The House of Hades(Heroes of Olympus, Book 4)

JASON



JASON HAD RIDDEN THE WIND MANY TIMES. Being the wind was not the same.

He felt out of control, his thoughts scattered, no boundaries between his body and the rest of the world. He wondered if this was how monsters felt when they were defeated – bursting into dust, helpless and formless.

Jason could sense Nico’s presence nearby. The West Wind carried them into the sky above Split. Together they raced over the hills, past Roman aqueducts, highways and vineyards. As they approached the mountains, Jason saw the ruins of a Roman town spread out in a valley below – crumbling walls, square foundations and cracked roads, all overgrown with grass – so it looked like a giant, mossy game board.

Favonius set them down in the middle of the ruins, next to a broken column the size of a redwood.

Jason’s body re-formed. For a moment it felt even worse than being the wind, like he’d suddenly been wrapped in a lead overcoat.

‘Yes, mortal bodies are terribly bulky,’ Favonius said, as if reading his thoughts. The wind god settled on a nearby wall with his basket of fruit and spread his russet wings in the sun. ‘Honestly, I don’t know how you stand it, day in and day out.’

Jason scanned their surroundings. The town must have been huge once. He could make out the shells of temples and bathhouses, a half-buried amphitheatre and empty pedestals that must have once held statues. Rows of columns marched off to nowhere. The old city walls weaved in and out of the hillside like stone thread through a green cloth.

Some areas looked like they’d been excavated, but most of the city just seemed abandoned, as if it had been left to the elements for the last two thousand years.

‘Welcome to Salona,’ Favonius said. ‘Capital of Dalmatia! Birthplace of Diocletian! But before that, long before that, it was the home of Cupid.’

The name echoed, as if voices were whispering it through the ruins.

Something about this place seemed even creepier than the palace basement in Split. Jason had never thought much about Cupid. He’d certainly never thought of Cupid as scary. Even for Roman demigods, the name conjured up an image of a silly winged baby with a toy bow and arrow, flying around in his diapers on Valentine’s Day.

‘Oh, he’s not like that,’ said Favonius.

Jason flinched. ‘You can read my mind?’

‘I don’t need to.’ Favonius tossed his bronze hoop in the air. ‘Everyone has the wrong impression of Cupid … until they meet him.’

Nico braced himself against a column, his legs trembling visibly.

‘Hey, man …’ Jason stepped towards him, but Nico waved him off.

At Nico’s feet, the grass turned brown and wilted. The dead patch spread outwards, as if poison were seeping from the soles of his shoes.

‘Ah …’ Favonius nodded sympathetically. ‘I don’t blame you for being nervous, Nico di Angelo. Do you know how I ended up serving Cupid?’

‘I don’t serve anyone,’ Nico muttered. ‘Especially not Cupid.’

Favonius continued as if he hadn’t heard. ‘I fell in love with a mortal named Hyacinthus. He was quite extraordinary.’

‘He …?’ Jason’s brain was still fuzzy from his wind trip, so it took him a second to process that. ‘Oh …’

‘Yes, Jason Grace.’ Favonius arched an eyebrow. ‘I fell in love with a dude. Does that shock you?’

Honestly, Jason wasn’t sure. He tried not to think about the details of godly love lives, no matter who they fell in love with. After all, his dad, Jupiter, wasn’t exactly a model of good behaviour. Compared to some of the Olympian love scandals he’d heard about, the West Wind falling in love with a mortal guy didn’t seem very shocking. ‘I guess not. So … Cupid struck you with his arrow, and you fell in love.’

Favonius snorted. ‘You make it sound so simple. Alas, love is never simple. You see, the god Apollo also liked Hyacinthus. He claimed they were just friends. I don’t know. But one day I came across them together, playing a game of quoits –’

There was that weird word again. ‘Quoits?’

‘A game with those hoops,’ Nico explained, though his voice was brittle. ‘Like horseshoes.’

‘Sort of,’ Favonius said. ‘At any rate, I was jealous. Instead of confronting them and finding out the truth, I shifted the wind and sent a heavy metal ring right at Hyacinthus’s head and … well.’ The wind god sighed. ‘As Hyacinthus died, Apollo turned him into a flower, the hyacinth. I’m sure Apollo would’ve taken horrible vengeance on me, but Cupid offered me his protection. I’d done a terrible thing, but I’d been driven mad by love, so he spared me, on the condition that I work for him forever.’

CUPID.

The name echoed through the ruins again.

‘That would be my cue.’ Favonius stood. ‘Think long and hard about how you proceed, Nico di Angelo. You cannot lie to Cupid. If you let your anger rule you … well, your fate will be even sadder than mine.’

