The Demigod Diaries (The Heroes of Olympus)(45)

Lamia had an array of spells at her disposal. All Claymore had was a one-minute head start.

He didn’t like those odds, but Claymore had a way of turning bad odds in his favor. He’d had no advantages in his life, yet he’d managed to get a PhD and become a successful author. Through his brilliance he’d made a name for himself. Even if he had been plunged into some strange world where monsters and gods existed, there was no way he’d allow himself to lose. Not to Lamia, not to Hecate, not to anyone.

He pulled into his driveway and ran inside, arming the alarm as he locked the door behind him.

He didn’t plan to be here for more than a minute, but the alarm would give him some advance warning in case Lamia got here faster than he anticipated.

He tried to collect his thoughts. The boy Alabaster must have known about Lamia. In Claymore’s dream, Alabaster had told the woman in white that he was being hunted. The woman had warned Alabaster that she couldn’t interfere in a contest between her children. Which meant the woman in white was Hecate, and Lamia and Alabaster were both her children, locked in some sort of deadly struggle.

What happens if someone finds a way to stop death? the boy had asked him outside the auditorium. Alabaster needed a way to defeat Lamia, who couldn’t die. Otherwise Lamia would kill him. So he’d turned to the foremost expert on death—Dr. Howard Claymore.

He picked up the card from his work desk and dialed the number into his cell phone. But the answer he got wasn’t exactly a cry for help.

“What do you want?” the boy asked in a stone-cold tone. “I know your answer was No. So what now? Do you want me to tell you that your dream last night wasn’t real?”

“I’m not stupid,” Claymore retorted, resetting the alarm on his way out. “I now know it was real, and I also know that your sister is trying to kill me. I was attacked in the shopping district, most likely because you asked me for help.”

The boy seemed too stunned to speak. Finally, as Claymore was getting into Black’s truck, Alabaster asked, “If she attacked you, how are you still alive?”

“As I said, I’m not an idiot,” Claymore said. “But as a result of your dragging me into this, my friend is dead.”

He explained briefly what had happened at Black’s Coffee.

There was another moment of silence.

Claymore started the truck. “Well?”

“We need to stop talking,” Alabaster said. “Monsters can track phone calls. Just come to my location and I’ll explain what I need you to do. Hurry.”

Claymore tossed his phone on the seat and slammed his foot down on the accelerator.

Alabaster’s street was a cul-de-sac, a dead end with nothing behind it but limestone cliffs that dropped into the Hudson River. That meant there was no way they’d be attacked from behind, but it also meant that there was no running away.

It wasn’t by chance that Alabaster had set up house here, Claymore assumed. Alabaster meant this to be a place where he could easily defend himself, even if he lost the option to retreat. A perfect place for a last stand.

In fact, number 273 was at the very end of the cul-de-sac.

It was nothing fancy, nothing special. The grass needed mowing and the walls needed a new coat of paint. It wasn’t the nicest house in the world, but it was good enough for an average family to call home.

Claymore walked up to the door and knocked. It didn’t take long for the door to open.

It was that man from yesterday, Alabaster’s father. His blank eyes scanned Claymore, and he smiled. “Hello, friend! Come on in. I’ve made tea for you.”

Claymore frowned. “I honestly don’t care at this point. Just bring me to your son.”

Still smiling, the man ushered Claymore inside.

Unlike the outside, the living room was meticulous. Everything was perfectly polished, straightened, and dusted. It looked like all the furniture had just come out of plastic wrap.

A fire roared in the fireplace, and as promised, tea was sitting on the coffee table.

Claymore ignored it. He sat down on the sofa. “Mr. Torrington, correct? You do understand the situation I’m in? I came here for answers.”

“The tea’s going to get cold,” the man reported, smiling cheerfully. “Drink up!”

Claymore looked him in the eyes. This was his secret weapon? “Are you stupid?”

The man didn’t get to respond before a door opened to the main room, and the boy walked in.

Same freckles and brown hair as yesterday, but his outfit was downright bizarre. He wore a bulletproof vest over a long-sleeved, dark gray shirt. His pants were gray as well, but the oddest thing about his clothes was the symbols.

Nonsensical markings were scribbled in random places all over his shirt and trousers. It looked like he’d let some five-year-old go crazy with a green Sharpie.

“Dr. Claymore,” he said, “don’t bother talking to my companion. He won’t tell you anything interesting.”

All of the nervousness and anxiety seemed to be gone from the boy. He stood grim and determined, like the moment he had tried to mock Claymore in the auditorium.

Claymore glanced at the man, then back at Alabaster. “Why not? Isn’t he your father?”

Alabaster laughed. “No.” He plopped down on the sofa and grabbed a cup of tea. “He’s a Mistform. I created him to serve as my guardian so people don’t ask questions.”