Percy Jackson and the lightning thief

Mattheo shows off his dog skills [Harry]

Percy loaded us into the back of a Vegas taxi and told the driver, "Los Angeles, please."

The driver chewed his cigar and sized us up. "That's three hundred miles. For that, you gotta pay up front."

"You take debit cards?" Percy asked.

He shrugged. "I gotta swipe 'em through
first."

Percy handed him his green card. He looked at it skeptically.

"Swipe it," Percy invited.

He did.

His meter machine started rattling. The lights flashed. Finally a dollar symbol popped up with the reading of how much was in the card.

The cigar fell out of the driver's mouth. He looked back at us, his eyes wide. "Where to in Los Angeles... uh, Your Highness?"

"DOA recording studios." Percy sat up a little straighter. I could tell he liked the "Your Highness" thing. "Get us there fast. And you can keep the card."

Maybe he shouldn't have told him that. The cab's speedometer never dipped below ninety-five the whole way through the Mojave Desert.

On the road, we had plenty of time to talk.

Finally, the taxi dropped us in front of the building.

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.

I turned to my 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."

"He's our grandad," Jade and Mattheo reminds, "he's not going to kill us."

"And," Percy and I added, "We've met him he's a nice guy."

Annabeth shook her head, "It's not Hades we're scared of,"

"It's his wife," finished Grover.

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?"

He leaned across the desk. I couldn't see anything in his glasses except my own reflection, but his smile was sweet and cold, like a pythons, right before it eats you.