Jason felt like his brain was turning back into wind. He didn’t understand what Favonius was talking about or why Nico seemed so shaken, but he had no time to think about it. The wind god disappeared in a swirl of red and gold. The summer air suddenly felt oppressive. The ground shook, and Jason and Nico drew their swords.

So.

The voice rushed past Jason’s ear like a bullet. When he turned, no one was there.

You come to claim the sceptre.

Nico stood at his back, and for once Jason was glad to have the guy’s company.

‘Cupid,’ Jason called, ‘where are you?’

The voice laughed. It definitely didn’t sound like a cute baby angel’s. It sounded deep and rich, but also threatening – like a tremor before a major earthquake.

Where you least expect me, Cupid answered. As Love always is.

Something slammed into Jason and hurled him across the street. He toppled down a set of steps and sprawled on the floor of an excavated Roman basement.

I would think you’d know better, Jason Grace. Cupid’s voice whirled around him. You’ve found true love, after all. Or do you still doubt yourself?

Nico scrambled down the steps. ‘You okay?’

Jason accepted his hand and got to his feet. ‘Yeah. Just sucker punched.’

Oh, did you expect me to play fair? Cupid laughed. I am the god of love. I am never fair.

This time, Jason’s senses were on high alert. He felt the air ripple just as an arrow materialized, racing towards Nico’s chest.

Jason intercepted it with his sword and deflected it sideways. The arrow exploded against the nearest wall, peppering them with limestone shrapnel.

They ran up the steps. Jason pulled Nico to one side as another gust of wind toppled a column that would have crushed him flat.

‘Is this guy Love or Death?’ Jason growled.

Ask your friends, Cupid said. Frank, Hazel and Percy met my counterpart, Thanatos. We are not so different. Except Death is sometimes kinder.

‘We just want the sceptre!’ Nico shouted. ‘We’re trying to stop Gaia. Are you on the gods’ side or not?’

A second arrow hit the ground between Nico’s feet and glowed white-hot. Nico stumbled back as the arrow burst into a geyser of flame.

Love is on every side, Cupid said. And no one’s side. Don’t ask what Love can do for you.

‘Great,’ Jason said. ‘Now he’s spouting greeting card messages.’

Movement behind him: Jason spun, slicing his sword through the air. His blade bit into something solid. He heard a grunt and he swung again, but the invisible god was gone. On the paving stones, a trail of golden ichor shimmered – the blood of the gods.

Very good, Jason, Cupid said. At least you can sense my presence. Even a glancing hit at true love is more than most heroes manage.

‘So now I get the sceptre?’ Jason asked.

Cupid laughed. Unfortunately, you could not wield it. Only a child of the Underworld can summon the dead legions. And only an officer of Rome can lead them.

‘But …’ Jason wavered. He was an officer. He was praetor. Then he remembered all his second thoughts about where he belonged. In New Rome, he’d offered to give up his position to Percy Jackson. Did that make him unworthy to lead a legion of Roman ghosts?

He decided to face that problem when the time came.

‘Just leave that to us,’ he said. ‘Nico can summon –’

The third arrow zipped by Jason’s shoulder. He couldn’t stop it in time. Nico gasped as it sank into his sword arm.

‘Nico!’

The son of Hades stumbled. The arrow dissolved, leaving no blood and no visible wound, but Nico’s face was tight with rage and pain.

‘Enough games!’ Nico shouted. ‘Show yourself!’

It is a costly thing, Cupid said, looking on the true face of Love.

Another column toppled. Jason scrambled out of its way.

My wife Psyche learned that lesson, Cupid said. She was brought here aeons ago, when this was the site of my palace. We met only in the dark. She was warned never to look upon me, and yet she could not stand the mystery. She feared I was a monster. One night, she lit a candle, and beheld my face as I slept.

‘Were you that ugly?’ Jason thought he had zeroed in on Cupid’s voice – at the edge of the amphitheatre about twenty yards away – but he wanted to make sure.

The god laughed. I was too handsome, I’m afraid. A mortal cannot gaze upon the true appearance of a god without suffering consequences. My mother, Aphrodite, cursed Psyche for her distrust. My poor lover was tormented, forced into exile, given horrible tasks to prove her worth. She was even sent to the Underworld on a quest to show her dedication. She earned her way back to my side, but she suffered greatly.

Now I’ve got you, Jason thought.

He thrust his sword in the sky and thunder shook the valley. Lightning blasted a crater where the voice had been speaking.

Silence. Jason was just thinking, Dang, it actually worked, when an invisible force knocked him to the ground. His sword skittered across the road.

A good try, Cupid said, his voice already distant. But Love cannot be pinned down so easily.

Next to him, a wall collapsed. Jason barely managed to roll aside.

‘Stop it!’ Nico yelled. ‘It’s me you want. Leave him alone!’

