Forgotten memories

Akward. 3x

We didn't waste a second. First, we tracked down Will Solace from the Apollo cabin, his blond hair messy like he'd just rolled out of bed.

"You're coming with us," Percy told him. "Bring your healer kit. Annabeth needs you."

Will didn't argue. He just nodded, grabbed his bag, and barked a quick order to his siblings: "Keep searching for Michael. Don't stop until you find him!"

Then we were gone.

Percy and Will "borrowed" a Yamaha FZ1 from a biker who was snoring away on the sidewalk—lucky for him, because I don't think Percy was in the mood to ask nicely. I took the bike next to it, a Yamaha Raider S, and swung a leg over the seat like I actually knew what I was doing.

For the record, I'd never ridden a motorcycle in my life. But hey—after you've ridden a pegasus in the middle of a storm, this was child's play.

I twisted the throttle, and the engine roared to life beneath me. The power surged like a living thing, rumbling through my bones, and for the briefest second, I felt almost invincible. Then we shot off into the streets at a speed that would've given my grandmother a heart attack.

The city blurred around me in streaks of gray concrete and neon signs. Wind whipped against my face as we weaved through traffic, the tires humming on asphalt.

Along the way, something caught my eye—empty pedestals. Dozens of them. All the statues that usually dotted the streets... gone. Cleaned out like someone had plucked them up and walked away. I had no idea what that meant. Was it good? Bad? No time to figure it out.

Five minutes later, we roared into the Plaza.

The place was as fancy as ever—an old-fashioned white-stone hotel with a gabled blue roof, standing like some elegant relic of a better age on the southeast corner of Central Park.

Tactically speaking? Terrible spot for a headquarters. Not the tallest building. Not central enough for quick response teams. But the place had history. Old-school class. Legends said famous demigods had stayed here—The Beatles, Alfred Hitchcock... maybe even Hercules for all I knew. If they'd trusted it, I guessed we could too.

I gunned the Raider over the curb and skidded to a stop at the fountain out front, gravel crunching under the tires. Percy and Will pulled up beside me, their engine cutting off with a final growl.

We barely had time to swing off before a voice shouted down at us.

"Oh, fine!" It was sharp and irritated. "I suppose you want me to watch your bikes, too!"

I blinked. The voice was coming from the statue in the fountain—a life-size bronze woman standing in the middle of a granite bowl. She wore nothing but a bronze sheet draped around her legs, and her hands cradled a basket overflowing with metal fruit.

I'd never paid her much attention before. Then again, she'd never talked before.

"Uh..." Percy squinted at her. "Are you supposed to be Demeter?"

A bronze apple flew over his head like a fastball.

"Everyone thinks I'm Demeter!" she snapped. "Of course not!"

"She's Pompona," I said automatically, the name coming to me like a flash from the back of my brain. "Roman goddess of plenty."

Pompona actually smiled at that—proud, smug, like I'd just given her the compliment of the century.

"At least somebody noticed!" she huffed. "Nobody cares about the minor gods! If you did, you wouldn't be losing this war! Three cheers for Morpheus and Hecate, I say!"