𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐇𝐄𝐂𝐘 [J.G 2]

18

𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐝𝐨 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐧 your whole day.

Dante had known Jason for the better part of a decade by now. He'd seen the kind of devastation his boyfriend could cause. So he wasn't surprised when the two shrapnel-filled wind spirits ripped through the Julia Drusilla XII like chain saws.

They all should have died in the blast. But Jason channeled the explosion up, down, and sideways in a two-dimensional wave— blasting through the port and starboard walls; bursting through the black ceiling that showered them with golden candelabras and swords; jackhammering through the mosaic floor into the bowels of the ship. The yacht groaned and shook— metal, wood, and fiberglass snapping like bones in the mouth of a monster.

Incitatus and Caligula stumbled in one direction, Medea in the other. None of them suffered so much as a scratch. Meg McCaffrey, unfortunately, was on Jason's left. When the venti exploded, she flew sideways through a newly made dent in the wall and disappeared into the dark.

Dante tried to scream. It came out as more of a death rattle, though. With the explosion ringing in his ears, he couldn't be sure.

He could barely move.

Somewhere to his left, Lester Papadopoulos, clutching his arrow wound (Dante was surrounded by fucking idiots!) turned to the only remaining Pandos, Crest.

The young pandos's eyes were so wide they almost matched his ears. A golden sword had fallen from the ceiling and impaled itself in the tile floor between his legs.

Lester pleaded and requested something, but Dante was too far away and the chaos drowned out any voices. He was no pandos, he couldn't hear what Lester was saying.

Crest's expression changed from shock to reckless determination. He scrambled across the tilting floor, spread his ears, and leaped into the rift after Meg.

Good, at least that was one person he didn't have to worry about.

The break in the floor began to widen, cutting them off from Jason. Ten-foot-tall waterfalls poured in from the damaged hull to port and starboard— washing the mosaic floors in dark water and flotsam, spilling into the widening chasm in the center of the room. Below, broken machinery steamed. Flames guttered as seawater filled the hold. Above, lining the edges of the shattered ceiling, pandai appeared, screaming and drawing weapons— until the sky lit up and tendrils of lightning blasted the guards into dust.

Jason stepped out of the smoke on the opposite side of the throne room. He flipped his coin, the one Dante had given him in Tartarus until he held his gladius in his hand. Tartarus seemed like a lifetime ago now. Dante remembered how happy Jason had looked when he gave him the coin. Now he was furious.

Caligula snarled. "You're one of those Camp Jupiter brats, aren't you?"

"I'm Jason Grace," he said. "Former praetor of the Twelfth Legion. Son of Jupiter. Child of Rome. But I belong to both camps."

 A shiver of dread and excitement ran through Dante. 

"Good enough," Caligula said. "I'll hold you responsible for Camp Jupiter's treason tonight. Incitatus!"

The emperor snatched up a golden spear that was rolling across the floor. He vaulted onto his stallion's back, charged the chasm, and leaped it in a single bound. Jason threw himself aside to avoid getting trampled.

Dante's heart had lodged itself in his throat and he felt nothing except rage coursing through him. Good. Anger was good. It gave him the energy to get to his feet, no matter how shaky and weak he felt.