start badmouthing my friends? Luke will never let me down. I would bet my life on it.”
Zoë stands, resisting the urge to shake sense into Thalia with difficulty. “You may have to someday, and you will lose. Then you will regret your choice.”
“Take your Hunters and get out,” Thalia spits, inches from Zoë’s face. “Don’t come back for me again.”
“You can be assured we will not,” Zoë says, refusing to flinch. “Remember my words when this Luke lets you down. It always happens, and then you will know.”
She turns before Thalia can say anything else and gestures curtly to the Hunters, who stand immediately. Thalia returns to the campfire and puts her arms around Annabeth’s shoulders, glaring at the Hunters as they troop past.
Luke catches Zoë’s shoulder as she brings up the rear. “What did you say to Thalia?” he demands. “You upset her.”
“Do not touch me,” Zoë snarls, knocking his hand away. She feels Annabeth and Thalia’s eyes on her back, one curious, the other hostile, as she steps into the woods and, with the skill of a Hunter, disappears.

On a chilly winter night several years later, Zoë stands on a cliff overlooking the sea, facing down a manticore with her sisters at her side. She is confident they can take this monster down—after all, they have hunted far worse and survived.
“Permission to kill, my lady?” she asks, bow drawn and nerves singing. She lives for this.
“This is not fair!” the manticore complains. “Direct interference! It is against the Ancient Laws!”
Zoë rolls her eyes. Monsters are decidedly uncooperative when they are about to be killed.
“Not so,” Artemis says. “The hunting of all wild beasts is within my sphere. And you, foul creature, are a wild beast. Zoë, permission granted.”
And oh, it would have all been so simple if not for the blonde girl, the senselessly brave, courageously stupid young demigod, who charges the monster.
“Get back, half-blood!” Zoë shouts. She cannot believe someone would be so foolish as to attack a manticore barehanded, especially when a group of Hunters stands ready to fire on it. “Get out of the line of fire!”
The demigod girl does not. She tackles the creature, seizing it around the throat and attempting to wrestle it to the ground. Zoë can wait no longer; her mistress gave her permission to kill the manticore and this is her goal.
“Fire!” she orders, and the Hunters obey. Their arrows strike true, and for a moment, hope flares in Zoë’s chest. She does not want to see the young demigod killed. Perhaps they will vanquish the monster and save her.
But no. The manticore proclaims, “This is not the end, Huntress! You shall pay!” And he leaps over the edge of the cliff, taking the blonde half-blood with him.
Zoë lowers her bow, distraught. She has failed, both to save the girl and kill the monster. Artemis will be disappointed in her, and for some reason, she cannot help but feel the manticore’s last words were directed at her.
“Annabeth!” the older half-blood boy shouts, running to the edge of the cliff. Zoë frowns. She’s heard that name before, not too long ago. But she doesn’t know when—she can’t remember. After two millennia, the years tend to blur together.
Phoebe and Terra pull the boy back from the cliff as Zoë scans the group before her. She sees a demigod girl and boy, likely related, a satyr, and—
Now she remembers where she heard the name “Annabeth” before. Several years ago, in a clearing lit by a makeshift campfire, she last met those stormy eyes now glaring at her.
“You,” she says distastefully. The other boy—Luke, was it?—is not with her, Zoë takes grim satisfaction in noting. I warned thee, did I not, half-blood?
“Zoë Nightshade,” Thalia all but spits. “Perfect timing, as usual.”
Zoë ignores her and reports her findings to Artemis. “Four half-bloods and a satyr, my lady.”
“Yes,” Artemis says. “Some of Chiron’s campers, I see.”
The oldest boy still struggles against Terra and Phoebe. “Annabeth! You have to let us save her!”
Artemis regards him with something akin to pity, which surprises Zoë. The goddess does not sympathize with males much.
“I’m sorry, Percy Jackson, but your friend is beyond help.”
Percy Jackson. Zoë runs the name over in her mind. She wonders just how much this defiant, dark-haired boy will change her life. She glances up at the winter sky, where the stars glitter in their constellations, telling age-old stories for anyone willing to look up. Wherever she goes, whatever she does, she knows those from the past will be there to guide her on her journey. And perhaps someday, if the Fates decree, she will join them.