Jason’s ears rang. He was dizzy from getting smacked around. His mouth tasted like limestone dust. He didn’t understand why Nico would think of himself as the main target, but Cupid seemed to agree.

Poor Nico di Angelo. The god’s voice was tinged with disappointment. Do you know what you want, much less what I want? My beloved Psyche risked everything in the name of Love. It was the only way to atone for her lack of faith. And you – what have you risked in my name?

‘I’ve been to Tartarus and back,’ Nico snarled. ‘You don’t scare me.’

I scare you very, very much. Face me. Be honest.

Jason pulled himself up.

All around Nico, the ground shifted. The grass withered, and the stones cracked as if something was moving in the earth beneath, trying to push its way through.

‘Give us Diocletian’s sceptre,’ Nico said. ‘We don’t have time for games.’

Games? Cupid struck, slapping Nico sideways into a granite pedestal. Love is no game! It is no flowery softness! It is hard work – a quest that never ends. It demands everything from you – especially the truth. Only then does it yield rewards.

Jason retrieved his sword. If this invisible guy was Love, Jason was beginning to think Love was overrated. He liked Piper’s version better – considerate, kind and beautiful. Aphrodite he could understand. Cupid seemed more like a thug, an enforcer.

‘Nico,’ he called, ‘what does this guy want from you?’

Tell him, Nico di Angelo, Cupid said. Tell him you are a coward, afraid of yourself and your feelings. Tell him the real reason you ran from Camp Half-Blood, and why you are always alone.

Nico let loose a guttural scream. The ground at his feet split open and skeletons crawled forth – dead Romans with missing hands and caved-in skulls, cracked ribs and jaws unhinged. Some were dressed in the remnants of togas. Others had glinting pieces of armour hanging off their chests.

Will you hide among the dead, as you always do? Cupid taunted.

Waves of darkness rolled off the son of Hades. When they hit Jason, he almost lost consciousness – overwhelmed by hatred and fear and shame …

Images flashed through his mind. He saw Nico and his sister on a snowy cliff in Maine, Percy Jackson protecting them from a manticore. Percy’s sword gleamed in the dark. He’d been the first demigod Nico had ever seen in action.

Later, at Camp Half-Blood, Percy took Nico by the arm, promising to keep his sister Bianca safe. Nico had believed him. Nico had looked into his sea-green eyes and thought, How can he possibly fail? This is a real hero. He was Nico’s favourite game, Mythomagic, brought to life.

Jason saw the moment when Percy returned and told Nico that Bianca was dead. Nico had screamed and called him a liar. He’d felt betrayed, but still … when the skeleton warriors attacked, he couldn’t let them harm Percy. Nico had called on the earth to swallow them up, and then he’d run away – terrified of his own powers, and his own emotions.

Jason saw a dozen more scenes like this from Nico’s point of view … And they left him stunned, unable to move or speak.

Meanwhile, Nico’s Roman skeletons surged forward and grappled with something invisible. The god struggled, flinging the dead aside, breaking off ribs and skulls, but the skeletons kept coming, pinning the god’s arms.

Interesting! Cupid said. Do you have the strength, after all?

‘I left Camp Half-Blood because of love,’ Nico said. ‘Annabeth … she –’

Still hiding, Cupid said, smashing another skeleton to pieces. You do not have the strength.

‘Nico,’ Jason managed to say, ‘it’s okay. I get it.’

Nico glanced over, pain and misery washing across his face.

‘No, you don’t,’ he said. ‘There’s no way you can understand.’

And so you run away again, Cupid chided. From your friends, from yourself.

‘I don’t have friends!’ Nico yelled. ‘I left Camp Half-Blood because I don’t belong! I’ll never belong!’

The skeletons had Cupid pinned now, but the invisible god laughed so cruelly that Jason wanted to summon another bolt of lightning. Unfortunately, he doubted he had the strength.

‘Leave him alone, Cupid,’ Jason croaked. ‘This isn’t …’

His voice failed. He wanted to say it wasn’t Cupid’s business, but he realized this was exactly Cupid’s business. Something Favonius said kept buzzing in his ears: Are you shocked?

The story of Psyche finally made sense to him – why a mortal girl would be so afraid. Why she would risk breaking the rules to look the god of love in the face, because she feared he might be a monster.

Psyche had been right. Cupid was a monster. Love was the most savage monster of all.

Nico’s voice was like broken glass. ‘I – I wasn’t in love with Annabeth.’

‘You were jealous of her,’ Jason said. ‘That’s why you didn’t want to be around her. Especially why you didn’t want to be around … him. It makes total sense.’

All the fight and denial seemed to go out of Nico at once. The darkness subsided. The Roman dead collapsed into bones and crumbled to dust.

‘I hated myself,’ Nico said. ‘I hated Percy Jackson.’

