Where You Go ― Jason Grace

xvii. jason accidentally pisses off the most powerful demigod of all time

JASON WOKE TO the sound of a different ship's horn—a blast so loud it quite literally shook him out of bed. 

As he recovered from hitting the floor, he wondered if Leo was pulling another joke. Then the horn sounded again, shaking the giant warship like rattle. It sounded like it was coming from several hundred yards away—from another vessel. 

He got dressed quickly, grabbing his gladius as he made a dash for the deck. By the time he got up there, the most of the others had already gathered—all hastily dressed save for Coach Hedge, who'd pulled the night watch. 

Frank's Vancouver Winter Olympics shirt was inside out. Percy wore pajama pants and a bronze breastplate, which was an interesting fashion statement. Ophelia looked like she was plotting the painful demise of the obnoxiously loud ship for waking her up, her sword clenched in her fist and her eyes murderous. 

Yeah, she really wasn't a morning person. 

About a hundred yards to port, a massive cruise ship glided past. Tourists waved at them from fifteen or sixteen rows of balconies. Some smiled and took pictures. None of them looked surprised to see an Ancient Greek warship. 

The cruise ship blew its horn again, and the Argo II had a shaking fit. 

Coach Hedge plugged his ears. "Do they have to be so loud?" 

"They're just saying hi," Frank speculated. 

"WHAT?" Hedge yelled back. 

The ship edged past them, heading out to sea. The tourists kept waving. If they found it strange that the Argo II was populated with half-asleep kids in armor and pajamas and a man with goat legs, they didn't let on. 

"Bye!" Leo called, raising a smoking hand in a wave.

"Can I man the ballistae?" Hedge asked. 

"Go for it," Ophelia grumbled under her breath. 

"Don't even think about it, you two," Leo said through a forced smile.

Hazel rubbed her eyes and looked across the glittering green water. "Where are—oh... Wow." 

Jason followed her gaze, his eyes widening at the sight. Without the cruise ship blocking their view, he could see a mountain jutting from the sea less than half a mile to the north. Jason had seen plenty of mountains before—hell, he'd fought a Titan on the top of Mount Tam. But it wasn't nearly as impressive-looking as the massive fist of blinding white rock that seemed to reach for the sky. 

On one side, the limestone cliffs were almost completely sheer, dropping into the sea over a thousand feet below, as near as Jason could figure. On the other side, the mountain sloped in tiers, covered in green forest, so that the whole thing reminded Jason of a colossal sphinx, worn down over the millennia, with a massive white head and chest, and a green cloak over its back.

"The Rock of Gibraltar," Annabeth said in awe. "At the tip of Spain. And over there—" She pointed south, to a more distant stretch of red and ochre hills. "That must be Africa. We're at the mouth of the Mediterranean."

Despite the warmth of the morning, Jason's skin prickled with goosebumps. Once they entered the Mediterranean—the Mare Nostrum—they would be in the ancient lands. They would break one of the most sacred laws for any Roman demigod. 

He might have had his reservations about Camp Jupiter, but Jason was still a born-and-bred Roman. Entering the ancient lands felt like a betrayal in and of itself, like he was fully turning his back on the camp that had raised him. 

A hand slipped into his, fingers fitting into the spaces between his own. As if she could read his mind—which Jason was sometimes convinced she could—Ophelia squeezed his hand.