Forgotten memories

Spooky BBQ

The deck looked like it was dressed for the world's strangest birthday party. Streamers flapped in the warm breeze, balloons bobbed lazily against the railings, and the smell of barbecue clung to the air. Geryon stood at the grill, flipping burgers like some twisted backyard host, only his grill wasn't normal—it was a massive contraption hammered together from an old oil drum. Beside him, Eurytion lounged at a picnic table, idly scraping the dirt from beneath his fingernails with a knife. Orthus, their two-headed mutt, sat eagerly by the fire, both heads drooling in stereo as the meat sizzled.

My wrists burned where the ropes bit into them, the knots digging deeper the more I shifted. We were tied up to the picnic table like props in this grotesque little cookout. I swallowed, trying to keep my voice steady, and said, "So... what did you mean by 'keeping me,' exactly?" My words came out softer than I'd intended, but anything to stall for time while my mind clawed around for an escape.

Geryon laughed, the sound booming from three throats at once as he flipped another burger onto the stack. "Oh, you're special, boy. Not just Luke's little prize—no, no. You're wanted by all my business partners."

The way he said all my business partners made my stomach twist. I didn't even want to know who that included. But it didn't matter right now—I needed him distracted. My thumb had already popped out of its socket with a sickening snap, and I was inching toward slipping free of the ropes. The problem was... two-on-one, and those odds were as bad as they sounded. Then, like an answered prayer, I saw Percy charging up the hill.

"Let them go!" Percy's voice cracked with exhaustion, breathless from running the steps. He was flushed red, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead, but his eyes were blazing. "I cleaned the stables!"

Geryon turned, three heads swiveling in eerie unison. He wore three aprons, one on each chest, together spelling: KISS—THE—CHEF. "Did you, now?" he asked, raising a brow. "And how'd you pull that off?"

Percy was impatient, practically vibrating with it, but he still explained—something about seashells and water. Geryon listened, nodding as though impressed. "Very ingenious," he said at last. "Would've been better if you'd drowned that pesky naiad while you were at it, but... no matter."

"Let my friends go," Percy demanded, tightening his grip on his sword. "We had a deal."

Geryon made a tsk-tsk sound, shaking his head slowly. "Yes, but see, I've been thinking about that. If I let them go, I don't get paid."

"You promised!" Percy shot back.

"But," Geryon drawled, "did you make me swear on the River Styx? No. You didn't. So, it's not binding. Rule number one, boy—when you're doing business, you always, always get a binding oath."

Orthus growled low, both heads baring teeth inches from Grover's face. Percy tensed, his sword raised.

"Eurytion," Geryon said lightly, as if ordering another burger. "The boy's becoming an irritation. Kill him."

The air seemed to freeze. Eurytion didn't move at first. He glanced at Percy, then at me. And in that brief look, I caught something—hesitation. Something close to a question flickered in his eyes. I gave the smallest nod I could manage, my heart hammering.

Eurytion shifted his grip on the club, then muttered, "Kill him yourself."

Geryon's three faces snapped toward him. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." Eurytion's voice was rough but steady. "I'm done. You keep sending me to do your dirty work, picking fights for no reason. I'm tired of dying for you. You want him gone? Then fight him yourself."