The House of Hades (The Heroes of Olympus #4)(43)

She walked to the pile of trash and picked out a reasonably clean paper napkin.

She remembered her vision of Reyna, standing in the smoking crevice beneath the ruins of Thalia’s pine tree, speaking with the voice of Athena:

I must stand here. The Roman must bring me.

Hurry. The message must be sent.

“Bob,” she said, “offerings burned in the mortal world appear on this altar, right?”

Bob frowned uncomfortably, like he wasn’t ready for a pop quiz. “Yes?”

“So what happens if I burn something on the altar here?”

“Uh…”

“That’s all right,” Annabeth said. “You don’t know. Nobody knows, because it’s never been done.”

There was a chance, she thought, just the slimmest chance that an offering burned on this altar might appear at Camp Half-Blood.

Doubtful, but if it did work…

“Annabeth?” Percy said again. “You’re planning something. You’ve got that I’m-planning-something look.”

“I don’t have an I’m-planning-something look.”

“Yeah, you totally do. Your eyebrows knit and your lips press together and—”

“Do you have a pen?” she asked him.

“You’re kidding, right?” He brought out Riptide.

“Yes, but can you actually write with it?”

“I—I don’t know,” he admitted. “Never tried.”

He uncapped the pen. As usual, it sprang into a full-sized sword. Annabeth had watched him do this hundreds of times. Normally when he fought, Percy simply discarded the cap. It always appeared in his pocket later, as needed. When he touched the cap to the point of the sword, it would turn back into a ballpoint pen.

“What if you touch the cap to the other end of the sword?” Annabeth said. “Like where you’d put the cap if you were actually going to write with the pen.”

“Uh…” Percy looked doubtful, but he touched the cap to the hilt of the sword. Riptide shrank back into a ballpoint pen, but now the writing point was exposed.

“May I?” Annabeth plucked it from his hand. She flattened the napkin against the altar and began to write. Riptide’s ink glowed Celestial bronze.

“What are you doing?” Percy asked.

“Sending a message,” Annabeth said. “I just hope Rachel gets it.”

“Rachel?” Percy asked. “You mean our Rachel? Oracle of Delphi Rachel?”

“That’s the one.” Annabeth suppressed a smile.

Whenever she brought up Rachel’s name, Percy got nervous. At one point, Rachel had been interested in dating Percy. That was ancient history. Rachel and Annabeth were good friends now. But Annabeth didn’t mind making Percy a little uneasy. You had to keep your boyfriend on his toes.

Annabeth finished her note and folded the napkin. On the outside, she wrote:

Connor,

Give this to Rachel. Not a prank. Don’t be a moron.

Love,

Annabeth

She took a deep breath. She was asking Rachel Dare to do something ridiculously dangerous, but it was the only way she could think of to communicate with the Romans—the only way that might avoid bloodshed.

“Now I just need to burn it,” she said. “Anybody got a match?”

The point of Bob’s spear shot from his broom handle. It sparked against the altar and erupted in silvery fire.

“Uh, thanks.” Annabeth lit the napkin and set it on the altar. She watched it crumble to ash and wondered if she was crazy. Could the smoke really make it out of Tartarus?

“We should go now,” Bob advised. “Really, really go. Before we are killed.”

Annabeth stared at the wall of blackness in front of them. Somewhere in there was a lady who dispensed a Death Mist that might hide them from monsters—a plan recommended by a Titan, one of their bitterest enemies. Another dose of weirdness to explode her brain.

“Right,” she said. “I’m ready.”

ANNABETH LITERALLY STUMBLED over the second Titan.

After entering the storm front, they plodded on for what seemed like hours, relying on the light of Percy’s Celestial bronze blade, and on Bob, who glowed faintly in the dark like some sort of crazy janitor angel.

Annabeth could only see about five feet in front of her. In a strange way, the Dark Lands reminded her of San Francisco, where her dad lived—on those summer afternoons when the fog bank rolled in like cold, wet packing material and swallowed Pacific Heights. Except here in Tartarus, the fog was made of ink.

Rocks loomed out of nowhere. Pits appeared at their feet, and Annabeth barely avoided falling in. Monstrous roars echoed in the gloom, but Annabeth couldn’t tell where they came from. All she could be certain of was that the terrain was still sloping down.

Down seemed to be the only direction allowed in Tartarus. If Annabeth backtracked even a step, she felt tired and heavy, as if gravity were increasing to discourage her. Assuming that the entire pit was the body of Tartarus, Annabeth had a nasty feeling they were marching straight down his throat.

She was so preoccupied with that thought, she didn’t notice the ledge until it was too late.

Percy yelled, “Whoa!” He grabbed for her arm, but she was already falling.

Fortunately, it was only a shallow depression. Most of it was filled with a monster blister. She had a soft landing on a warm bouncy surface and was feeling lucky—until she opened her eyes and found herself staring through a glowing gold membrane at another, much larger face.