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FIC: The Golden Fleece, chpt 5
Title: The Golden Fleece (Daughter of Wisdom 2)
Author: shiiki
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Annabeth Chase, Percy Jackson, Tyson, Luke Castellan, Clarisse La Rue, Chiron, Thalia Grace, various others, Gen
Fandom: Percy Jackson
Summary: Annabeth Chase returns to Camp Half-Blood to find the safety of her home shattered: Thalia's tree has been poisoned, destroying the magic barriers protecting the camp, and Chiron is blamed. Only one thing can save the camp, and it's up to Annabeth and her best friend Percy to find it. The problem is, they set off with a monster in tow. Once again, the quest and the surprises it has in store is about to change everything she thinks she knows. An alternate PoV retelling of Percy Jackson and the Sea of Monsters.
In this chapter
Chapter Title: I Go Hang-Gliding Over Central Park
Rating: PG
Characters: Annabeth Chase, OC
Word Count: 4,148
Chapter Summary: Two more monster encounters later, Annabeth finally makes it to Percy's fire escape.
A/N: Prof Daly's comment about buildings and architecture was inspired by a TED talk by Michael Murphy. (And yes, I admit I listened to it solely because I was writing Annabeth fic. Who says writing fanfiction doesn't broaden your mind? :P)
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I sat in the park for a short while, catching my breath and taking stock of my injuries. The acid burn from the bonsai Hydra was already healing up nicely, thanks to Tyler. The hare's claw had torn shreds out of my jeans, but the cuts beneath them were superficial. My bum was sore from hours of cycling and I probably looked like a bedraggled mess. My hair, which I'd put up in a ponytail at some point, was so tangled I couldn't even find the elastic in the mess of curls. But none of this was serious. I'd been in worse scrapes.
The more important thing was to figure out where I was and how I'd get to Manhattan from here. I'd already been two days on the road.
I picked myself up and looked around me. The park I was in was large and square, and the trees had been planted in two neat rows that formed an archway over the grass. At the end, paved paths criss-crossed in a six-pointed pattern, with one leading to an orange-and-black building. It had a white domed toward rising out of the centre. A group of people were coming down the path, led by a boy in a bright orange sweatshirt that was about the same shade as my camp t-shirt. Large black letters proclaimed PRINCETON across his chest.
'We're moving on now to the University Art Museum,' the boy-I guess he was a student tour guide-announced to the group. 'Like the Hall you've just seen, it has a rich history as well, dating back to the late 1800s. Our Art and Archaeology departments are both housed here, so besides the art displays, there's also a good collection of Greek and Roman antiquities.'
My ears pricked up. I tried to blent in unobtrusively at the back of the tour group as it followed the student guide. I didn't have time to take a tour, but it wouldn't hurt to have a look at the exterior architecture before trying to find my next ride north.
The museum lawn was full of sculptures. Most of them were rather abstract, like this blue and bronze oval with a figure-eight hole in the centre, or a series of geometric shapes made out of steel that balanced on one long extension. The sign in front of that one called it the 'Cubi XIII'. I thought it resembled a four-armed stick-man with a hammer on his head. There were animal statues, too, including a great number of tigers, which the student guide explained were the mascots of Princeton University. They made a sort of honour guard leading to the entrance of the museum.
The building itself was pretty modern. I stood next to one of the tiger sculptures and studied it. It was a pretty clean design: brown panelled walls interspersed with green-tinted full-length windows. I was about to split from the group and see if I could find a bus or train station-Princeton was in New Jersey, which meant I was really close now-when I heard a deep growl.
My heart sank. Not another monster! Though I guess I should have expected it. There was certainly no end to the supply of monsters Kronos could engage to keep me from getting to camp.
The noise was coming from the nearest tiger sculpture. I backed away quickly, wondering if they were all actually monsters in disguise. It would be just my luck. Then I saw movement out of the corner of my eye.
