𐌙/𐌍 Ᏽ𐌵𐌀𐌋𐌄 & 𐌕𐋅𐌄 Ᏽ𐌐𐌄𐌀𐌕 𐌌𐌙𐌕𐋅𐌔 ¹

Chapter 17

17 | Annabeth with her obedience school

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

Underneath, stenciled on the glass doors: NO SOLICI-TORS. 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 face us. "Okay. You remember the plan."

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

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

"Don't think negative."

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

"Makes total sense, yeah," I replied sarcastically.

Percy took the four pearls the Nereid gave him on his trip to the ocean. The white milky pearls that would save us should we ever get in trouble.

Annabeth put her hand on Percy's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Percy. You're right, we'll make it. It'll be fine."

She 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."

Annabeth gave me a sublte glare. "Yeah, yeah. No problem. At all," I lied, but I tried lying to myself that I was confident, it usually worked out nice.

Percy stored the pearls in his pocket. "Let's whup some Underworld butt."

We walked inside the DOA lobby.

Muzak played softly on hidden speakers. The carpet and walls were steel gray. Pencil cactuses grew in the corners like skeleton hands. The furniture was black leather, and every seat was taken. There were people sitting on couches, people standing up, people staring out the windows or wait-ing 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 partic-ular, 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 tall and elegant, with chocolate-colored skin and bleached-blond hair shaved military style. He wore tortoiseshell shades and a silk Italian suit that matched his hair. A black rose was pinned to his lapel under a silver name tag.

The name tag read, "Your name is Chiron?" I asked.

He leaned across the desk. I couldn't see anything in his glasses except our own reflections, but his smile was sweet and cold, like a pythons, 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. His voice looked strangely like a wave of petroleum, dark and pure black. "Tell me, mate, do I look like a centaur?"

"N-no?"

"Sir," he added smoothly.

"Sir," I corrected.

He pinched the name tag and ran his finger under the letters. "Can you read this, mate? It says C-H-A-R-O-N. Say it with me: CARE-ON."

"Charon."

"Amazing! Now: Mr. Charon."

"Mr. Charon," I repeated.

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