Wildfires, Heroes of Olympus ₂

065, if me and my gang pull up

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
PERSEUS      JACKSON

About thirty yards from the nearest monsters, Nemo turned to face Sylvie and Percy.

"Stay quiet and stay behind me," she advised. "They will not notice you."

"We hope," Percy muttered.

On the Titaness's shoulder, Marlin woke up from a nap. He purred seismically and arched his back, turning skeletal then back to calico. At least he didn't seem nervous.

Sylvie hugged her arms close to her chest, trying not to let her pain show. She shifted her stance, stiff and deliberate, and Percy caught the quick hitch in her breath when she moved too fast. She hadn't said a word about her ribs since they landed, but Percy knew they must be in agony. 

She examined her undead zombie-like hands. "Nemo, if we're invisible... how can you see us? I mean, you're technically, you know..."

"Yes," Nemo said. "But we are friends."

"Nyx and her children could see us," Sylvie said.

Nemo shrugged. "That was in Nyx's realm. That is different."

"Uh... right." Sylvie didn't look reassured, but she honestly never did, and they were also here now. They didn't have any choice but to try.

Percy stared at the swarm of vicious monsters. "Well, at least we won't have to worry about bumping into any other friends in this crowd."

Nemo grinned. "Yes, because you have none! Now, let's go. The Doors of Death are close."

They plunged into the crowd. Percy trembled so badly, he was afraid the Death Mist might shake right off him. He'd seen large groups of monsters before. He'd fought an army of them during the Battle of Manhattan. But this was different.

Percy wasn't at home in the mortal world. Percy wasn't defending himself. Here, Percy was the invader. He didn't belong in the multitude of monsters any more than the Minotaur belonged in Penn Station at rush hour.

Sylvie whispered, "Perce, look."

A stone's throw away, a guy in a cowboy outfit was cracking a whip at some fire-breathing horses. The wrangler wore a Stetson hat on his greasy hair, an extra-large set of jeans, and a pair of black leather boots. From the side, he might have passed for human—until he turned, and Percy saw that his upper body was split into three different chests, each one dressed in a different-color Western shirt.

It was Geryon, who had tried to kill Percy and Sylvie—especially Sylvie—two years ago in Texas. Apparently the evil rancher was eager to break in a new herd. The idea of that guy riding out of the Doors of Death made Percy's ribs hurt. Sylvie had killed him by shooting one arrow through his three hearts. It was definitely deserved.

But how many other old enemies were in this crowd?

Seeing these monsters in Tartarus, Percy felt as hopeless as the spirits in the River Cocytus. It didn't matter if he was a hero, or if he was brave. Evil was always here, regenerating, bubbling under the surface. Percy was no more than a minor annoyance to these immortal beings. They just had to outwait him. Someday, Percy's sons or daughters might have to face them all over again.