The Helm of Darkness - A Percy Jackson and The Lightning Thief Fanfiction

9 - We Meet Spot: The Three-Headed Dog

We stood in the shadows of Valencia Boulevard, looking up at gold letters etched in black marble: DOA RECORDING STUDIOS.

Underneath, stencilled on the glass doors: NO SOLICITORS. NO LOITERING. NO LIVING. It was almost midnight, but the lobby was brightly lit and full of people. Behind the security desk sat a tough-looking guard with sunglasses and an earpiece.

Percy turned to us.

"Okay. You remember the plan."

"The plan," Grover gulped.

"Yeah. I love the plan." Annabeth said, "What happens if the plan doesn't work?"

"Don't think negative."

"Right," I laughed. "We're entering the Land of the Dead, and we shouldn't think negative. Ain't no way this is gonna work."

Percy took the pearls out of his pocket, the three milky spheres the Nereid had given him in Santa Monica. They didn't seem like much of a backup in case something went wrong. Annabeth put her hand on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Percy. You're right, we'll make it. It'll be fine."

She gave Grover a nudge.

"Oh, right!" he chimed in. "We got this far. We'll find the master bolt and save your mom. No problem."

She kicked my shin.

"Ow, what the hell are you talking about? You guys are fucking doomed," I stated.

"Gee thanks," Percy grumbled.

We walked inside the DOA lobby.

Muzak played softly on hidden speakers. The carpet and walls were steel grey. Pencil cactuses grew in the corners like skeleton hands. The furniture was black leather, and every seat was taken. There were people sitting on couches, people standing up, people staring out the windows or waiting for the elevator. Nobody moved, or talked, or did much of anything. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see them all just fine, but if I focused on any one of them in particular, they started looking ... transparent. I could see right through their bodies.

The security guard's desk was a raised podium, so we had to look up at him. He was tall and elegant, with chocolate-coloured skin and bleached-blond hair shaved military style. He wore tortoiseshell shades and a silk Italian suit that matched his hair.

A black rose was pinned to his lapel under a silver name tag. I smiled. It was Charon.

"Your name is Chiron?" Percy asked.

Oh fuck.

He leaned across the desk. I couldn't see anything in his glasses except my own reflection, but his smile was sweet and cold, like a python, right before it eats you.

"What a precious young lad." He had a British accent, but also as if he had learned English as a second language.

"Tell me, mate, do I look like a centaur?"

"N-no."

"Sir," he added smoothly.

"Sir," Percy said.

He pinched the name tag and ran his finger under the letters. "Can you read this, mate? It says C-H-A-RO-N. Say it with me: CARE-ON."

"Charon."

"Amazing! Now: Mr. Charon."

"Mr. Charon," Percy said.

"Well done." He sat back. "I hate being confused with that old horse-man. And now, how may I help you little dead ones?"