𝙎𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙨 𝘿𝙤𝙣'𝙩 𝙈𝙚𝙚𝙩 𝙗𝙮 𝘼𝙘𝙘𝙞𝙙𝙚𝙣𝙩 - 𝙋. 𝙅𝙖𝙘𝙠𝙨𝙤𝙣

Novalie becomes best friends with a dog

"Oye cariño, solo pienso en ti
When I wake up in the morning until I go back to sleep"

They 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?" Novalie asked.

"Don't think negative."

"You're asking me to do the impossible." she said. "We're entering the Land of the Dead, and I shouldn't think negative."

Percy took the pearls out of his pocket, the four milky spheres the Nereid had given him in Santa Monica. They didn't seem like much of a backup in case something went wrong.

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

She gave Grover and Novalie a nudge.

"Oh, right!" Grover chimed in. "We got this far. Well find the master bolt and save your mom. No problem."

Novalie nodded in agreement.

Percy stared at the three, with a small smile on his face.

He slipped the pearls back in his pocket. "Let's whup some Underworld ass."

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The four walked inside the DOA lobby.

Muzak played softly on hidden speakers. The carpet and walls were steel grey. 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 her eye, Novalie could see them all just fine, but if she focused on any one of them in particular, they started looking... transparent. She could see right through their bodies.

The security guard's desk was a raised podium, so they had to look up at him. He was tall and elegant, with chocolate-colored skin and bleached-blond hairshaved 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.

Percy read the name tag, then looked at him in bewilderment. "Your name is Chiron?"

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

"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?"

"N-no."

"Sir," he added smoothly.

"Sir," Percy 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."

"Amazing! Now: Mr. Charon."

"Mr. Charon," Percy said.

"Well done." He sat back. "I hate being confused with that old horse-man. And now, how may I help you little dead ones?"