Crimson Rivers [1] - Percy jackson

Chapter 13: 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 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. I turned to my 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.” Percy chimes in

“Right,” she said. “We’re entering the Land of the Dead, and I shouldn’t
think negative.”

Percy took the pearls out of my pocket, the four 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 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.”  I add on

He slipped the pearls back 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 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 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 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 read the name tag, then looked at him in bewilderment. “Your name is
Chiron?”

He leaned across the desk. We couldn’t see anything in his glasses except
my own reflection, but 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.” Percy stuttered

“Sir,” he added smoothly.

“Sir,”

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 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?”

His question caught in my stomach like a fastball. I looked at Annabeth for support. “We want to go the Underworld,” she said.

Charon’s mouth twitched. “Well, that’s refreshing.”

“It is?” I asked.

“Straightforward and honest. No screaming. No ‘There must be a
mistake, Mr. Charon.’” He looked us over. “How did you die, then?”

I nudged Grover. “Oh,” he said. “Um…drowned…in the bathtub.”
“All four of you?” Charon asked.

We nodded. “Big bathtub.”

Charon looked mildly impressed. “I don’t suppose you have coins for passage. Normally, with adults, you see, I could charge your American Express, or add the ferry price to your last cable bill. But with children…alas, you never die prepared. Suppose you’ll have to take a seat for a few centuries.”

“Oh, but we have coins.” I set four golden drachmas on the counter, part
of the stash I’d found in Crusty’s office desk.

“Well, now…” Charon moistened his lips. “Real drachmas. Real golden drachmas. I haven’t seen these in…” His fingers hovered greedily over the coins.
We were so close. Then Charon looked at me. That cold stare behind his glasses seemed to bore a hole through my chest. “Here now,” he said. “You couldn’t read my name correctly. Are you dyslexic, girl?”

“No,” I said. “I’m dead."

Charon leaned forward and took a sniff. “You’re not dead. I should’ve known. You’re a godling.”

“We have to get to the Underworld,” I insisted.

Charon made a growling sound deep in his throat. Immediately, all the people in the waiting room got up and started pacing, agitated, lighting cigarettes, running hands through their hair, or checking their wristwatches. “Leave while you can,” Charon told us. “I’ll just take these and forget I saw you.”

He started to go for the coins, but I snatched them back. “No service, no tip.” I tried to sound braver than I felt.
Charon growled again—a deep, blood-chilling sound. The spirits of the dead started pounding on the elevator doors. “It’s a shame, too,” I sighed. “We had more to offer.”