Where You Go ― Jason Grace

xvi. another dead royal

IT TOOK ALL four demigods to hold Coach Hedge back.

"Whoa, Coach!" Jason said. "Bring it down a few notches."

A younger man charged into the room—Ophelia figured he was Lit, the man's son. He was dressed in pajama pants and a cut-off t-shirt, holding a sword. His muscular arms were covered in scars, and his face, framed by curly dark hair, was covered in scars as well.

Lit instantly zeroed in on Jason like he was the biggest threat, which Ophelia tried not to be too offended by, and stalked toward him, swinging his sword overhead.

"Hold on!" Piper stepped forward. "This is just a misunderstanding! Everything's fine!"

Lit stopped in his tracks, but he still looked wary. It didn't help that Hedge was screaming, "I'll get them! Don't worry."

"You're making me worry," Ophelia hissed.

"Coach," Jason pleaded, "they may be friendly. Besides, we're trespassing in their house."

"Thank you!" the old man said. "Now, who are you, and why are you here?"

"Let's all put our weapons down," Piper said. "Coach, you first."

Hedge clenched his jaw. "Just one thwack."

"Not a single thwack," Ophelia said.

"What about a compromise? I'll kill them first, and if it turns out they're friendly, I'll apologize."

"No!" Piper insisted.

Coach Hedge didn't look happy about it, but he lowered his club.

Piper gave Lit a friendly sorry-about-that smile.

Lit huffed and sheathed his sword. "You speak well, girl—fortunately for your friends, or I would've run them through."

"Appreciate it," Leo said. "I try not to get run through before lunchtime."

The old man in the bathrobe signed, kicking at the teapot Coach Hedge had smashed. "Well, since you're here. Please, sit down."

Lit frowned. "Your Majesty—"

"No, no, it's fine, Lit," the old man said. "New land, new customs. They may sit in my presence. After all, they've seen me in my nightclothes. No sense observing formalities." He did his best to smile, though it looked a bit forced. "Welcome to my humble home. I am King Midas."

Great, another dead royal, Ophelia thought, fighting a scowl.

"Midas? Impossible," Coach Hedge said. "He died."

They were all sitting on the sofas now, while the king reclined on his throne. Tricky to do that in a bathrobe, and Ophelia silently prayed he wouldn't forget and uncross his legs. She'd been traumatized enough.

Lit stood behind the throne, both hands on his sword, glancing at Ophelia and flexing his arms like that was supposed to make her swoon. Ophelia barely suppressed the urge to roll her eyes—she figured it wasn't a good idea to offend a guy with a sword in his hand.

Jason didn't seem to get share the sentiment. He was the slightest squint away from full-on glaring at Lit.

As subtly as possible, Ophelia elbowed him in the ribs. Be cool, she mouthed.

Piper shot Coach Hedge a pointed look. "What our satyr friend means, Your Majesty, is that you're the second mortal we've met who should be—sorry—dead. King Midas lived a thousand years ago."