'•' The Lightning Thief '•'

18 :: Dog 3x

Published: August 18, 2021
Edited: July 17, 2022
~✰~

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

Underneath, stenciled 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. I turned to my friends. 

"Okay. You remember the plan." 

"The plan," Grover gulped. "Yeah. I love the plan." 

Annabeth twirled her hair nervously, "What happens if the plan doesn't work?" 

"Don't think negative." Percy demanded. 

"Right," she deadpanned. "We're entering the Land of the Dead, and I shouldn't think negative."

I took the pearls out of my pocket, the four milky spheres the Nereid had given me in Santa Monica. They didn't seem like much of a backup in case something went wrong. Annabeth put her hand on my shoulder and faced my brother. 

"I'm sorry, Percy. You're right, we'll make it. It'll be fine." She gave Grover a sharp nudge. 

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

I looked at them both, and felt really grateful. Only a few minutes before, We'd almost gotten stretched to death on deluxe water beds, and now they were trying to be brave for our sake, trying to make us feel better. I slipped the pearls back in my pocket. 

"Let's whup some Underworld butt." 

We walked inside the DOA lobby. Muzak played softly on hidden speakers. The carpet and walls were steel gray. 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-colored 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 read the name tag, then looked at him in bewilderment. 

"Your name is Chiron?" I blurted out. 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's, right before it eats you. 

"What a precious young lady." He had a strange accent—British, maybe, but also as if he had learned English as a second language. "Tell me, pretty, do I look like a centaur?" 

"N-no." 

"Sir," he added smoothly. 

"Sir," I said. He pinched the name tag and ran his finger under the letters. 

"Can you read this, mate? It says C-H-A-R-O-N. Say it with me: CARE-ON." 

"Charon." 

"Amazing! Now: Mr. Charon."