Leo’s intestines tied themselves into a slipknot. ‘How do you know that?’
‘I can foresee victories!’ Nike yelled. ‘You will have no success without death! Release me and fight each other! It is better you die here than face what is to come!’
Hazel stuck the point of her spatha under Nike’s chin. ‘Explain.’ Her voice was harder than Leo had ever heard. ‘Which of us will die? How do we stop it?’
‘Ah, child of Pluto! Your magic helped you cheat in this contest, but you cannot cheat destiny. One of you will die. One of you must die!’
‘No,’ Hazel insisted. ‘There’s another way. There is always another path.’
‘Hecate taught you this?’ Nike laughed. ‘You would hope for the physician’s cure, perhaps? But that is impossible. Too much stands in your way: the poison of Pylos, the chained god’s heartbeat in Sparta, the curse of Delos! No, you cannot cheat death.’
Frank knelt. He gathered up the net under Nike’s chin and raised her face to his. ‘What are you talking about? How do we find this cure?’
‘I will not help you,’ Nike growled. ‘I will curse you with my power, net or no!’
She began to mutter in Ancient Greek.
Frank looked up, scowling. ‘Can she really cast magic through this net?’
‘Heck if I know,’ Leo said.
Frank let go of the goddess. He took off one of his shoes, peeled off his sock and stuffed it in the goddess’s mouth.
‘Dude,’ Percy said, ‘that is disgusting.’
‘Mpppphhh!’ Nike complained. ‘Mppppphhh!’
‘Leo,’ Frank said grimly, ‘you got duct tape?’
‘Never leave home without it.’ He fished a roll from his tool belt, and in no time Frank had wrapped it around Nike’s head, securing the gag in her mouth.
‘Well, it’s not a laurel wreath,’ Frank said, ‘but it’s a new kind of victory circle: the gag of duct tape.’
‘Zhang,’ Leo said, ‘you got style.’
Nike thrashed and grunted until Percy nudged her with his toe. ‘Hey, shut up. You behave or we’ll get Arion back here and let him nibble your wings. He loves gold.’
Nike shrieked once, then became still and quiet.
‘So …’ Hazel sounded a little nervous. ‘We have one tied-up goddess. Now what?’
Frank folded his arms. ‘We go looking for this physician’s cure … whatever that is. Because, personally, I like cheating death.’
Leo grinned. ‘Poison in Pylos? A chained god’s heartbeat in Sparta? A curse in Delos? Oh, yeah. This is gonna be fun!’
XIII
Nico
THE LAST THING NICO HEARD was Coach Hedge grumbling, ‘Well, this isn’t good.’
He wondered what he’d done wrong this time. Maybe he’d teleported them into a den of Cyclopes, or a thousand feet above another volcano. There was nothing he could do about it. His vision was gone. His other senses were shutting down. His knees buckled and he passed out.
He tried to make the most of his unconsciousness.
Dreams and death were old friends of his. He knew how to navigate their dark borderland. He sent out his thoughts, searching for Thalia Grace.
He rushed past the usual fragments of painful memories – his mother smiling down at him, her face illuminated by the sunlight rippling off the Venetian Grand Canal; his sister Bianca laughing as she pulled him across the Mall in Washington, D.C., her green floppy hat shading her eyes and the splash of freckles across her nose. He saw Percy Jackson on a snowy cliff outside Westover Hall, shielding Nico and Bianca from the manticore as Nico clutched a Mythomagic figurine and whispered, I’m scared. He saw Minos, his old ghostly mentor, leading him through the Labyrinth. Minos’s smile was cold and cruel. Don’t worry, son of Hades. You will have your revenge.
Nico couldn’t stop the memories. They cluttered his dreams like the ghosts of Asphodel – an aimless, sorrowful mob pleading for attention. Save me, they seemed to whisper. Remember me. Help me. Comfort me.
He didn’t dare stop to dwell on them. They would only crush him with wants and regrets. The best he could do was to stay focused and push through.
I am the son of Hades, he thought. I go where I wish. The darkness is my birthright.
He forged ahead through a grey-and-black terrain, looking for the dreams of Thalia Grace, daughter of Zeus. Instead, the ground dissolved at his feet and he fell into a familiar backwater – the Hypnos cabin at Camp Half-Blood.
Buried under piles of feather comforters, snoring demigods nestled in their bunks. Above the mantel, a dark tree branch dripped milky water from the River Lethe into a bowl. A cheerful fire crackled in the fireplace. In front of it, in a leather armchair, dozed the head counsellor for Cabin Fifteen – a pot-bellied guy with unruly blond hair and a gentle bovine face.