This Dark Night ― Percy Jackson & Annabeth Chase¹

―ix. welcome to c.c.'s salon

THEY GOT AWAY BY THE SKIN OF THEIR TEETH. 

Percy was knocked out; Clarisse had gotten thrown gods-knew-where; Tyson was... 

Everything was a mess. 

Naomi and Annabeth managed to salvage some supplies from the wreck—Hermes's (now empty) flask, an airtight bag of ambrosia, a couple of sailors' shirts and a bottle of Dr. Pepper. Naomi's seemingly indestructible flower hadn't sustained even a ripped petal—part of her was convinced it wasn't even a real flower and it was made of crazy-strong plastic, but it certainly smelled real. 

Annabeth managed to stitch together a makeshift sail of gray uniform fabric. She tacked into the wind as they sailed, wisps of blonde hair escaping her ponytail and flying around her face in the sea breeze. 

Naomi's hands wouldn't stop shaking. It was like the adrenaline from the attack had been transformed into pure anxiety. She kept going over it again and again in her head—plagued by the mistakes they'd made, the what-ifs that could have saved the ship, could have saved Tyson. 

Naomi had never lost anyone. Sure, kids at St. Monica's came and went, but she knew they were just going to live somewhere else. In the fourteen years she'd been alive, she'd never had someone she knew die. Even the old nuns seemed immortal. 

But now Tyson was gone.

It wasn't fair. 

With the hand that wasn't manning the sail, Annabeth covered Naomi's, which was busy tapping absently against her thigh. "We're going to be okay." 

Naomi's hand stilled under Annabeth's, but the blonde didn't pull away. "You can't know that." 

"No," Annabeth conceded. "But I can hope."

Naomi knew Annabeth well enough to know she wasn't ordinarily an optimist, so she appreciated the sentiment. 

"Get some rest," Annabeth told her. "Who knows how long we'll be at sea—I'll take first watch."

"Are you sure?" Naomi asked. 

Annabeth nodded. "I'm sure." 

Naomi tried to get as comfortable as she could, which wasn't easy on their little rowboat. She ended up curled up on the bench next to Annabeth, her head in her lap. 

It didn't take too long for sleep to come.

❊

When Annabeth shook Naomi awake, they were approaching land—an island with a small mountain in the center, a dazzling collection of marble-white buildings, a beach dotted with palm trees. 

The current pulled them in. 

"Welcome!" said a lady with a clipboard. 

She looked like a young flight attendant—blue business suit, perfect makeup, hair pulled back in a polished updo. She shook their hands as they stepped onto the dock. With the dazzling smile she gave them, you would've thought they were celebrities stepping off a yacht rather than a trio of grungy teenagers stepping of a little rowboat. 

Then again, their rowboat wasn't the weirdest ship in port. Along with a bunch of pleasure yachts, there was a U.S. Navy submarine, several dugout canoes, and an old-fashioned three-masted sailing ship. There was a helipad with a "Channel Five Fort Lauderdale" helicopter on it, and a short runway with a Learjet and a propeller plane that looked like it belonged in a World War II history museum. 

"Is this your first time with us?" the clipboard lady inquired. 

"Umm..." Annabeth said uncertainly.