Cupid became visible – a lean, muscular young man with snowy white wings, straight black hair, a simple white frock and jeans. The bow and quiver slung over his shoulder were no toys – they were weapons of war. His eyes were as red as blood, as if every valentine in the world had been squeezed dry, distilled into one poisonous mixture. His face was handsome, but also harsh – as difficult to look at as a spotlight. He watched Nico with satisfaction, as if he’d identified the exact spot for his next arrow to make a clean kill.

‘I had a crush on Percy,’ Nico spat. ‘That’s the truth. That’s the big secret.’

He glared at Cupid. ‘Happy now?’

For the first time, Cupid’s gaze seemed sympathetic. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say Love always makes you happy.’ His voice sounded smaller, much more human. ‘Sometimes it makes you incredibly sad. But at least you’ve faced it now. That’s the only way to conquer me.’

Cupid dissolved into the wind.

On the ground where he’d stood lay an ivory staff three feet long, topped with a dark globe of polished marble about the size of a baseball, nestled on the backs of three gold Roman eagles. The sceptre of Diocletian.

Nico knelt and picked it up. He regarded Jason, as if waiting for an attack. ‘If the others found out –’

‘If the others found out,’ Jason said, ‘you’d have that many more people to back you up and to unleash the fury of the gods on anybody who gives you trouble.’

Nico scowled. Jason still felt the resentment and anger rippling off him.

‘But it’s your call,’ Jason added. ‘Your decision to share or not. I can only tell you –’

‘I don’t feel that way any more,’ Nico muttered. ‘I mean … I gave up on Percy. I was young and impressionable, and I – I don’t …’

His voice cracked, and Jason could tell the guy was about to get teary-eyed. Whether Nico had really given up on Percy or not, Jason couldn’t imagine what it had been like for Nico all those years, keeping a secret that would’ve been unthinkable to share in the 1940s, denying who he was, feeling completely alone – even more isolated than other demigods.

‘Nico,’ he said gently, ‘I’ve seen a lot of brave things. But what you just did? That was maybe the bravest.’

Nico looked up uncertainly. ‘We should get back to the ship.’

‘Yeah. I can fly us –’

‘No,’ Nico announced. ‘This time we’re shadow-travelling. I’ve had enough of the winds for a while.’
XXXVII





ANNABETH



LOSING HER SIGHT HAD BEEN BAD ENOUGH. Being isolated from Percy had been horrible.

But now that she could see again, watching him die slowly from gorgon’s blood poison and being unable to do anything about it – that was the worst curse of all.

Bob slung Percy over his shoulder like a bag of sports equipment while the skeleton kitten Small Bob curled up on Percy’s back and purred. Bob lumbered along at a fast pace, even for a Titan, which made it almost impossible for Annabeth to keep up.

Her lungs rattled. Her skin had started to blister again. She probably needed another drink of firewater, but they’d left the River Phlegethon behind. Her body was so sore and battered that she’d forgotten what it was like not to be in pain.

‘How much longer?’ she wheezed.

‘Almost too long,’ Bob called back. ‘But maybe not.’

Very helpful, Annabeth thought, but she was too winded to say it.

The landscape changed again. They were still going downhill, which should have made travelling easier, but the ground sloped at just the wrong angle – too steep to jog, too treacherous to let her guard down even for a moment. The surface was sometimes loose gravel, sometimes patches of slime. Annabeth stepped around random bristles sharp enough to impale her foot, and clusters of … well, not rocks exactly. More like warts the size of watermelons. If Annabeth had to guess (and she didn’t want to) she supposed Bob was leading her down the length of Tartarus’s large intestine.

The air got thicker and stank of sewage. The darkness maybe wasn’t quite as intense, but she could only see Bob because of the glint of his white hair and the point of his spear. She noticed he hadn’t retracted the spearhead on his broom since their fight with the arai. That didn’t reassure her.

Percy flopped around, causing the kitten to readjust his nest in the small of Percy’s back. Occasionally Percy would groan in pain, and Annabeth felt like a fist was squeezing her heart.

She flashed back to her tea party with Piper, Hazel and Aphrodite in Charleston. Gods, that seemed so long ago. Aphrodite had sighed and waxed nostalgic about the good old days of the Civil War – how love and war always went hand in hand.

Aphrodite had gestured proudly to Annabeth, using her as an example for the other girls: I once promised to make her love life interesting. And didn’t I?

Annabeth had wanted to throttle the goddess of love. She’d had more than her share of interesting. Now Annabeth was holding out for a happy ending. Surely that was possible, no matter what the legends said about tragic heroes. There had to be exceptions, right? If suffering led to reward, then Percy and she deserved the grand prize.

She thought about Percy’s daydream of New Rome – the two of them settling down there, going to college together. At first, the idea of living among the Romans had appalled her. She had resented them for taking Percy away from her.

