𝐆𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐑𝐔𝐒𝐇 [Jason Grace]

71

𝐆𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐤𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐓𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐮𝐬 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐦 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 much of an honor.

As Dante stared up at his dark whirlpool face, he decided he'd rather die in some less memorable way—maybe falling down the stairs, or eating a poisoned hotdog. Yes, that sounded good.

It wasn't the first time Dante had faced an enemy he knew he couldn't defeat by force. Normally, this would've been his cue to stall for time with some clever Hermes-like chitchat.

Except his voice wouldn't work. He couldn't even close his mouth. For all he knew, he was drooling as badly as Percy did when he slept.

He was dimly aware of the army of monsters swirling around him, but after their initial roar of triumph, the horde had fallen silent. Dante and Jason should have been ripped to pieces by now. Instead, the monsters kept their distance, waiting for Tartarus to act.

The god of the pit flexed his fingers, examining his own polished black talons. He had no expression, but he straightened his shoulders as if he were pleased.

It is good to have form, he intoned. With these hands, I can eviscerate you.

Dimly, Dante wondered if all Titans and primordials had thesauruses with the words they used in a normal conversation. What happened to good old, I can kill you? Or even I can smash you to pieces?

His voice sounded like a backward recording—as if the words were being sucked into the vortex of his face rather than projected. In fact, everything seemed to be drawn toward the face of this god—the dim light, the poisonous clouds, the essence of the monsters, even Dante's own fragile life force. He looked around and realized that every object on this vast plain had grown a vaporous comet's tail—all pointing toward Tartarus.

Dante knew he should say something, but his instincts told him to hide, to avoid doing anything that would draw the god's attention.

Besides, what could he say? You won't get away with this!

That wasn't true. He and Jason had only survived this long because Tartarus was savoring his new form. He wanted the pleasure of physically ripping them to pieces. If Tartarus wished, Dante had no doubt he could devour their existence with a single thought, as easily as he'd vaporized Hyperion and Krios. Would there be any rebirth from that? Dante didn't want to find out.

Next to him, Jason did something Dante had never seen him do. He dropped his sword. It just fell out of his hand and hit the ground with a thud. Death Mist no longer shrouded his face, but he still had the complexion of a corpse.

Tartarus hissed again—possibly laughing.

Your fear smells wonderful, said the god. I see the appeal of having a physical body with so many senses. Perhaps my beloved Gaea is right, wishing to wake from her slumber.

He stretched out his massive purple hand and might have plucked up Jason like a weed, but Hipp interrupted.

"Begone!" The Giant leveled his spear at the god. "You have no right to meddle!"

Meddle? Tartarus turned. I am the lord of all creatures of the darkness, puny Hippolytos. I can do as I please. I am your father and you are my son. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 will not meddle.

His black cyclone face spun faster. The howling sound was so horrible, Dante fell to his knees and clutched his ears. His daggers fell on the ground next to him. Hipp stumbled, the wispy comet tail of his life force growing longer as it was sucked toward the face of the god.