The House of Hades (The Heroes of Olympus #4)(108)

I need speed, Jason thought. I need purpose.

He envisioned Notus, the Greek version of the South Wind—blistering hot, but very fast.

In that moment, he chose Greek. He threw in his lot with Camp Half-Blood—and the horses changed. The storm clouds inside burned away, leaving nothing but red dust and shimmering heat, like mirages on the Sahara.

“Well done,” said the god.

On the throne now sat Notus—a bronze-skinned old man in a fiery Greek chiton, his head crowned with a wreath of withered, smoking barley.

“What are you waiting for?” the god prompted.

Jason turned toward the fiery wind steeds. Suddenly he wasn’t afraid of them.

He thrust out his hand. A swirl of dust shot toward the nearest horse. A lasso—a rope of wind, more tightly wound than any tornado—wrapped around the horse’s neck. The wind formed a halter and brought the beast to a stop.

Jason summoned another wind rope. He lashed a second horse, binding it to his will. In less than a minute, he had tethered all four venti. He reined them in, still whinnying and bucking, but they couldn’t break Jason’s ropes. It felt like flying four kites in a strong wind—hard, yes, but not impossible.

“Very good, Jason Grace,” Notus said. “You are a son of Jupiter, yet you have chosen your own path—as all the greatest demigods have done before you. You cannot control your parentage, but you can choose your legacy. Now, go. Lash your team to the prow and direct them toward Malta.”

“Malta?” Jason tried to focus, but the heat from the horses was making him light-headed. He knew nothing about Malta, except for some vague story about a Maltese falcon. Were malts invented there?

“Once you arrive in the city of Valletta,” Notus said, “you will no longer need these horses.”

“You mean…we’ll find Leo there?”

The god shimmered, slowly fading into waves of heat. “Your destiny grows clearer, Jason Grace. When the choice comes again—storm or fire—remember me. And do not despair.”

The doors of the throne room burst open. The horses, smelling freedom, bolted for the exit.

AT SIXTEEN, MOST KIDS WOULD STRESS about parallel parking tests, getting a driver’s license, and affording a car.

Jason stressed about controlling a team of fiery horses with wind ropes.

After making sure his friends were aboard and safely below deck, he lashed the venti to the prow of the Argo II (which Festus was not happy about), straddled the figurehead, and yelled, “Giddyup!”

The venti tore across the waves. They weren’t quite as fast as Hazel’s horse, Arion, but they had a lot more heat. They kicked up a rooster tail of steam that made it almost impossible for Jason to see where they were going. The ship shot out of the bay. In no time Africa was a hazy line on the horizon behind them.

Maintaining the wind ropes took all of Jason’s concentration. The horses strained to break free. Only his willpower kept them in check.

Malta, he ordered. Straight to Malta.

By the time land finally appeared in the distance—a hilly island carpeted with low stone buildings—Jason was soaked in sweat. His arms felt rubbery, like he’d been holding a barbell straight out in front of him.

He hoped they’d reached the right place, because he couldn’t keep the horses together any longer. He released the wind reins. The venti scattered into particles of sand and steam.

Exhausted, Jason climbed down from the prow. He leaned against Festus’s neck. The dragon turned and gave him a chin hug.

“Thanks, man,” Jason said. “Rough day, huh?”

Behind him, the deck boards creaked.

“Jason?” Piper called. “Oh, gods, your arms…”

He hadn’t noticed, but his skin was dotted with blisters.

Piper unwrapped a square of ambrosia. “Eat this.”

He chewed. His mouth was filled with the taste of fresh brownies—his favorite treat from the bakeries in New Rome. The blisters faded on his arms. His strength returned, but the brownie ambrosia tasted more bitter than usual, as if it somehow knew that Jason was turning his back on Camp Jupiter. This was no longer the taste of home.

“Thanks, Pipes,” he murmured. “How long was I—?”

“About six hours.”

Wow, Jason thought. No wonder he felt sore and hungry. “The others?”

“All fine. Tired of being cooped up. Should I tell them it’s safe to come above deck?”

Jason licked his dry lips. Despite the ambrosia, he felt shaky. He didn’t want the others to see him like this.

“Give me a second,” he said. “…catch my breath.”

Piper leaned next to him. In her green tank top, her beige shorts, and her hiking boots, she looked like she was ready to climb a mountain—and then fight an army at the top. Her dagger was strapped to her belt. Her cornucopia was slung over one shoulder. She’d taken to wearing the jagged bronze sword she’d recovered from Zethes the Boread, which was only slightly less intimidating than an assault rifle.

During their time at Auster’s palace, Jason had watched Piper and Hazel spend hours sword fighting—something Piper had never been interested in before. Since her encounter with Khione, Piper seemed more wired, tensed up inside like a primed catapult, as if she were determined never to be caught off guard again.