Now she would accept that offer gladly.

If only they survived this. If only Reyna had got her message. If only a million other long shots paid off.

Stop it, she chided herself.

She had to concentrate on the present, putting one foot in front of the other, taking this downhill intestinal hike one giant wart at a time.

Her knees felt warm and wobbly, like wire hangers bent to the point of snapping. Percy groaned and muttered something she couldn’t make out.

Bob stopped suddenly. ‘Look.’

Ahead in the gloom, the terrain levelled out into a black swamp. Sulphur-yellow mist hung in the air. Even without sunlight, there were actual plants – clumps of reeds, scrawny leafless trees, even a few sickly-looking flowers blooming in the muck. Mossy trails wound between bubbling tar pits. Directly in front of Annabeth, sunk into the bog, were footprints the size of trashcan lids, with long, pointed toes.

Sadly, Annabeth was pretty sure she knew what had made them. ‘Drakon?’

‘Yes.’ Bob grinned at her. ‘That is good!’

‘Uh … why?’

‘Because we are close.’

Bob marched into the swamp.

Annabeth wanted to scream. She hated being at the mercy of a Titan – especially one who was slowly recovering his memory and bringing them to see a ‘good’ giant. She hated forging through a swamp that was obviously the stomping ground of a drakon.

But Bob had Percy. If she hesitated, she would lose them in the dark. She hurried after him, hopping from moss patch to moss patch and praying to Athena that she didn’t fall in a sinkhole.

At least the terrain forced Bob to go more slowly. Once Annabeth caught up, she could walk right behind him and keep an eye on Percy, who was muttering deliriously, his forehead dangerously hot. Several times he mumbled Annabeth and she fought back a sob. The kitten just purred louder and snuggled up.

Finally the yellow mist parted, revealing a muddy clearing like an island in the muck. The ground was dotted with stunted trees and wart mounds. In the centre loomed a large, domed hut made of bones and greenish leather. Smoke rose from a hole in the top. The entrance was covered with curtains of scaly reptile skin and, flanking the entrance, two torches made from colossal femur bones burned bright yellow.

What really caught Annabeth’s attention was the drakon skull. Fifty yards into the clearing, about halfway to the hut, a massive oak tree jutted from the ground at a forty-five-degree angle. The jaws of a drakon skull encircled the trunk, as if the oak tree were the dead monster’s tongue.

‘Yes,’ Bob murmured. ‘This is very good.’

Nothing about this place felt good to Annabeth.

Before she could protest, Small Bob arched his back and hissed. Behind them, a mighty roar echoed through the swamp – a sound Annabeth had last heard in the Battle of Manhattan.

She turned and saw the drakon charging towards them.
XXXVIII





ANNABETH



THE MOST INSULTING PART?

The drakon was easily the most beautiful thing Annabeth had seen since she had fallen into Tartarus. Its hide was dappled green and yellow, like sunlight through a forest canopy. Its reptilian eyes were Annabeth’s favourite shade of sea green (just like Percy’s). When its frills unfurled around its head, Annabeth couldn’t help but think what a regal and amazing monster it was that was about to kill her.

It was easily as long as a subway train. Its massive talons dug into the mud as it pulled itself forward, its tail whipping from side to side. The drakon hissed, spitting jets of green poison that smoked on the mossy ground and set tar pits on fire, filling the air with the scent of fresh pine and ginger. The monster even smelled good. Like most drakons, it was wingless, longer and more snake-like than a dragon, and it looked hungry.

‘Bob,’ Annabeth said, ‘what are we facing here?’

‘Maeonian drakon,’ Bob said. ‘From Maeonia.’

More helpful information. Annabeth would’ve smacked Bob upside the head with his own broom if she could lift it. ‘Any way we can kill it?’

‘Us?’ Bob said. ‘No.’

The drakon roared as if to accentuate the point, filling the air with more pine-ginger poison, which would have made an excellent car-freshener scent. ‘Get Percy to safety,’ Annabeth said. ‘I’ll distract it.’

She had no idea how she would do that, but it was her only choice. She couldn’t let Percy die – not if she still had the strength to stand.

‘You don’t have to,’ Bob said. ‘Any minute –’

‘ROOOOOAAAR!’

Annabeth turned as the giant emerged from his hut.

He was about twenty feet tall – typical giant height – with a humanoid upper body and scaly reptilian legs, like a bipedal dinosaur. He held no weapon. Instead of armour, he wore only a shirt stitched together from sheep hides and green-spotted leather. His skin was cherry-red; his beard and hair the colour of iron rust, braided with tufts of grass, leaves and swamp flowers.

He shouted in challenge, but thankfully he wasn’t looking at Annabeth. Bob pulled her out of the way as the giant stormed towards the drakon.

