Where You Go ― Jason Grace

viii. a stupid giant turtle & even stupider bandit

THERE WAS NOTHING like waking up to screaming in the room next door to really get the blood pumping. 

After rushing to Hazel's room to check on her only to discover Gale the polecat scampering around like she'd drank twelve straight shots of espresso, Ophelia was more awake than ever, which was all well and good. After her dream the night before, she was fine with not sleeping for a while. 

Her dreams had never been normal, even by demigod standards. They were persistent, terrifying, and often led to her bolting awake in a cold sweat, breathless and haunted. Ever since hers and Hazel's meeting with Trivia, they'd somehow gotten worse. 

Besides her nightmare of her mother, she'd been dreaming of ice-cold hands grasping at her arms, her legs, her neck, choking her and leaving her throat aching. She knew the subjects of her dreams—ghosts, no doubt the ghost army she would supposedly face in the House of Hades. 

After the first ghost nightmare after hers and Hazel's run-in with Hecate, Ophelia had talked to Nico and Hazel about the potential army, but they didn't know much more than she did. Whatever she might face in the House of Hades, she was going into it half-blind, and the thought terrified her. 

Ophelia had faced a lot of terrifying things in her short life. She'd fought and killed the king of werewolves and half a dozen of his wolves (twice, might she add); she'd faced the Trojan sea monster with Jason when they were fifteen; she'd fought and killed her first love (again, twice). She knew danger like the back of her hand. 

But that didn't mean she liked it—especially when she was going into the danger without all of the information. 

After the eventful morning and a relatively quiet breakfast, Ophelia went up onto the deck to get a little bit of sunlight. Her dreams made her world seem darker, and the warm, bright sunlight of the summer morning brought some much-needed light back. 

She leaned back against the railing, her back to the sea as she looked around the deck. Hazel and Frank were talking a few feet away; Leo was fussing with his controls like a father fussing over his newborn baby; Nico was up the yardarm of the foremast, which had become his "spot" of sorts. 

Apparently he liked to keep watch because he had good eyes, but Ophelia saw through it, and she was sure the rest of the crew did, too. The top of the mast was one of the few places on board where Nico could be alone. 

They'd offered him Percy's cabin, since Percy was... well, absent. But Nico refused. He spent most of his time up in the rigging, where he didn't have to interact with anyone. 

Ophelia tried not to stare—she knew he wouldn't appreciate the attention. She saw something of herself in him, when he sat alone like that, with his legs bent and hugged to his chest. 

After Maren's betrayal, Ophelia had retreated into herself. She spent weeks analyzing every word Maren had ever said to her, every interaction and look and kiss, trying to figure out how she could have been so caught off-guard by Maren's sudden allegiance to the Titans. She blamed herself for not loving her enough, for not figuring it out before it was too late, for not being a good enough friend or girlfriend. 

The only difference was, Ophelia had had Jason to pull her out of that darkness. Nico didn't have anyone. 

Sure, he had Hazel, but from what Ophelia understood, they'd only known the other existed for a little over a year now. It was clear Nico had gone through a lot before Hazel ever came into the picture, and even more since, with his time in Tartarus. 

He  seemed like the kind of person to bottle everything up inside, not letting anything but apathy or the occasional sarcastic comment see the light. Ophelia understood that—hell, she had a habit of doing the same. So she understood the dangers of it, and how catastrophic it was when the bottle finally broke and all of those emotion spilled out.