The tiger pounced so quickly, I barely had time to react. It was black like the rest of the sculptures, blending in easily among them. I flattened myself on the ground so that instead of barrelling into me, it leapt over my head, hit the paved path leading up to the museum, and skidded towards the entrance. It let out a deafening roar, making the whole tour group on the museum steps turn around. I don't know what they saw, but they started screaming. The student tour guide yelled for everyone not to panic, but as the tiger bowled through them, he looked as though he might wet himself.
I drew my dagger as the tiger braced itself against the building and used it to spin around. It had amazing control-its paws barely made a sound as they hit the glass panels. Unfortunately, its tail gave a powerful swish straight into the windows. They shattered amidst more terrified screams.
The tiger came sprinting back down the museum path, straight at me.
'Oh, bronze bulls,' someone swore, 'not again! Cubi eight, command sequence: Smith-Beta one-six-nine. Tiger defence-begin activation!'
Somewhere to my left, the geometrical sculpture sprung to life, whirling like a top. Like a discus-thrower, it flung out three spinning objects that flew straight at the tiger. One of the discs sliced the tiger's head right off-it dissolved, mid-lunge-but the other two went sailing across the lawn straight into the museum walls. They collided with a crash, denting the panels.
A balding man around my father's age came limping down the path, though he moved rather quickly for a guy who used a walking stick. He wore one of those tweed sweater-vests that went out of fashion years ago, and although the hair at the top of his head was thinning and grey, he sprouted an impressive brown beard that obscured his mouth and chin completely. He sized me up with intelligent dark brown eyes.
'Well,' he said gruffly, turning back to assess the damage to the museum, 'at least the sculptures are intact this time.'
He shuffle over to the Cubi XIII, which was still spinning, and said firmly, 'Commence deactivation.' It slowed gradually, like a top running out of energy. When it finally stopped revolving, a little keypad shot out of the circle-the part I'd thought looked like a stick-figure head-and the man punched a code into it. The keypad retracted and the sculpture went still.
'Automatons,' the man explained. 'They can be pretty useful, but don't ever forget to deactivate them.'
'Er, okay,' I said. 'How did you-I mean, thank you-'
'You're a demigod, aren't you?' the man said. 'Probably with a strong scent, too, since it went for you and not me. I get a couple of monsters now and then. Must have been like a flare beacon, with two of us smelling twice as much.'
'You're a demigod, too,' I realised. Given that I'd already met two on my journey so far, I shouldn't have been so surprised, but this man was my dad's age, if not older. I'd grown up learning how rare it was for demigods to live past their twenties. Running into three adult demigods-well, two, if you considered that Ethel was basically sort of immortal-in as many days seemed far too coincidental.
'What gave it away?' the man said dryly. He glanced across the lawn. Campus security was coming up from the green. 'Perhaps we should speak in my office.'
I hesitated. My experiences so far had been pretty much fifty-fifty. Following a stranger into an enclosed space was always a risk. Then again, if he'd meant me harm, all he'd needed to do was let the tiger finish the job.
My reluctance didn't go unnoticed. The man gave a curt little laugh. 'Suspicious one, aren't you? Well, that's good, I guess. It'll keep you alive longer. Take it from someone who managed to grow up. I'm Benjamin Daly. My dad's Hephaestus. I'll let you be if you want, but I imagine you're not going to want to deal with them on your own.' He jerked his head towards the scowling officers.
He was right. I nodded and followed him. One of the security officers came up to him as we entered the museum.
'Prof Daly,' he said, 'You know what happened?'
'Idiot theatre students and a mishandled buggy full of props,' Benjamin Daly lied glibly. 'They've high-tailed it, of course. If you can just take care of the shattered glass. And, uh, that lot.' He indicated the tour groups, some of whom were still hyperventilating. 'I have a student project to discuss.' He put his free hand on my shoulder.
The officer rolled his eyes and went off.
Prof Daly released me and we continued into the building. 'You're a university professor,' I said, impressed.
He nodded. 'Architectural design.'
My eyes widened. 'Really?'
'Hmph. What's with the tone of surprise? I'll have you know we cabin nine folk are pretty good at designing.'