They clashed like some sort of weird Christmas combat scene – the red versus the green. The drakon spewed poison. The giant lunged to one side. He grabbed the oak tree and pulled it from the ground, roots and all. The old skull crumbled to dust as the giant hefted the tree like a baseball bat.

The drakon’s tail lashed around the giant’s waist, dragging him closer to its gnashing teeth. But as soon as the giant was in range he shoved the tree straight down the monster’s throat.

Annabeth hoped she never had to see such a gruesome scene again. The tree pierced the drakon’s gullet and impaled it on the ground. The roots began to move, digging deeper as they touched the earth, anchoring the oak until it looked like it had stood in that spot for centuries. The drakon shook and thrashed, but it was pinned fast.

The giant brought his fist down on the drakon’s neck. CRACK.The monster went limp. It began to dissolve, leaving only scraps of bone, meat, hide and a new drakon skull whose open jaws ringed the oak tree.

Bob grunted. ‘Good one.’

The kitten purred in agreement and started cleaning his paws.

The giant kicked at the drakon’s remains, examining them critically. ‘No good bones,’ he complained. ‘I wanted a new walking stick. Hmpf. Some good skin for the outhouse, though.’

He ripped some soft hide from the dragon’s frills and tucked it in his belt.

‘Uh …’ Annabeth wanted to ask if the giant really used drakon hide for toilet paper, but she decided against it. ‘Bob, do you want to introduce us?’

‘Annabeth …’ Bob patted Percy’s legs. ‘This is Percy.’

Annabeth hoped the Titan was just messing with her, though Bob’s face revealed nothing.

She gritted her teeth. ‘I meant the giant. You promised he could help.’

‘Promise?’ The giant glanced over from his work. His eyes narrowed under his bushy red brows. ‘A big thing, a promise. Why would Bob promise my help?’

Bob shifted his weight. Titans were scary, but Annabeth had never seen one next to a giant before. Compared to the drakon-killer, Bob looked downright runty.

‘Damasen is a good giant,’ Bob said. ‘He is peaceful. He can cure poisons.’

Annabeth watched the giant Damasen, who was now ripping chunks of bloody meat from the drakon carcass with his bare hands.

‘Peaceful,’ she said. ‘Yes, I can see that.’

‘Good meat for dinner.’ Damasen stood up straight and studied Annabeth, as if she were another potential source of protein. ‘Come inside. We will have stew. Then we will see about this promise.’
XXXIX





ANNABETH



COSY.

Annabeth never thought she would describe anything in Tartarus that way, but, despite the fact that the giant’s hut was as big as a planetarium and constructed of bones, mud and drakon skin, it definitely felt cosy.

In the centre blazed a bonfire made of pitch and bone; yet the smoke was white and odourless, rising through the hole in the middle of the ceiling. The floor was covered with dry marsh grass and grey wool rugs. At one end lay a massive bed of sheepskins and drakon leather. At the other end, freestanding racks were hung with drying plants, cured leather and what looked like strips of drakon jerky. The whole place smelled of stew, smoke, basil and thyme.

The only thing that worried Annabeth was the flock of sheep huddled in a pen at the back of the hut.

Annabeth remembered the cave of Polyphemus the Cyclops, who ate demigods and sheep indiscriminately. She wondered if giants had similar tastes.

Part of her was tempted to run, but Bob had already placed Percy in the giant’s bed, where he nearly disappeared in the wool and leather. Small Bob hopped off Percy and kneaded the blankets, purring so strongly the bed rattled like a Thousand Finger Massage.

Damasen plodded to the bonfire. He tossed his drakon meat into a hanging pot that seemed to be made from an old monster skull, then picked up a ladle and began to stir.

Annabeth didn’t want to be the next ingredient in his stew, but she’d come here for a reason. She took a deep breath and marched up to Damasen. ‘My friend is dying. Can you cure him or not?’

Her voice caught on the word friend. Percy was a lot more than that. Even boyfriend really didn’t cover it. They’d been through so much together, at this point Percy was part of her – a sometimes annoying part, sure, but definitely a part she could not live without.

Damasen looked down at her, glowering under his bushy red eyebrows. Annabeth had met large scary humanoids before, but Damasen unsettled her in a different way. He didn’t seem hostile. He radiated sorrow and bitterness, as if he were so wrapped up in his own misery that he resented Annabeth for trying to make him focus on anything else.

‘I don’t hear words like those in Tartarus,’ the giant grumbled. ‘Friend. Promise.’

Annabeth crossed her arms. ‘How about gorgon’s blood? Can you cure that, or did Bob overstate your talents?’

Angering a twenty-foot-tall drakon-slayer probably wasn’t a wise strategy, but Percy was dying. She didn’t have time for diplomacy.

Damasen scowled at her. ‘You question my talents? A half-dead mortal straggles into my swamp and questions my talents?’

