The Mark of Athena (The Heroes of Olympus #3)(94)

“I don’t want any more Shrimpzilla surprises,” he insisted.

They’d all tried to convince Leo that the skolopendra attack hadn’t been entirely his fault, but he wouldn’t listen. Percy knew how he felt. Not forgiving himself for mistakes was one of Percy’s biggest talents.

It was about four in the morning. The weather was miserable. The fog was so thick, Percy couldn’t see Festus at the end of the prow, and warm drizzle hung in the air like a bead curtain. As they sailed into twenty-foot swells, the sea heaving underneath them, Percy could hear poor Hazel down in her cabin…also heaving.

Despite all that, Percy was grateful to be back on the water. He preferred it to flying through storm clouds and being attacked by man-eating birds and enchilada-trampling pegasi.

He stood with Annabeth at the forward rail while he told her about his dream.

Percy wasn’t sure how she’d take the news. Her reaction was even more troubling than he anticipated: she didn’t seem surprised.

She peered into the fog. “Percy, you have to promise me something. Don’t tell the others about this dream.”

“Don’t what? Annabeth—”

“What you saw was about the Mark of Athena,” she said. “It won’t help the others to know. It’ll only make them worry, and it’ll make it harder for me to go off on my own.”

“Annabeth, you can’t be serious. That thing in the dark, the big chamber with the crumbling floor—”

“I know.” Her face looked unnaturally pale, and Percy suspected it wasn’t just the fog. “But I have to do this alone.”

Percy swallowed back his anger. He wasn’t sure if he was mad at Annabeth, or his dream, or the entire Greek/Roman world that had endured and shaped human history for five thousand years with one goal in mind: to make Percy Jackson’s life suck as much as possible.

“You know what’s in that cavern,” he guessed. “Does it have to do with spiders?”

“Yes,” she said in a small voice.

“Then how can you even…?” He made himself stop.

Once Annabeth had made up her mind, arguing with her wouldn’t do any good. He remembered the night three and a half years ago, when they’d saved Nico and Bianca di Angelo in Maine. Annabeth had been captured by the Titan Atlas. For a while, Percy wasn’t sure if she was alive or dead. He’d traveled across the country to save her from the Titan. It had been the hardest few days of his life—not just the monsters and the fighting, but the worry.

How could he intentionally let her go now, knowing she was heading into something even more dangerous?

Then it dawned on him: the way he had felt back then, for a few days, was probably how Annabeth had felt for the six months he had been missing with amnesia.

That made him feel guilty, and a little bit selfish, to be standing here arguing with her. She had to go on this quest. The fate of the world might depend on it. But part of him wanted to say: Forget the world. He didn’t want to be without her.

Percy stared into the fog. He couldn’t see anything around them, but he had perfect bearings at sea. He knew their exact latitude and longitude. He knew the depth of the ocean and which way the currents were flowing. He knew the ship’s speed, and could sense no rocks, sandbars, or other natural dangers in their path. Still, being blind was unsettling.

They hadn’t been attacked since they had touched the water, but the sea seemed different. Percy had been in the Atlantic, the Pacific, even the Gulf of Alaska, but this sea felt more ancient and powerful. Percy could sense its layers swirling below him. Every Greek or Roman hero had sailed these waters—from Hercules to Aeneas. Monsters still dwelt in the depths, so deeply wrapped in the Mist that they slept most of the time; but Percy could feel them stirring, responding to the Celestial bronze hull of a Greek trireme and the presence of demigod blood.

They are back, the monsters seemed to say. Finally, fresh blood.

“We’re not far from the Italian coast,” Percy said, mostly to break the silence. “Maybe a hundred nautical miles to the mouth of the Tiber.”

“Good,” Annabeth said. “By daybreak, we should—”

“Stop.” Percy’s skin felt washed with ice. “We have to stop.”

“Why?” Annabeth asked.

“Leo, stop!” he yelled.

Too late. The other boat appeared out of the fog and rammed them head-on. In that split second, Percy registered random details: another trireme; black sails painted with a gorgon’s head; hulking warriors, not quite human, crowded at the front of the boat in Greek armor, swords and spears ready; and a bronze ram at water level, slamming against the hull of the Argo II.

Annabeth and Percy were almost thrown overboard.

Festus blew fire, sending a dozen very surprised warriors screaming and diving into the sea, but more swarmed aboard the Argo II. Grappling lines wrapped around the rails and the mast, digging iron claws into the hull’s planks.

By the time Percy had recovered his wits, the enemy was everywhere. He couldn’t see well through the fog and the dark, but the invaders seemed to be humanlike dolphins, or dolphinlike humans. Some had gray snouts. Others held their swords in stunted flippers. Some waddled on legs partially fused together, while others had flippers for feet, which reminded Percy of clown shoes.

Leo sounded the alarm bell. He made a dash for the nearest ballista but went down under a pile of chattering dolphin warriors.