'No, I didn't mean-well, I want to be an architect when I grow up,' I told him. 'I'm Annabeth Chase. My mom is Athena.' Then I realised what he'd said. 'Cabin nine-you know Camp Half-Blood, then?'
'Well, of course. I went there, once upon a time, didn't I? Hmph. So you like architecture. Well, you have the lineage for it.'
'Did you make the automatons here?' I asked.
'No, of course not. The sculptures are all older than me. I suspect the original architect for Princeton was a half-blood, too. Automatons would have come in very useful when this place was a stronghold in the Revolutionary War. I just figured out how to activate them-handy trick to keep the monsters at bay, though it gets a bit messy sometimes, as you saw.'
I winced, thinking of the ruined glass and dented walls. 'Sorry.'
Prof Daly waved his hand dismissively. 'It's happened before. I just get some students to do a building project. Monsters find me from time to time, so I need the automatons. I'm hardly in fighting shape these days. But like I said, you need to know what you're doing with automatons. They become unstable over time if you leave them activated for too long.'
We turned down a long corridor and Prof Daly unlocked the door to his office. 'So,' he said, once he'd taken a seat behind his desk. 'What brings you to Princeton, Annabeth Chase?'
I explained about Camp Half-Blood and my journey north from Richmond. Prof Daly smiled faintly when I mentioned stopping to check out the museum architecture before carrying on.
'I helped work on the design of the building when we expanded it, you know,' he said.
'It's very … modern,' I said carefully.
'Yes, no overt Greek influences, I'm afraid,' Prof Daly agreed. 'But I left the outer appearance to someone else. I went for interior function. You'll find the exhibition halls match the collections they showcase perfectly. All the interior designing follows the time periods of the exhibits. It's like Daedalus's Labyrinth-you'll know Daedalus, of course?-except you're only travelling through time figuratively in a museum.'
'Have you been in the Labyrinth, then?' I said in awe.
His face closed off a little. 'Once,' he said, but he didn't elaborate. 'If you're an architect worth your salt, though, you should spend some solid time studying the Labyrinth. It was the pinnacle of architecture in its time-arguably even now.' He reached across the table and pulled a book off a shelf. He opened it to a page with various pictures of monuments, all of which were on my bucket list: the Statue of Liberty, Hoover Dam, the Golden Gate Bridge …
'Buildings aren't just expressive sculptures, Miss Chase. They embody aspirations-that of the architect, but also that of society.'
I found myself nodding fervently at his words. Last year, I'd ended up in a time-warped casino in Las Vegas (another long story) where I'd gotten the chance to build my own utopian city. I felt like every bit of my design had to match not only what I wanted to express, but what I believed that ideal world to be.
'Each of these pieces tell the history of their time period, but no structure has managed to embody the spirit of architecture better than the Labyrinth,' Prof Daly said. 'Great architecture makes a statement about civilisation. Truly great architecture lives and breathes. It is like an idea-an archetype like the gods themselves.'
'I want to build something that great,' I admitted. 'A monument that will last forever.'
Prof Daly laughed, though not unkindly. 'Good luck with that,' he said. 'We still don't know about forever. They do say the gods themselves are only immortal as long as western civilisation continues. Even Chiron-I assume the old centaur is still at camp?'
'Yeah … he taught you, too?'
'Oh yes,' Prof Daly said fondly. 'He said to me once, though, that he doesn't take immortality for granted, even though he's trained heroes for three thousand years. His life force is still tied to the tradition of teaching.'
'I think I remember him saying that before.'
'So you see, forever is a difficult construct to pin down.'
We both fell silent as we considered this. I thought about Kronos, trying to return to power with Luke's help and destroy western civilisation. Would that in fact cause everything to crumble-both the mortal and mythological worlds? I could conceptualise death-I'd been to the Underworld, after all-but the idea that none of this, not a single experience, would exist, or even be known to have existed … I couldn't wrap my head around it at all.
