𝗚𝗢𝗟𝗗𝗜𝗘! 𝙥. 𝙟𝙖𝙘𝙠𝙨𝙤𝙣 ¹

I'm Not a Chew Toy!

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: LYDIA

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

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 his friends. "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."

"I can't think of a single positive." Lydia said, matter-of-factly.

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

Percy took the pearls out of his pocket, the three milky spheres the Nereid had given him in Santa Monica. They didn't seem like much of a backup in case something went wrong.

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

"She's right," Lydia said, her expression softening. "We'll save your mother, I promise."

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."

Percy looked at them, appreciation shining in his eyes. He slipped the pearls back in his pocket. "Let's whoop some Underworld butt."

They walked inside the DOA lobby.

Muzak played softly on hidden speakers. The carpet and walls were steel gray. 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 waiting for the elevator. Nobody moved, or talked, or did much of anything. The campers could see right through their bodies.

The security guard's desk was a raised podium, so they 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.

Percy looked at him in bewilderment. "Your name is Chiron?"

He leaned across the desk. His smile was sweet and cold, like a python's...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-R-O-N. Say it with me: CARE-ON."

"Charon."

"Amazing! Now: Mr. Charon."

"Mr. Charon," Percy repeated.

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

Percy looked at Lydia for support.

"We want to go the Underworld," Lydia said, leaning an arm against the desk.

Charon's mouth twitched. "Well, that's refreshing."

"It is?" she asked, losing the air faux confidence she put on.