Sea Green Eyes

Chapter 64

Cressida felt...cosy.

She 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 cosy.

In the centre blazed a bonfire made of pitch and bone; yet the smoke was white and odourless, rising through the hole in the middle of the ceiling. The floor was covered with dry marsh grass and grey 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.

It was probably the best place she'd seen since falling into this hellhole.

Bob had placed Percy on 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.

Cressida was instantly at his side as she pushed the hair from his face, lacing their fingers together as Castor sat down near them.

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.

"He's dying," Cressida said. "Can you cure him or not?"

Damasen glowered at her under his bushy red eyebrows.

"Please," she begged. "I love him, and I can't lose him."

She thought about giving him a label, but none of them seemed to fit. Percy would always be her friend, but he was so much more than that. Even boyfriend really didn't cover it. They'd been through so much together, and at this point, Percy was part of her—a sometimes annoying part, sure, but definitely a part she could not live without, which was something she learned a long time ago. She didn't know that Percy had already had this realisation of how no label seemed to fit what they were to each other, and they'd both rather perish in this pit than ever use the term soulmate - too clichéd and overused and just not them. And even if it was, it still wouldn't fit. They were more than that.

Damasen's eyes were still on Cressida and she recognised something in them. He didn't seem hostile. He radiated sorrow and bitterness as if he were so wrapped up in his own misery that he resented Cressida and company for trying to make him focus on anything else.

She was the same way once. More than once. Every time Percy tried to get answers out of her to questions she didn't want him or anyone to ask.

"I don't hear words like those in Tartarus," the giant grumbled. "Love. Promise."

Cressida crossed her arms over her chest as she stood. She was done with these half-answers and vague responses.

"Cress-"

"How about gorgon's blood? Have you heard of that? Can you cure that, or did Bob overstate your talents?"

This definitely wasn't a positive thinking plan or anything of the sort. This was her scared and angry about losing the man she loved. She had no time for words.

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

"Yep," she said, popping the 'p' while Castor just shook his head at his sister.

"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, and then spat it into a clump of wool.