The Blood of Olympus (The Heroes of Olympus, #5)(55)

Reyna doubted she could change his feelings, but she wanted Nico to have support. All heroes deserved that. It was the whole point of the Twelfth Legion. You joined forces to fight for a higher cause. You weren’t alone. You made friends and earned respect. Even when you mustered out, you had a place in the community. No demigod should have to suffer alone the way Nico did.

Tonight was 25 July. Seven more days until 1 August. In theory, that was plenty of time to reach Long Island. Once they completed their mission, if they completed their mission, Reyna would make sure Nico was recognized for his bravery.

She slipped off her backpack. She tried to place it under Nico’s head as a makeshift pillow, but her fingers passed right through him as if he were a shadow. She recoiled her hand.

Cold with dread, she tried again. This time, she was able to lift his neck and slide the pillow under. His skin felt cool, but otherwise normal.

Had she been hallucinating?

Nico had expended so much energy travelling through shadows … perhaps he was starting to fade permanently. If he kept pushing himself to the limit for seven more days …

The sound of a blender startled her out of her thoughts.

‘You want a smoothie?’ asked the coach. ‘This one is pineapple, mango, orange and banana, buried under a mound of shaved coconut. I call it the Hercules!’

‘I – I’m all right, thanks.’ She glanced up at the balconies ringing the atrium. It still didn’t seem right to her that the restaurant was empty. A private party. HTK. ‘Coach, I think I’ll scout the second floor. I don’t like –’

A wisp of movement caught her eye. The balcony on the right – a dark shape. Above that, at the edge of the roof, several more silhouettes appeared against the orange clouds.

Reyna drew her sword, but it was too late.

A flash of silver, a faint whoosh, and the point of a needle buried itself in her neck. Her vision blurred. Her limbs turned to spaghetti. She collapsed next to Nico.

As her eyes dimmed, she saw her dogs running towards her, but they froze in mid-bark and toppled over.

At the bar, the coach yelled, ‘Hey!’

Another whoosh. The coach collapsed with a silver dart in his neck.

Reyna tried to say, Nico, wake up. Her voice wouldn’t work. Her body had been deactivated as completely as her metal dogs had.

Dark figures lined the rooftop. Half a dozen leaped into the courtyard, silent and graceful.

One leaned over Reyna. She could only make out a hazy smudge of grey.

A muffled voice said, ‘Take her.’

A cloth sack was wrestled over her head. Reyna wondered dimly if this was how she would die – without even a fight.

Then it didn’t matter. Several pairs of rough hands lifted her like an unwieldy piece of furniture and she drifted into unconsciousness.





XXII


Reyna


THE ANSWER CAME TO HER before she was fully conscious.

The initials on the sign at Barrachina: HTK.

‘Not funny,’ Reyna muttered to herself. ‘Not remotely funny.’

Years ago, Lupa had taught her how to sleep lightly, wake up alert and be ready to attack. Now, as her senses returned, she took stock of her situation.

The cloth sack still covered her head, but it didn’t seem to be cinched around her neck. She was tied to a hard chair – wood, by the feel of it. Cords were tight against the ribs. Her hands were bound behind her, but her legs were free at the ankles.

Either her captors were sloppy, or they hadn’t expected her to wake up so quickly.

Reyna wriggled her fingers and toes. Whatever tranquilizer they’d used, the effects had worn off.

Somewhere in front of her, footsteps echoed down a corridor. The sound got closer. Reyna let her muscles go slack. She rested her chin against her chest.

A lock clicked. A door creaked open. Judging from the acoustics, Reyna was in a small room with brick or concrete walls: maybe a basement or a cell. One person entered the room.

Reyna calculated the distance. No more than five feet.

She surged upward, spinning so the chair legs smashed against her captor’s body. The force broke the chair. Her captor fell with a pained grunt.

Shouts from the corridor. More footsteps.

Reyna shook the cloth sack off her head. She dropped into a backward roll, pulling her bound hands under her legs so her arms were in front of her. Her captor – a teen girl in grey camouflage – lay dazed on the floor, a knife at her belt.

Reyna grabbed the knife and straddled her, pressing the blade against her captor’s throat.

Three more girls crowded the doorway. Two drew knives. The third nocked an arrow in her bow.

For a moment, everyone froze.

Her hostage’s carotid artery pulsed under the blade. Wisely, the girl made no attempt to move.

Reyna ran scenarios on how she could overcome the three in the doorway. All of them wore grey camouflage T-shirts, faded black jeans, black athletic shoes and utility belts as if they were going camping or hiking … or hunting.

‘You’re the Hunters of Artemis,’ Reyna realized.

‘Take it easy,’ said the girl with the bow. Her ginger hair was shaved on the sides, long on top. She had the build of a professional wrestler. ‘You’ve got the wrong impression.’

The girl on the floor exhaled, but Reyna knew that trick – trying to loosen an enemy’s hold. Reyna pressed the knife tighter against the girl’s throat.