𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐩

Chapter 23

18

Sweet Puppy...

The group 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 his friends. "Okay. You remember the plan."

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

  Annabeth said, "What happens if the plan doesn't work?"

  "Don't think negative."

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

  Percy took a few pearls out of his pocket, the six milky spheres the Nereid had given him and Cyrus in Santa Monica.

  They didn't seem like much of a backup in case something went wrong.

  Annabeth put her hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Percy. You're right, we'll make it. It'll be fine."

  She 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."

  "Great way of cheering 'em up," (y/n) mumbled.

  "What was that?" Annabeth frowned in confusion.

  "Uh, nothing," he shook his head, feeling sweat build up on his forehead as he flushed.

  Percy slipped the pearls back in his pocket. "Let's whup some Underworld butt."

  They all 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. They were all translucent, and they smelled just like the outside, and how that one boy did back in the Lotus Casino—rotten and sharp, the smell itself crumbling and decaying.

  The security guard's desk was a raised podium, so they had to look up at him—as if (y/n) didn't do that enough.

  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.

  (y/n) read the name tag, then looked at him in bewilderment. "Your name is Chiron?"

  He leaned across the desk. (y/n) couldn't see anything in the glasses except his own reflection, but the man's smile was sweet and cold, like a pythons, right before it eats you.

  "What a precious young lad." He had a strange accent—British, like (y/n)'s, maybe, but also as if he had learned English as a second language, so it was probably forced to sound somewhat the same to British. "Tell me, mate, do I look like a centaur?"

  "N—no."

  "Sir," he added smoothly.

  "Sir," (y/n) 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."