'I supposed that's quite enough philosophy for a little chat,' Prof Daly said wryly, looking at my expression. 'Sorry, it's an occupational hazard of being an academic.' He folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. 'Well, Miss Chase, I wish you luck with your dreams. But in the present, it seems you have other more urgent goals.' He looked at his watch. 'I suppose I can take an early day. I commute in from Edison, and that's close enough to the Jersey border, I imagine. I can give you a lift.'
'Oh, that's-that's nice of you,' I said.
Prof Daly shrugged. 'I can afford to help a fellow demigod once in a while. Let's just hope we don't attract any more friends from Tartarus along the way.'
The traffic on Route One was horrendous, but it probably wasn't monster-induced. By the time Prof Daly pulled into Edison, it was late evening. He looked dubiously at the setting sun.
'If you want,' he offered, 'I have a couch you could camp on for the night.'
'I probably should keep moving,' I said. 'Thanks, though.'
'Well, if you're sure.'
He dropped me off at the transit rail station, where I spent the rest of the money my dad had given me on a ticket to New York. An hour later, finally, I was at Penn Station.
I came out of the station and walked the familiar road down to the foot of the Empire State Building. The last time I'd been here, over a year ago, was on a camp field trip to visit the Olympian Winter Solstice council. High above, on the 600th floor, was Mount Olympus, the home of the gods. Where my mother lived.
I wished I could go up again. For a moment, I imagined what it would be like if I were a regular kid, the kind with a mortal mom at whose home I could spend the night. But Olympus wasn't like that-you didn't just saunter in without an invitation. Gods had blasted people out of the sky for even coming too close sans permission.
Instead, I dug out Percy's letter from my bag and checked the address. I knew Percy had printed it out carefully-the most legible part of his letter-but over the last three days, the letter had gotten crumpled and damp, and the ink was smudged. Coupled with my dyslexia and the limited light as night fell, I struggled to make out the letters on the page. My mind registered the numbers-5, 108, 82-but the letters felt jumbled. I knew Percy lived on the Upper East Side, though, so I started walking north along Fifth Avenue.
The grid-like streets felt increasingly hostile and threatening as the sky overhead grew dark. It was a cloudy, starless night, with not even a comforting moon in sight. The skyscrapers towered over me, casting long shadows. I was reminded terrifyingly of that time in Brooklyn with Luke, Thalia, and Grover, the one I'd dreamed of several nights back. It had been a situation just like this, trying to find our way in an unfamiliar city, that had resulted in our wandering into the Cyclops's mansion. Every homeless bum I passed seemed to leer malevolently at me. Any one of them could be a Cyclops, living on the streets like they did. Searching for Percy's apartment in the dark suddenly felt like a really bad idea.
I could probably have gone straight to camp. Now that I was in the New York area, I could call up the magical taxi service that canvassed the state. But I really wanted to find Percy. It just felt important to me. Probably because I'd made him promise last year not to go adventuring without me; it hardly seemed fair not to return the favour. Besides, Chiron had said to tell him … well, I didn't know what, but either way, I should find him. And then there was the first dream I'd had, that had started everything, about the Cyclops in Percy's school. Yes, there were many reasons why I should wait so that we could go into camp together.
I reached Central Park with some relief. The natural space was more reassuring to me than the claustrophobic streets squeezed between high-rise buildings. I decided the park was as good a place as any to camp out while I waited for morning to come.
OoOoO
I slept fitfully, waking often at every random noise: the revving of a distant car engine, the laughter of drunk college students stumbling past, the hoot of an owl. I was still drowsy when the sky began to lighten. My neck ached from days of sleeping rough. My backpack was a foot away-I'd started out using it as a pillow, but I'd rolled off it at some point. At least my cap was still on my head, giving me the small protection of invisibility.
I rubbed my eyes blearily and yawned. And then I was suddenly alert as a shadow fell over me. The shape of an enormous bird of prey blotted out the sky. It resembled an eagle, but it was easily twice the size of any eagle I'd ever seen. Its head was thin and raptor-like and its plumage jet-black. I saw the wings spread wide for a second before they angled backwards and the bird swooped. It resembled an My arms flew up automatically to shield my head, but the bird went for my backpack. Its talons closed over the bag and its wings extended again to take flight.
