Where You Go ― Jason Grace

xxii. a game of cat and cat

AS SHE WALKED TOWARD HER FATE, Ophelia almost turned back half a dozen times. 

She couldn't stop thinking about what Jason, Piper, and Percy might have been facing at the shrine, how they'd reacted to her disappearance, whether they were even still alive. She was terrified for them, maybe even more than she was for herself.

The worried part of her was urging her to run back to the shrine, to make sure that the vision from Piper's knife hadn't come true. The survivalist part of her was screaming for her to damn fate and run back to the Argo II with her tail between her legs. The proud, heroic part of her told her to face her destiny head-on and show Maren Russell no mercy.

The human part of her—the loudest part—was simply praying to whatever gods were listening that she would live to see the people she loved again.

Her compass led her through the city of Rome, guiding her through crowds of oblivious tourists and locals. One—a sweet, middle-aged woman with a thick Italian accent coating her English—asked her if she was lost, no doubt because she kept looking down at her compass.

Ophelia just shook her head, sending the woman a smile before continuing on her way. She would forget Ophelia by the end of the day—to her, Ophelia was just another tourist, another teenage girl on vacation in Italy. 

But if today was Ophelia's last day on earth, she'd carry the woman's smile with her to the end, just as she carried the sound of her friends' laughter and the feeling of Jason's hand in her own.

Too soon, her compass led her away from the busy sidewalks and toward a large plaza of ruins. Orange mesh fences and cones warned tourists away from the historical landmark, no doubt for their own safety and the preservation of the ancient ruins. Centuries of history stood in the plaza, for all to see but none to touch—except for the descendants of the very gods these ruins had once stood for, it seemed. 

A sign in front of the ruins told her where she was. LARGO DI TORRE ARGENTINA. She remembered learning about this place during a New Rome history class what felt like a lifetime ago. It housed the ruins of four different ancient Roman temples, one of which was supposedly the exact spot where Julius Caesar had been assassinated.

How poetic, she thought, resting her hand on the hilt of Liberatus.

Her compass guided her into the plaza, past the mesh fences and signs that warned trespassers away. She didn't worry about being caught—getting arrested was the least of Ophelia's worries at the moment.

Finally, the needle came to a stop, and in the distance, Ophelia spotted her.

She didn't look the same as Ophelia remembered. She supposed death did that to a person. Maren's hair was duller, the shadows underneath her eyes darker and more pronounced. Her skin, which had once been had a healthy tan was now pale, nearly as pallid and lifeless as the marble columns that rose up around them. 

But it was still Maren. There was no mistaking that.

She wore no armor. Even in her first life, she'd rarely worn it. She'd always been a bit too cocky for the protection armor provided, and death hadn't killed that pride, it seemed. Maybe it had emboldened it. Death had had Maren in his clutches, and yet here she stood, alive once again, ready for vengeance.

But she still looked worn—older, like death still lingered on her skin. Ophelia prayed it wasn't just a façade, that she wasn't as strong as she'd been before her first death. Ophelia needed every advantage she could get.

The daughter of Neptune's eyes found Ophelia, and she smiled that cold, malicious smile that haunted Ophelia's worst nightmares.

"Ophelia," Maren said, her voice low and raspy. "It's been so long."