‘Yep,’ she said.

‘Hmph.’ Damasen handed Bob the ladle. ‘Stir.’

As Bob tended the stew, Damasen perused his drying racks, plucking various leaves and roots. He popped a fistful of plant material into his mouth, chewed it up then spat it into a clump of wool.

‘Cup of broth,’ Damasen ordered.

Bob ladled some stew juice into a hollow gourd. He handed it to Damasen, who dunked the chewed-up gunk ball and stirred it with his finger.

‘Gorgon’s blood,’ he muttered. ‘Hardly a challenge for my talents.’

He lumbered to the bedside and propped up Percy with one hand. Small Bob the kitten sniffed the broth and hissed. He scratched the sheets with his paws like he wanted to bury it.

‘You’re going to feed him that?’ Annabeth asked.

The giant glared at her. ‘Who is the healer here? You?’

Annabeth shut her mouth. She watched as the giant made Percy sip the broth. Damasen handled him with surprising gentleness, murmuring words of encouragement that she couldn’t quite catch.

With each sip, Percy’s colour improved. He drained the cup, and his eyes fluttered open. He looked around with a dazed expression, spotted Annabeth and gave her a drunken grin. ‘Feel great.’

His eyes rolled up in his head. He fell back in the bed and began to snore.

‘A few hours of sleep,’ Damasen pronounced. ‘He’ll be good as new.’

Annabeth sobbed with relief.

‘Thank you,’ she said.

Damasen stared at her mournfully. ‘Oh, don’t thank me. You’re still doomed. And I require payment for my services.’

Annabeth mouth went dry. ‘Uh … what sort of payment?’

‘A story.’ The giant’s eyes glittered. ‘It gets boring in Tartarus. You can tell me your story while we eat, eh?’

Annabeth felt uneasy telling a giant about their plans.

Still, Damasen was a good host. He’d saved Percy. His drakon-meat stew was excellent (especially compared to firewater). His hut was warm and comfortable, and for the first time since plunging into Tartarus Annabeth felt like she could relax. Which was ironic, since she was having dinner with a Titan and a giant.

She told Damasen about her life and her adventures with Percy. She explained how Percy had met Bob, wiped his memory in the River Lethe and left him in the care of Hades.

‘Percy was trying to do something good,’ she promised Bob. ‘He didn’t know Hades would be such a creep.’

Even to her, it didn’t sound convincing. Hades was always a creep.

She thought about what the arai had said – how Nico di Angelo had been the only person to visit Bob in the palace of the Underworld. Nico was one of the least outgoing, least friendly demigods Annabeth knew. Yet he’d been kind to Bob. By convincing Bob that Percy was a friend, Nico had inadvertently saved their lives. Annabeth wondered if she would ever figure that guy out.

Bob washed his bowl with his squirt bottle and rag.

Damasen made a rolling gesture with his spoon. ‘Continue your story, Annabeth Chase.’

She explained about their quest in the Argo II. When she got to the part about stopping Gaia from waking, she faltered. ‘She’s, um … she’s your mom, right?’

Damasen scraped his bowl. His face was covered with old poison burns, gouges and scar tissue, so it looked like the surface of an asteroid.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘And Tartarus is my father.’ He gestured around the hut. ‘As you can see, I was a disappointment to my parents. They expected … more from me.’

Annabeth couldn’t quite wrap her mind around the fact that she was sharing soup with a twenty-foot-tall lizard-legged man whose parents were Earth and the Pit of Darkness.

Olympian gods were hard enough to imagine as parents, but at least they resembled humans. The old primordial gods like Gaia and Tartarus … How could you leave home and ever be independent of your parents, when they literally encompassed the entire world?

‘So …’ she said. ‘You don’t mind us fighting your mom?’

Damasen snorted like a bull. ‘Best of luck. At present, it’s my father you should worry about. With him opposing you, you have no chance to survive.’

Suddenly Annabeth didn’t feel so hungry. She put her bowl on the floor. Small Bob came over the check it out.

‘Opposing us how?’ she asked.

‘All of this.’ Damasen cracked a drakon bone and used a splinter as a toothpick. ‘All that you see is the body of Tartarus, or at least one manifestation of it. He knows you are here. He tries to thwart your progress at every step. My brethren hunt you. It is remarkable you have lived this long, even with the help of Iapetus.’

Bob scowled when he heard his name. ‘The defeated ones hunt us, yes. They will be close behind now.’

Damasen spat out his toothpick. ‘I can obscure your path for a while, long enough for you to rest. I have power in this swamp. But eventually they will catch you.’

‘My friends must reach the Doors of Death,’ Bob said. ‘That is the way out.’

‘Impossible,’ Damasen muttered. ‘The Doors are too well guarded.’

Annabeth sat forward. ‘But you know where they are?’

