The House of Hades (The Heroes of Olympus #4)(75)

He ripped some soft hide from the drakon’s frills and tucked it in his belt.

“Uh…” Annabeth wanted to ask if the giant really used drakon hide for toilet paper, but she decided against it. “Bob, do you want to introduce us?”

“Annabeth…” Bob patted Percy’s legs. “This is Percy.”

Annabeth hoped the Titan was just messing with her, though Bob’s face revealed nothing.

She gritted her teeth. “I meant the giant. You promised he could help.”

“Promise?” The giant glanced over from his work. His eyes narrowed under his bushy red brows. “A big thing, a promise. Why would Bob promise my help?”

Bob shifted his weight. Titans were scary, but Annabeth had never seen one next to a giant before. Compared to the drakon-killer, Bob looked downright runty.

“Damasen is a good giant,” Bob said. “He is peaceful. He can cure poisons.”

Annabeth watched the giant Damasen, who was now ripping chunks of bloody meat from the drakon carcass with his bare hands.

“Peaceful,” she said. “Yes, I can see that.”

“Good meat for dinner.” Damasen stood up straight and studied Annabeth, as if she were another potential source of protein. “Come inside. We will have stew. Then we will see about this promise.”

COZY.

Annabeth never thought she would describe anything in Tartarus that way, but despite the fact that the giant’s hut was as big as a planetarium and constructed of bones, mud, and drakon skin, it definitely felt cozy.

In the center blazed a bonfire made of pitch and bone; yet the smoke was white and odorless, rising through the hole in the middle of the ceiling. The floor was covered with dry marsh grass and gray wool rugs. At one end lay a massive bed of sheepskins and drakon leather. At the other end, freestanding racks were hung with drying plants, cured leather, and what looked like strips of drakon jerky. The whole place smelled of stew, smoke, basil, and thyme.

The only thing that worried Annabeth was the flock of sheep huddled in a pen at the back of the hut.

Annabeth remembered the cave of Polyphemus the Cyclops, who ate demigods and sheep indiscriminately. She wondered if giants had similar tastes.

Part of her was tempted to run, but Bob had already placed Percy in the giant’s bed, where he nearly disappeared in the wool and leather. Small Bob hopped off Percy and kneaded the blankets, purring so strongly the bed rattled like a Thousand-Finger Massage.

Damasen plodded to the bonfire. He tossed his drakon meat into a hanging pot that seemed to be made from an old monster skull, then picked up a ladle and began to stir.

Annabeth didn’t want to be the next ingredient in his stew, but she’d come here for a reason. She took a deep breath and marched up to Damasen. “My friend is dying. Can you cure him or not?”

Her voice caught on the word friend. Percy was a lot more than that. Even boyfriend really didn’t cover it. They’d been through so much together, at this point Percy was part of her—a sometimes annoying part, sure, but definitely a part she could not live without.

Damasen looked down at her, glowering under his bushy red eyebrows. Annabeth had met large scary humanoids before, but Damasen unsettled her in a different way. He didn’t seem hostile. He radiated sorrow and bitterness, as if he were so wrapped up in his own misery that he resented Annabeth for trying to make him focus on anything else.

“I don’t hear words like those in Tartarus,” the giant grumbled. “Friend. Promise.”

Annabeth crossed her arms. “How about gorgon’s blood? Can you cure that, or did Bob overstate your talents?”

Angering a twenty-foot-tall drakon slayer probably wasn’t a wise strategy, but Percy was dying. She didn’t have time for diplomacy.

Damasen scowled at her. “You question my talents? A half-dead mortal straggles into my swamp and questions my talents?”

“Yep,” she said.

“Hmph.” Damasen handed Bob the ladle. “Stir.”

As Bob tended the stew, Damasen perused his drying racks, plucking various leaves and roots. He popped a fistful of plant material into his mouth, chewed it up, then spat it into a clump of wool.

“Cup of broth,” Damasen ordered.

Bob ladled some stew juice into a hollow gourd. He handed it to Damasen, who dunked the chewed-up gunk ball and stirred it with his finger.

“Gorgon’s blood,” he muttered. “Hardly a challenge for my talents.”

He lumbered to the bedside and propped up Percy with one hand. Small Bob the kitten sniffed the broth and hissed. He scratched the sheets with his paws like he wanted to bury it.

“You’re going to feed him that?” Annabeth asked.

The giant glared at her. “Who is the healer here? You?”

Annabeth shut her mouth. She watched as the giant made Percy sip the broth. Damasen handled him with surprising gentleness, murmuring words of encouragement that she couldn’t quite catch.

With each sip, Percy’s color improved. He drained the cup, and his eyes fluttered open. He looked around with a dazed expression, spotted Annabeth, and gave her a drunken grin. “Feel great.”

His eyes rolled up in his head. He fell back in the bed and began to snore.

“A few hours of sleep,” Damasen pronounced. “He’ll be good as new.”