In which, Adira Lancaster falls in love with her rival, Percy Jackson
OR
he falls in love with her first, unknowingly.
She only seemed to think about a rivalry. Nothing else. Zilch. Nada. Zip.
-disclaimer- I do not own the Percy Jackson Books, or an...
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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.
Percy turned to us. "Okay. You remember the plan."
"The plan," Grover gulped. "Yeah. I love the plan."
I said, "What happens if the plan doesn't work?"
"Don't think negative," Grover said.
"Right," I added. "What if our plan isn't successfully accurate and precise to the point that we are unsuccessful?"
Percy took the pearls out of his pocket, the three milky spheres.
He put his hand on my shoulder. "I'm sorry, Percy. You're right, we'll make it. It'll be fine."
I 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."
Percy looked at me, and smiled. I smiled back, and he blushed. Then I blushed. I turned my head, pretending to scratch my nose with my ring finger.
Percy slipped the pearls back in his 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?" Percy asked. "I think so," I added, squinting my eyes.
He leaned across the desk. I couldn't see anything in his glasses except my own reflection, but his smile was sweet and cold.
"What a precious young lad." He had a strange accent—British, maybe, but also as if he had learned English as a second language. "Tell me, mate, do I look like a centaur?"
