The Blood of Olympus (The Heroes of Olympus, #5)(78)

The day was hot and windy. The sea glittered with chop, but Leo had fixed the stabilizers well enough that Hazel didn’t look too seasick.

Curving off to their starboard side was the town of Mykonos – a collection of white stucco buildings with blue roofs, blue windows and blue doors.

‘We saw these pelicans walking around town,’ Percy reported. ‘Like, just going through the shops, stopping at the bars.’

Hazel frowned. ‘Monsters in disguise?’

‘No,’ Annabeth said, laughing, ‘just regular old pelicans. They’re the town mascots or something. And there’s a “Little Italy” section of town. That’s why the gelato is so good.’

‘Europe is messed up.’ Leo shook his head. ‘First we go to Rome for Spanish steps. Then we go to Greece for Italian ice cream.’

But he couldn’t argue with the gelato. He ate his double chocolate delight and tried to imagine that he and his friends were just chilling on a vacation. Which made him wish Calypso was with him, which made him wish the war was over and everybody was alive … which made him sad. It was 30 July. Less than forty-eight hours until G-Day, when Gaia, the Princess of Potty Sludge, would awaken in all her dirt-faced glory.

The strange thing was, the closer they got to 1 August, the more upbeat his friends acted. Or maybe upbeat wasn’t the right word. They seemed to be pulling together for the final lap – aware that the next two days would make or break them. There was no point moping around when you faced imminent death. The end of the world made gelato taste a lot better.

Of course, the rest of the crew hadn’t been down in the stables with Leo, talking with the victory goddess Nike over the past three days …

Piper set down her ice-cream cup. ‘So, the island of Delos is right across the harbour. Artemis and Apollo’s home turf. Who’s going?’

‘Me,’ Leo said immediately.

Everybody stared at him.

‘What?’ Leo demanded. ‘I’m diplomatic and stuff. Frank and Hazel volunteered to back me up.’

‘We did?’ Frank lowered his half-eaten apple. ‘I mean … sure we did.’

Hazel’s gold eyes flashed in the sunlight. ‘Leo, did you have a dream about this or something?’

‘Yes,’ Leo blurted. ‘Well … no. Not exactly. But … you got to trust me on this, guys. I need to talk to Apollo and Artemis. I’ve got an idea I need to bounce off them.’

Annabeth frowned. She looked like she might object, but Jason spoke up.

‘If Leo has an idea,’ he said, ‘we need to trust him.’

Leo felt guilty about that, especially considering what his idea was, but he mustered a smile. ‘Thanks, man.’

Percy shrugged. ‘Okay. But a word of advice: when you see Apollo, don’t mention haiku.’

Hazel knitted her eyebrows. ‘Why not? Isn’t he the god of poetry?’

‘Just trust me.’

‘Got it.’ Leo rose to his feet. ‘And, guys, if they have a souvenir shop on Delos, I’m totally bringing you back some Apollo and Artemis bobbleheads!’

Apollo didn’t seem to be in the mood for haiku. He wasn’t selling bobbleheads, either.

Frank had turned into a giant eagle to fly to Delos, but Leo hitched a ride with Hazel on Arion’s back. No offence to Frank, but after the fiasco at Fort Sumter Leo had become a conscientious objector to riding giant eagles. He had a one hundred percent failure rate.

They found the island deserted, maybe because the seas were too choppy for the tourist boats. The windswept hills were barren except for rocks, grass and wildflowers – and, of course, a bunch of crumbling temples. The rubble was probably very impressive, but, ever since Olympia, Leo had been on ancient ruins overload. He was so done with white marble columns. He wanted to get back to the U.S., where the oldest buildings were the public schools and Ye Olde McDonald’s.

They walked down an avenue lined with white stone lions, the faces weathered almost featureless.

‘It’s eerie,’ Hazel said.

‘You sense any ghosts?’ Frank asked.

She shook her head. ‘The lack of ghosts is eerie. Back in ancient times, Delos was sacred ground. No mortal was allowed to be born here or die here. There are literally no mortal spirits on this whole island.’

‘Cool with me,’ Leo said. ‘Does that mean nobody’s allowed to kill us here?’

‘I didn’t say that.’ Hazel stopped at the summit of a low hill. ‘Look. Down there.’

Below them, the hillside had been carved into an amphitheatre. Scrubby plants sprouted between the rows of stone benches, so it looked like a concert for thorn bushes. Down at the bottom, sitting on a block of stone in the middle of the stage, the god Apollo hunched over a ukulele, plucking out a mournful tune.

At least, Leo assumed it was Apollo. The dude looked about seventeen, with curly blond hair and a perfect tan. He wore tattered jeans, a black T-shirt and a white linen jacket with glittering rhinestone lapels, like he was trying for an Elvis/Ramones/Beach Boys hybrid look.

Leo didn’t usually think of the ukulele as a sad instrument. (Pathetic, sure. But not sad.) Yet the tune Apollo strummed was so melancholy it broke Leo’s feels.

Sitting in the front row was a young girl of about thirteen, wearing black leggings and a silver tunic, her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. She was whittling on a long piece of wood – making a bow.