𝐆𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐑𝐔𝐒𝐇 [Jason Grace]

63

𝐅𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐚𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐣𝐨𝐛. Which was bad, since he was hundreds of feet in the air.

He should have known better. It was the morning after their encounter with Sciron the bandit, and Frank was on duty, fighting some wild venti who were threatening the ship. Without Jason, Frank was the only demigod who could fight monsters in the air. He was in the form of an eagle when he killed the last venti with his beak. Only problem was, he forgot to hold his breath.

A stupid mistake. When a wind spirit disintegrates, it creates a vacuum. Unless you're holding your breath, the air gets sucked right out of your lungs. The pressure in your inner ears drops so fast, you black out.

That's what happened to Frank.

Even worse, he instantly plunged into a dream. In the back of his subconscious, he thought: Really? Now?

He needed to wake up, or he would die; but he wasn't able to hold on to that thought. In the dream, he found himself on the roof of a tall building, the nighttime skyline of Manhattan spread around him. At least he thought it was Manhattan. He'd never been there. A cold wind whipped through his clothes.

A few blocks away, clouds gathered above the Empire State Building. Lightning flashed. The air was metallic with the smell of oncoming rain. The top of the skyscraper was lit up, but the lights seemed to be malfunctioning. They flickered from purple to orange as if the colors were fighting for dominance.

On the roof of Frank's building stood his old comrades from Camp Jupiter: an array of demigods in combat armor, their Imperial gold weapons and shields glinting in the dark. He saw Dakota and Nathan, Leila and Marcus, Ida and Larry. Octavian stood to one side, thin and pale, his eyes red-rimmed from sleeplessness or anger, a string of sacrificial stuffed animals around his waist. His augur's white robe was draped over a purple T-shirt and cargo pants.

In the center of the line stood Reyna, her metal dogs Aurum and Argentum at her side. In his dream she looked tired. Her dark hair was wet, like she'd taken a hasty shower.

Upon seeing her, Frank felt a huge pang of guilt. He'd flown off with the demigods partially responsible for firing on New Rome. And though it hadn't been his home for longer than a few months, it was eating him from the inside.

The Romans stared at the roof-access door as if they were waiting for someone.

When the door opened, two people emerged. One was a faun—no, Frank thought—a satyr. Roman fauns tended to hang around and beg and eat. Satyrs were more helpful, more engaged with demigod affairs. He looked purposeful walking up to an armed group of Romans in the middle of the night.

He wore a green Nature Conservancy T-shirt with pictures of endangered whales and tigers and stuff. Nothing covered his shaggy legs and hooves. He had a bushy goatee, curly brown hair tucked into a Rasta-style cap, and a set of reed pipes around his neck. His hands fidgeted with the hem of his shirt, but considering the way he studied the Romans, noting their positions and their weapons, Frank figured this satyr had been in combat before.

At his side was someone that made Frank do a double take. For a second he was questioning his eyes because he'd seen Jason and Dante fall into the pit to Tartarus, and yet, the boy in front of him looked like a copy of his friend.

He had the same dark wavy hair, the same nose, the same half grin, the same jaw. But the longer Frank stared, the more differences he found. Even in the dark, he could tell the boy in front of him didn't have heterochromia. His eyes were both brown. He was also a bit skinnier with less muscle than Dante.