Andromeda Jackson

Andy

It feels like I only sleep for a few seconds, but when Piper shakes me awake, the daylight is fading. 

"We're here," she says. 

I shake Leo awake, then rub the sleep out of my eyes. Below us, a city sits on a cliff overlooking a river. The plains around it are dusted with snow, but the city itself glows warmly in the winter sunset. Buildings crowd together inside high walls like a medieval town. In the center is an actual castle—at least I assume it's a castle—with massive red brick walls and a square tower with a peaked, green gabled roof. 

"Tell me that's Quebec and not Santa's workshop." I say. 

"Yeah, Quebec City," Piper confirms. "One of the oldest cities in North America. Founded around sixteen hundred or so?"

Leo raises an eyebrow. "Your dad do a movie about that too?"

Piper makes a face at him, but it doesn't quite work with her new glamorous makeup. "I read sometimes, okay? Just because Aphrodite claimed me, doesn't mean I have to be an airhead."

"Feisty!" Leo says. "so you know so much, what's that castle?"

"A hotel, I think." 

Leo laughs. "No way."

But as we get closer, I see she's right. The grand entrance is bustling with doormen, valets, and porters taking bags. Sleek black luxury cars idle in the drive. People in elegant suits and winter cloaks hurry to get out of the cold. I find myself scanning the crowd, looking and silently praying I see Percy's face. I know it's a long shot, and I mentally kick myself for being disappointed that I don't see him. Why would he be in Quebec anyways?

"The North Wind is staying in a hotel?" I ask. "That can't be—"

"Heads up, guys," Jason interrupts. "We got company!"

I look below and see what Jason means. Rising from the top of the tower are two winged figures—angry angels, with nasty looking swords. 

Festus the dragon doesn't like the angel guys. He swoops to a halt in midair, wings beating and talons bared, and makes a rumbling sound in his throat. If I was a giant metal dragon, I'd probably be doing the same thing, so I can't blame him. 

"Steady, boy," Leo mutters, patting the dragon's neck. 

"I don't like this," Jason says. "They look like storm spirits."

At first I think he's right, but as the angels get closer, I see they're much more solid than anemoi thuellai. They look like regular teenagers except for their icy white hair and feathery purple wings. Their bronze swords are jagged, like icicles. Their faces look similar enough that they might be brothers, but they definitely aren't twins. 

One is the size of an ox, with a bright red hockey jersey, baggy sweatpants, and black leather cleats. The guy clearly has been in too many fights, because both his eyes are black, and when he bares his teeth, several of them are missing.

The other guy looks like he's just stepped off one of Chiron's vinyl rock covers that I love—Journey, maybe, or Queen. His icy white hair is long and feathered into a mullet. He wears pointy-toed leather shoes, designer pants that are way too tight, and a god-awful silk shirt with the top three buttons open. Maybe he thinks he looks like a groovy love god, but the guy can't weigh more than ninety pounds, and he has a bad case of acne. 

The angels pull up in front of the dragon and hover there, swords ready. 

The hockey ox grunts. "No clearance."

"'Scuse me?" Leo says. 

"You have no flight plan on file," explains the groovy love god. On top of his other problems, he has a French accent so bad I'm sure it's fake. "This is restricted airspace."