The Son of Neptune: Chapters 28–39

He did have a plan. Of course, the plan could backfire. His chance of survival might be a hundred percent—or zero.

Okay, Gaea, he said. I’m calling your bluff. You say I’m a valuable pawn. You say you've got plans for me, and you’re going to spare me until I make it north. Who’s more valuable to you—me, or this old man? Because one of us is about to die.

She had always felt protective of him because of his clumsiness and his knack for getting into trouble.

“She is guilty of aiding and abetting an enemy of the gods.”

Both souls will be consigned to the Fields of Asphodel.

She crouched in the stern, preening her wing feathers with her teeth, which didn’t look like a very effective form of personal hygiene.

In the middle of the room stood a young woman in a black pantsuit, with long auburn hair and a security guard’s earpiece.

Finally they emerged in a cavern so big it could have accommodated ten high schools, sports fields and all.

The only humans Hazel could see were some black-suited security women patrolling the catwalks, and some men in orange jumpsuits, like prison uniforms, driving forklifts through the aisles, delivering more pallets of boxes.

Hylla was in her twenties, lithe and lean as a tiger.

One was taller and older than the rest, with plaited silver hair and fine silk robes like a Roman matron. The other Amazons made way for her, treating her with such respect that Hazel wondered if she was Hylla’s mother—until she noticed how Hylla and the older woman stared daggers at each other.

Or have your years in the Underworld muddled your memory, Otrera?

“I may not be queen for much longer.”
“You will prevail!” Kinzie insisted.

They are often mistaken for Amazons, but the Hunters forsake the company of men in exchange for almost endless life.

If I could, I would rally our troops and ride to my sister’s aid. Unfortunately, my power is tenuous. When I am killed in combat—and it’s only a matter of time—Otrera will be queen.

“Take our prisoner to the cells and hand her over to Otrera’s guards. And, Kinzie, be sure you leave before anything unfortunate happens. I don’t want my loyal followers held accountable for a prison break."

When they got to the bottom of the ladder, they found a scene that looked like Mardi Gras Armageddon—Amazons trapped up to their necks in bead necklaces, several more upside down in a mountain of amethyst earrings, and a battle forklift buried in silver charm bracelets.

Otrera herself stood astride a battle forklift, her silver hair flowing as she swung her mounted crossbow toward the chariot.

Frank leaned against a tree, trying to control his vertigo.

He straightened and looked around, trying to get his bearings.
To the south, across Vancouver Harbor, the downtown skyline gleamed red in the sunset.

Okay, Gray. Your orders: attack that group of ogres. Lead them off to the west, causing a diversion so we can—

Children of Mars were all about violence. Mars’s symbol was a bloody spear for good reason. Why shouldn’t Hazel be appalled?

None of his things had been touched—his extra bow and quiver (he’d have to grab those later), his spelling awards from school (yeah, he probably was the only non-dyslexic spelling champion demigod in the world, as if he weren’t enough of a freak already), and his photos of his mom—in her flak jacket and helmet, sitting on a Humvee in Kandahar Province; in her soccer coach uniform, the season she’d coached Frank’s team; in her military dress uniform...

Grandmother lay in bed, looking gaunt and frail, her white hair spread around her face like a basilisk’s crown.

At her bedside sat a large man in beige Canadian Forces fatigues.

The god looked up impassively. “Hey, kid. Come on in. Tell your friends to take a hike.”

Nobody welcomes war—not if they’re smart. But war finds everyone sooner or later. It’s inevitable.

“Not your girlfriend?” Grandmother guessed. “Well, she should be, you dolt! Don’t let her get away. You need strong women in your life, if you haven’t noticed. Now, to business.”

Frank ate while Grandmother gave him a sort of military briefing.

Poseidon must have been feeling especially generous when he blessed our ancestor—or especially spiteful. The gift has often proven a curse.

She stopped and scratched her disheveled red hair.

The cheering turned to catcalls.

Swaths of Lynn Canyon Park were on fire.

But a son of Neptune (Poseidon, whatever) didn’t belong in the air. Every time the plane hit a spot of turbulence, Percy’s heart raced, and he was sure Jupiter was slapping them around.

None of the giants paid them any attention. One stood right at the intersection of Northern Lights Road, straddling the highway, and they drove between his legs.

It was bustling with people, but they scored a table at the window and perused the menus.

The ocean here felt different—still powerful, but freezing, slow, and primal. No gods controlled that water, at least no gods Percy knew.

They passed forests buried in snowdrifts, big artillery guns (to set off small avalanches and prevent uncontrolled ones, Hazel explained), and lakes so clear, they reflected the mountains like mirrors, so the world looked upside down.

Part of him was relieved. He didn’t like the skeleton warrior. Part of him was disappointed, because that was one less weapon they had at their disposal.

“Guys,” Frank said nervously, “I see legion relics in this nest.”
“I know,” Percy said.
“That means other demigods died here, or—”