𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐬'𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 • 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘤𝘺 𝘫𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘴𝘰𝘯

Cerberus

Y/n Pov:

We stood in the shadows of Valencia Boulevard, looking up at gold letters etched in black marble: DOARECORDING STUDIOS.

Underneath, stencilled on the glass doors: NO SOLICITORS. NO LOITERING. NO LIVING. It was almost midnight, but the lobby was brightly lit and full of people. Behind the security desk, sat a tough-looking guard with sunglasses and an earpiece. Percy turned to us. 

"Okay. You remember the plan." 

"The plan," Grover gulped. "Yeah. I love the plan." 

I said, "What happens if the plan doesn't work?" 

"Don't think negative." 

"Right," I said. "We're entering the Land of the Dead, and I shouldn't think negative." 

Percy took the pearls out of his pocket. I put my hand on his shoulder. 

"I'm sorry, Percy. You're right, we'll make it. It'll be fine." 

Annabeth gave Grover a nudge. 

"Oh, right!" he chimed in. "We got this far. We'll find the master bolt and save your mom. No problem."

Percy looked at us and grinned.

He slipped the pearls back in his pocket. 

"Let's whoop some Underworld butt."

I winked at him.

"That's the spirit!"

We walked inside the DOA lobby. Muzak played softly on hidden speakers. The carpet and walls were steel grey. Pencil cactuses grew in the corners like skeleton hands. The furniture was black leather, and every seat was taken. People were sitting on couches, people standing up, people staring out the windows or waiting for the elevator. Nobody moved, or talked, or did much of anything. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see them all just fine, but if I focused on any one of them in particular, they started looking ... transparent. I could see right through their bodies. 

The security guard's desk was a raised podium, so we had to look up at him.

He was a tall and elegant man, with chocolate-coloured skin and bleached-blond hair, shaved military style. He wore tortoise-shell shades and a silk Italian suit that matched his hair. A black rose was pinned to his lapel under a silver name tag. 

Percy read the name tag, then looked at him in bewilderment. 

"Your name is Chiron?" 

He leaned across the desk. I couldn't see anything in his glasses except my reflection, but his smile was sweet and cold, like a python, right before it eats you. 

"What a precious young lad." He had a strange accent—British, maybe, but also as if he had learned English as a second language. "Tell me, mate, do I look like a centaur?" 

"N-no."

"Sir," he added smoothly. 

"Sir," Percy said. 

He pinched the name tag and ran his finger under the letters. 

"Can you read this, mate? It says C-H-A-RO-N. Say it with me: CARE-ON." 

"Charon." 

"Amazing! Now: Mr Charon." 

"Mr Charon," Percy said. 

"Well done." 

He sat back. 

"I hate being confused with that old horse-man. And now, how may I help you little dead ones?"