This Cold Year ― Percy Jackson & Annabeth Chase²

―viii. nico di angelo and the defiant soldier

NICO THOUGHT HE WAS PREPARED.

He wasn't. 

Even after three days of rest and the wondrous healing properties of Coach Hedge's gooey brown gunk, Nico started to dissolve the moment he shadow-jumped. 

His limbs turned into vapor. Cold seeped into his chest. Voices of spirits whispered in his ears: Help us. Remember us. Join us.

He hadn't realized how much he had relied on Reyna. Without her strength, he felt as weak as a newborn colt, wobbling dangerously, ready to fall at every step.

No, he told himself. I am Nico di Angelo, son of Hades. I control the shadows. They do not control me.

He stumbled back into the mortal world at the crest of Half-Blood Hill.

He fell to his knees, hugging Thalia's pine tree for support. The Golden Fleece was no longer in its branches. The guardian dragon was gone. Perhaps they'd been moved to a safer spot with the battle so close. Nico wasn't sure. But, looking down at the Roman forces arrayed outside the valley, his spirits wavered.

The nearest onager was a hundred yards downhill, encircled in spiked trenches and guarded by a dozen demigods. The machine was primed, ready to fire. Its huge sling cupped a projectile the size of a Honda Civic, glowing with flecks of gold.

With icy certainty, Nico realized what Octavian was up to. The projectile was a mixture of incendiaries and Imperial gold. Even a small amount of Imperial gold could be incredibly volatile. Exposed to too much heat or pressure, the stuff would explode with devastating impact, and of course it was deadly to demigods as well as monsters. If that onager scored a hit on Camp Half-Blood, anything in the blast zone would be annihilated—vaporized by the heat, or disintegrated by the shrapnel. And the Romans had six onagers, all stocked with piles of ammunition.

"Evil," Nico said. "This is evil."

He tried to think. Dawn was breaking. He couldn't possibly take down all six weapons before the attack began, even if he found the strength to shadow-travel that many times. If he managed it once more, it would be a miracle.

He spotted the Roman command tent—behind and to the left of the legion. Octavian would probably be there, enjoying breakfast at a safe distance from the fighting. He wouldn't lead his troops into battle. The little scumbag would hope to destroy the Greek camp from a distance, wait for the flames to die down, then march in unopposed.

Nico's throat constricted with hate. He concentrated on that tent, envisioning his next jump. If he could assassinate Octavian, that might solve the problem. The order to attack might never be given.

Nico was about to attempt it when a voice behind him said, "Nico?"

He spun, his sword instantly in his hand, and almost decapitated Will Solace.

"Put that down!" Will hissed. "What are you doing here?"

Nico was dumbstruck. Will and two other campers were crouched in the grass, binoculars around their necks and daggers at their side. They wore black jeans and T-shirts, with black grease paint on their faces like commandos.

"Me?" Nico asked. "What are you doing? Getting yourselves killed?"

Will scowled. "Hey, we're scouting the enemy. We took precautions."

"You dressed in black," Nico noted, "with the sun coming up. You painted your face but didn't cover that mop of blond hair. You might as well be waving a yellow flag."

Will's ears reddened. "Lou Ellen wrapped some Mist around us, too."

"Hi." The girl next to him wriggled her fingers. She looked a little flustered. "You're Nico, right? I've heard a lot about you. And this is Cecil from Hermes cabin."