Death's Touch | Jason Grace

Forty-two | Cary

Jason hobbled up the hill, wheezing painfully. Cary had hiked up her dress and was taking larger steps than necessary.

"Almost there." Piper smiled at him. "You're doing great."

Easy for her to say. Cary, Piper, and Annabeth were disguised as lovely Greek serving maidens. Even in their white sleeveless gowns and laced sandals, they had no trouble navigating the rocky path.

Piper's mahogany hair was pinned up in a braided spiral. Silver bracelets adorned her arms. She resembled an ancient statue of her mom, Aphrodite, which Cary found a little intimidating, in place for Leon who would be swooning.

Cary had her brown hair tied up as well, trying not to move her head too much or else it would fall. She had gold jewelry to match her bracelet — gold arm cuffs and swirling bracelets.

Jason glanced uphill. The summit was still a hundred yards above.

"Worst idea ever." He leaned against a cedar tree and wiped his forehead. "Hazel's magic is too good. If I have to fight, I'll be useless."

"It won't come to that," Annabeth promised. She looked just as uncomfortable as Cary in her serving-maiden outfit. She kept hunching her shoulders to keep the dress from slipping. Her pinned-up blonde bun had come undone in the back and her hair dangled like long spider legs. Knowing her hatred of spiders, Cary decided not to mention that.

"We infiltrate the palace," she said. "We get the information we need, and we get out."

Piper set down her amphora, the tall ceramic wine jar in which her sword was hidden. "We can rest for a second. Catch your breath, Jason."

From her waist cord hung her cornucopia – the magic horn of plenty. Tucked somewhere in the folds of her dress was her knife, Katoptris. Piper didn't look dangerous, but if the need arose she could dual-wield Celestial bronze blades or shoot her enemies in the face with ripe mangoes.

Annabeth slung her own amphora off her shoulder. She, too, had a concealed sword, but even without a visible weapon she looked deadly. Her stormy grey eyes scanned the surroundings, alert for any threat. If any dude asked Annabeth for a drink, Cary figured she was more likely to kick the guy in the bifurcum.

Cary herself had her crossbow in ring form, her Stygian iron dagger sheathed at her thigh where Cary could access it through a slit in her dress. Her quiver was hanging from her waist, concealed with Hazel's Mist as strongly as Jason was disguised.

Jason tried to steady his breathing.

Below them, Afales Bay glittered, the water so blue it might've been dyed with food colouring. A few hundred yards offshore, the Argo II rested at anchor. Its white sails looked no bigger than postage stamps, its ninety oars like toothpicks. Cary could imagine their friends on deck following their progress, taking turns with Leo's spyglass, trying not to laugh as they watched Grandpa Jason hobble uphill.

"Stupid Ithaca," he muttered.

Cary supposed the island was pretty enough. A spine of forested hills twisted down its centre. Chalky white slopes plunged into the sea. Inlets formed rocky beaches and harbours where red-roofed houses and white stucco churches nestled against the shoreline.

The hills were dotted with poppies, crocuses and wild cherry trees. The breeze smelled of blooming myrtle. All very nice – except the temperature was about a hundred and five degrees. The air was as steamy as a Roman bathhouse.

It would've been easy for Jason to control the winds and fly to the top of the hill or Cary to shadow travel them there, but nooo. For the sake of stealth, they had to struggle along as an old dude with bad knees and chicken-soup stink and fancily dresses handmaidens.