The Blood of Olympus(73)

They sank so deep that Jason couldn’t see anything except Percy swimming next to him in the dim light of their gold and bronze blades.

Every so often the green searchlight shot upward. Percy swam straight towards it. Jason’s ventus crackled and roared, straining to escape. The smell of ozone made him lightheaded, but he kept his shell of air intact.

At last, the darkness lessened below them. Soft white luminous patches, like schools of jellyfish, floated before Jason’s eyes. As he approached the seafloor, he realized the patches were glowing fields of algae surrounding the ruins of a palace. Silt swirled through empty courtyards with abalone floors. Barnacle-covered Greek columns marched into the gloom. In the centre of the complex rose a citadel larger than Grand Central Station, its walls encrusted with pearls, its domed golden roof cracked open like an egg.

‘Atlantis?’ Jason asked.

‘That’s a myth,’ Percy said.

‘Uh … don’t we deal in myths?’

‘No, I mean it’s a made-up myth. Not, like, an actual true myth.’

‘So this is why Annabeth is the brains of the operation, then?’

‘Shut up, Grace.’

They floated through the broken dome and down into shadows.

‘This place seems familiar.’ Percy’s voice became edgy. ‘Almost like I’ve been here –’

The green spotlight flashed directly below them, blinding Jason.

He dropped like a stone, touching down on the smooth marble floor. When his vision cleared, he saw that they weren’t alone.

Standing before them was a twenty-foot-tall woman in a flowing green dress, cinched at the waist with a belt of abalone shells. Her skin was as luminous white as the fields of algae. Her hair swayed and glowed like jellyfish tendrils.

Her face was beautiful but unearthly – her eyes too bright, her features too delicate, her smile too cold, as if she’d been studying human smiles and hadn’t quite mastered the art.

Her hands rested on a disc of polished green metal about six feet in diameter, sitting on a bronze tripod. It reminded Jason of a steel drum he’d once seen a street performer play at the Embarcadero in San Francisco.

The woman turned the metal disc like a steering wheel. A shaft of green light shot upward, churning the water, shaking the walls of the old palace. Shards from the domed ceiling broke and tumbled down in slow motion.

‘You’re making the storm,’ Jason said.

‘Indeed I am.’ The woman’s voice was melodic – yet it had a strange resonance, as if it extended past the human range of hearing. Pressure built between Jason’s eyes. His sinuses felt like they might explode.

‘Okay, I’ll bite,’ Percy said. ‘Who are you, and what do you want?’

The woman turned towards him. ‘Why, I am your sister, Perseus Jackson. And I wanted to meet you before you die.’





XXVI


Jason


JASON SAW TWO OPTIONS: FIGHT OR TALK.

Usually, when faced with a creepy twenty-foot-tall lady with jellyfish hair, he would’ve gone with fight.

But since she called Percy brother – that made him hesitate.

‘Percy, do you know this … individual?’

Percy shook his head. ‘Doesn’t look like my mom, so I’m gonna guess we’re related on the godly side. You a daughter of Poseidon, Miss … uh … ?’

The pale lady raked her fingernails against the metal disc, making a screeching sound like a tortured whale. ‘No one knows me,’ she sighed. ‘Why would I assume my own brother would recognize me? I am Kymopoleia!’

Percy and Jason exchanged looks.

‘So …’ Percy said. ‘We’re going to call you Kym. And you’d be a, hmm, Nereid, then? Minor goddess?’

‘Minor?’

‘By which,’ Jason said quickly, ‘he means under the drinking age! Because obviously you’re so young and beautiful.’

Percy flashed him a look: Nice save.

The goddess turned her full attention to Jason. She pointed her index finger and traced his outline in the water. Jason could feel his captured air spirit rippling around him, as if it were being tickled.

‘Jason Grace,’ said the goddess. ‘Son of Jupiter.’

‘Yeah. I’m a friend of Percy’s.’

Kym’s narrowed. ‘So it’s true … these times make for strange friends and unexpected enemies. The Romans never worshipped me. To them, I was a nameless fear – a sign of Neptune’s greatest wrath. They never worshipped Kymopoleia, the goddess of violent sea storms!’

She spun her disc. Another beam of green light flashed upward, churning the water and making the ruins rumble.

‘Uh, yeah,’ Percy said. ‘The Romans aren’t big on navies. They had, like, one rowboat. Which I sank. Speaking of violent storms, you’re doing a first-rate job upstairs.’