‘Of course. All of Tartarus flows down to one place: his heart. The Doors of Death are there. But you cannot make it there alive with only Iapetus.’

‘Then come with us,’ Annabeth said. ‘Help us.’

‘HA!’

Annabeth jumped. In the bed, Percy muttered deliriously in his sleep, ‘Ha, ha, ha.’

‘Child of Athena,’ the giant said, ‘I am not your friend. I helped mortals once, and you see where it got me.’

‘You helped mortals?’ Annabeth knew a lot about Greek legends, but she drew a total blank on the name Damasen. ‘I – I don’t understand.’

‘Bad story,’ Bob explained. ‘Good giants have bad stories. Damasen was created to oppose Ares.’

‘Yes,’ the giant agreed. ‘Like all my brethren, I was born to answer a certain god. My foe was Ares. But Ares was the god of war. And so when I was born –’

‘You were his opposite,’ Annabeth guessed. ‘You were peaceful.’

‘Peaceful for a giant, at least.’ Damasen sighed. ‘I wandered the fields of Maeonia, in the land you now call Turkey. I tended my sheep and collected my herbs. It was a good life. But I would not fight the gods. My mother and father cursed me for that. The final insult: one day the Maeonian drakon killed a human shepherd, a friend of mine, so I hunted the creature down and slew it, thrusting a tree straight through its mouth. I used the power of the earth to regrow the tree’s roots, planting the drakon firmly in the ground. I made sure it would terrorize mortals no more. That was a deed Gaia could not forgive.’

‘Because you helped someone?’

‘Yes.’ Damasen looked ashamed. ‘Gaia opened the earth, and I was consumed, exiled here in the belly of my father Tartarus, where all the useless flotsam collects – all the bits of creation he does not care for.’ The giant plucked a flower out of his hair and regarded it absently. ‘They let me live, tending my sheep, collecting my herbs, so I might know the uselessness of the life I chose. Every day – or what passes for day in this lightless place – the Maeonian drakon re-forms and attacks me. Killing it is my endless task.’

Annabeth gazed around the hut, trying to imagine how many aeons Damasen had been exiled here – slaying the drakon, collecting its bones and hide and meat, knowing it would attack again the next day. She could barely imagine surviving a week in Tartarus. Exiling your own son here for centuries – that was beyond cruel.

‘Break the curse,’ she blurted out. ‘Come with us.’

Damasen chuckled sourly. ‘As simple as that. Don’t you think I have tried to leave this place? It is impossible. No matter which direction I travel, I end up here again. The swamp is the only thing I know – the only destination I can imagine. No, little demigod. My curse has overtaken me. I have no hope left.’

‘No hope,’ Bob echoed.

‘There must be a way.’ Annabeth couldn’t stand the expression on the giant’s face. It reminded her of her own father, the few times he’d confessed to her that he still loved Athena. He had looked so sad and defeated, wishing for something he knew was impossible.

‘Bob has a plan to reach the Doors of Death,’ she insisted. ‘He said we could hide in some sort of Death Mist.’

‘Death Mist?’ Damasen scowled at Bob. ‘You would take them to Akhlys?’

‘It is the only way,’ Bob said.

‘You will die,’ Damasen said. ‘Painfully. In darkness. Akhlys trusts no one and helps no one.’

Bob looked like he wanted to argue, but he pressed his lips together and remained silent.

‘Is there another way?’ Annabeth asked.

‘No,’ Damasen said. ‘The Death Mist … that is the best plan. Unfortunately, it is a terrible plan.’

Annabeth felt like she was hanging over the pit again, unable to pull herself up, unable to maintain her grip – left with no good options.

‘But isn’t it worth trying?’ she asked. ‘You could return to the mortal world. You could see the sun again.’

Damasen’s eyes were like the sockets of the drakon’s skull – dark and hollow, devoid of hope. He flicked a broken bone into the fire and rose to his full height – a massive red warrior in sheepskin and drakon leather, with dried flowers and herbs in his hair. Annabeth could see how he was the anti-Ares. Ares was the worst god, blustery and violent. Damasen was the best giant, kind and helpful … and for that he’d been cursed to eternal torment.

‘Get some sleep,’ the giant said. ‘I will prepare supplies for your journey. I am sorry, but I cannot do more.’

Annabeth wanted to argue, but, as soon as he said sleep, her body betrayed her, despite her resolution never to sleep in Tartarus again. Her belly was full. The fire made a pleasant crackling sound. The herbs in the air reminded her of the hills around Camp Half-Blood in the summer, when the satyrs and naiads gathered wild plants in the lazy afternoons.

‘Maybe a little sleep,’ she agreed.

Bob scooped her up like a rag doll. She didn’t protest. He set her next to Percy on the giant’s bed, and she closed her eyes.
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