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chapter eighty-four. ☄︎. *. ⋆
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NO ONE WAS GUARDING the hall of the gods. The gold-and-silver doors stood wide open. Our footsteps echoed as we walked into the throne room.
Of course, "room" doesn't really cover it. The place was the size of Madison Square Garden. High above, the blue ceiling glittered with constellations. Twelve giant empty thrones stood in a U around a hearth. In one corner, a house-size globe of water hovered in the air, and inside swam our old half-cow, half-serpent friend the Ophiotaurus.
"Moooo!" he said happily, turning in a circle.
I caught Percy holding back a smile. I could tell he was happy to see his old friend again.
We walked toward the thrones, and a woman's voice said, "Hello again, Percy Jackson. You and your friends are welcome."
Hestia stood by the hearth, poking the flames with a stick. She wore the same kind of simple brown dress as I had seen her in before, but she was no longer in her regular form—that of a young girl, maybe nine or ten—she was now a grown woman.
Percy and I bowed. Our friends followed our examples. I lifted my head. "Lady Hestia."
Hestia gave me an acknowledging nod, then turned her red glowing eyes onto Percy. Her new expression almost looked judgmental. "I see you went through with your plan. You bear the curse of Achilles."
My stomach twisted inside-out. The other campers behind me started muttering the same questions I had, but I ignored them, unable to think past the roaring in my ears. Percy had gone off and taken a swim in the Styx while I was back in New York, searching day and night for him? And he just wasn't going to tell me?
"You must be careful," Hestia warned him. "You gained much on your journey. But you are still blind to the most important truth. Perhaps a glimpse is in order."
I looked to him, intending to ask what she was talking about, but Percy was just staring at Hestia with a guarded expression. He rolled his jaw, then said, "Lady Hestia, we've come on urgent business. We need to see—"
"We know what you need," a man's voice said from seemingly nowhere.
A god shimmered into existence next to Hestia. He looked about twenty-five, with curly salt-and-pepper hair and elfish features. He wore a military pilot's flight suit, with tiny bird's wings fluttering on his helmet and his black leather boots. In the crook of his arm was a long staff entwined with two living serpents.
"I will leave you now," Hestia said. She bowed to the aviator and disappeared into smoke. I understood why she was so anxious to go. Hermes, the God of Messengers, did not look happy.
