Bunker Nine is an amazing place. But if you’re ever there, steer clear of the shadowy corner way in back. Something bad sits there. If you do decide to look, take my advice: don’t touch it. Think I’m kidding? Read on.

Late one afternoon, Connor Stoll, Sherman Yang, Valentina Diaz, Paolo Montes, Butch Walker, and I were hanging out on the beach when talk turned to camp curses.

“Remember the rhyming-couplet curse Apollo cabin threw that time?” Butch asked. “‘I’m coming in your direction / So get ready for cabin inspection!’”

Valentina giggled. “My cabin did one years ago called the sweetie curse. Anyone with a secret crush was compelled to call the object of their affection ‘sweetie.’” She glanced at Paolo from under her lashes. “I wonder what would happen if I hurled that curse now?”

Paolo beamed uncomprehendingly.

Sherman nudged my shoulder. “What about you, Nyssa? Got any good curse stories?”

I shifted uncomfortably. “Just one.”

“Well? Let’s hear it.”

“I can’t. It’s more something I would have to show.”

I wanted to drop the subject, but they wouldn’t let it go. They just kept cajoling me until finally I said, “All right. Fine. Wait here.”

I ran back to my cabin and retrieved an old book from my storage locker. The book’s coal-black leather cover had orange lettering stamped into it, and a small keyhole padlock kept it closed. Reluctantly, I brought it back to the beach. Valentina squealed when she saw it.

“That’s a vintage diary, isn’t it?” she asked. “They sold them in the camp store back in the fifties!”

“This one is from the forties,” I corrected. “It belonged to Heloise, one of my siblings. I found it stashed behind a false panel under my bunk.”

Valentina rubbed her hands eagerly. “OMG, I love reading other people’s diaries! Uh, not that I would ever do that without permission, of course,” she added hurriedly.

“So what does Heloise’s diary have to do with curses?” Sherman asked.

“Everything,” I said grimly. “Listen.”

June 10, 1948

Diary:

Back at camp. This summer’s project: a race car that runs on Greek fire.

June 13, 1948

Diary:

Sketches complete. Materials gathered. Construction starts tomorrow.

June 16, 1948

Diary:

Outraged. Caught a son of Aphrodite poking around my stuff. Claims he’s a car fanatic and came to check out my wheels. Lies, most likely.

June 17, 1948

Diary:

The boy came back. He asked questions about my car. Smart questions. Might have misjudged him.

June 19, 1948

Dear Diary:

James has blond hair and sky-blue eyes. Girls are in love with him. The naiads, too. They dragged him into the lake today and almost drowned him. Ridiculous.

June 20, 1948

Dear Diary:

James brought me a jar of Greek fire at lunch today. All the other girls stared at me.

June 22, 1948

Dear Diary:

The car is finished. I put in butter-yellow leather seats and painted it sky blue.

June 26, 1948

Dear Diary:

First test-drive successful! James wanted to do it, but I wouldn’t let him. If anything bad happened, I’d want it to happen to me….

June 28, 1948

Dearest Diary:

James says he wants to be an actor someday, but if that doesn’t work out, maybe he’ll be a race-car driver—but only if I design his car. I think he was joking.

June 30, 1948

Dearest Diary:

The second test-drive was even better. I let James put in the Greek fire. A little must have leaked out because when our hands touched, my fingers burned.

July 2, 1948

Dearest Diary:

James drove the car around the chariot track today. The other girls watched him. He hugged me after and said the car’s engine purrs like a kitten.

July 2, 1948 (midnight)

Dearest Diary:

I’m purring too.

July 3, 1948

Dearest Diary:

Tomorrow night there will be fireworks on the beach. I’ll help set them up. Then I’ll look for James.

July 4, 1948

Diary:

I found him. With an Ares girl.

July 5, 1948

Diary:

The car exploded in the middle of the night. I told Chiron it was the Greek fire. I told James I’m not building another one.

July 8, 1948

Diary:

James visits the armory a lot these days.

July 10, 1948:

Diary:

I have a new project: Harmonia’s necklace.

The diary ended there.

I took a deep breath and looked at my friends. They were staring at me with rapt attention.

“Harmonia was the daughter of Ares and Aphrodite,” I told them. “As you probably know, Aphrodite was my dad’s wife. When Hephaestus found out about Harmonia…well, he wasn’t too happy with Aphrodite. He fashioned a cursed item.”

Valentina put her hand to her mouth. “He cursed my mom?”

“Not her—Harmonia. He made a beautiful cursed necklace and gave it to her on her wedding day. The rest of her life was basically misery. Same for anyone who wore the necklace after her.”

Butch frowned. “So what does Harmonia’s story have to do with Heloise and James?”

Valentina rolled her eyes. “You’re so thick! Heloise, daughter of Hephaestus, was in love with James, son of Aphrodite. Then she caught him with a daughter of Ares. The love triangle repeated.”

I nodded. “And then Heloise started working on a project called Harmonia’s necklace.”

“A curse for the boyfriend who jilted her,” Sherman said.

“Yeah.” I showed them a black-and-white photograph of a cute teenage boy in an old-fashioned Camp Half-Blood T-shirt, sitting next to a girl who looked like a younger version of Rosie the Riveter. “James and Heloise in 1948. And this is James in 1955.”

I pulled out a close-up of a twentysomething man with chiseled features and a sultry expression. “Anyone recognize him?”

Valentina’s jaw dropped. “It’s James Dean!”

“The sausage tycoon?” Butch asked.

“Not Jimmy Dean, you idiot. James Dean. The actor.” Valentina smoothed her hand over the photo. “He was a total hottie.”

“Hottie!” Paolo confirmed in a heavy Brazilian accent. “Rebel. Eden. Dead young.”

“Right,” I said. “James Dean rocketed to superstardom in 1955 with two movies, East of Eden and Rebel Without a Cause.”

“What did Paolo mean by ‘dead young’?” Connor asked.

I showed them a third photo of James. He was sitting in a sleek silver race car with the number 130 painted on the hood and sides. “This was taken around September twenty-second, 1955. Nice car, huh? It’s a Porsche 550 Spyder.” I laid down one last photo. “And this was taken on September thirtieth.”

They all gasped. The Spyder was a mangled wreck of twisted metal, identifiable only by the number 130.

“James and a friend were driving to Salinas, California, for a race,” I told them. “They stopped at a roadside store. The accident happened about half an hour later. James was killed in the crash.” I chewed my lip. “I think Heloise cursed the car when it was at the rest stop. She installed something, enchanted the chassis. I don’t know, exactly, but that was her secret project, code-named Harmonia’s necklace.”