'No!' I cried, and dove for my backpack. My finger closed around it just as the bird took off. With the bag weighed down by an invisible demigod, I hoped the bird would just let go, but it was incredibly powerful. It was perhaps a roc-an ancient bird of prey strong enough to lift an elephant. Its claws sunk deeper into my backpack and with a violent flap of its magnificent wings, it lifted off, dragging me into the air as I clung to my backpack.
The jerk as we took off shook my cap from my head. I caught it before it could fall to the ground, an action that left me hanging precariously to my backpack with only one hand. I shoved my cap in my pocket and got a better grip around the bag strap with that hand. No longer invisible, my backpack and I swung from the roc's feet like a crazy hang-glider soaring over Central Park. The roc flapped laboriously, slowly gaining height, and I realised I was in serious trouble. Even if I managed to free my bag from its claws, I would have a fifty foot drop to deal with, and it was getting higher by the minute.
There was a ripping noise and I saw the seams of my backpack straining, starting to split.
'Oh gods,' I breathed, 'mayday!' I wasn't sure why I'd blurted that out-I think I picked up the word from my dad, who had been researching historical air battles recently.
My feet tingled. My shoes, the ones I'd bought in Washington, were vibrating. The wings at their sides-which I'd forgotten to cut off-extended and began to flap. I continued to be dragged along by the roc, but the strain on my arms evaporated and the pressure was off my backpack.
My shoes were flying me along. Completely by chance, I'd stumbled on the code word to activate them. (I certainly hadn't bothered to check what it was on the packaging that I'd thrown out immediately after buying them.)
Responding to the lightening of the weight it was carrying, the roc soared even higher. I had to act quickly. Now that my shoes were bearing my weight, I could hang on single-handedly with ease while I drew my knife.
I didn't want to attack the roc since I really just needed to get my things away from it. So I slashed at the cloth of my backpack just under where the roc's talons had dug in. The lower half came free in my other hand, leaving only tattered strips of cloth hanging off the roc's claws. I accidentally scraped the tip of my dagger against its feet, though, and it let out an angry screech and shot upwards. One sharp claw raked briefly across my cheek.
My hand flew to my face. My other arm hugged my backpack close to my chest. I twisted my body instinctively towards the earth, thinking to descend, but that position sent me diving headfirst towards the skyscrapers below. My drachmas slipped out of the holes in my backpack in a shower of gold. The eagle, cheated of its loot, went into a spiralling dive after them.
I pulled myself upright and tried to pretend like I was going down a flight of stairs. That seemed to work better. My feet flailed a lot as the winged shoes pulled them this way and that, but I had a bit more control over the descent.
It got harder the closer I got to land, as I had to weave among the buildings, trying not to fly into a wall. About five storeys above ground, I swerved out of the way of one brownstone building and snagged my shirt on the rusty edge of a fire escape landing opposite of it. I caught the rail with my free hand and swung myself onto the landing with a thump. The winged shoes stopped once my feet hit the steel platform. I dropped my bag onto the landing and leaned up against the railing to catch my breath.
I stared at the wings sprouting from either sides of my sneakers. They were still extended, floating lazily up and down. I'd planned to cut them off and it was lucky that I'd forgotten to do so, but I still didn't feel like I trusted them. That erratic flight down could just as easily have killed me. I wasn't sure I'd be able to control them properly.
I took my knife and sliced off the wings. They turned into a pile of feathers and floated off towards the ground.
Having taken care of that, I touched my cheek gingerly. There was a stinging line of blood where the eagle had clawed me. I dabbed it with the teeniest bit of nectar from my flask, which was excruciating on immediate contact, but then relieving once the godly liquid began to work its magic. I wiped the blood off my face with my sleeve.
Then I looked up, straight through the window at the end of the fire escape landing. I was outside a boy's bedroom and its occupant was sitting bolt upright in bed like he'd been startled awake. My landing must have roused him.
The glass was grimy-streaked with bird droppings and dirty rainwater-so I hoped he couldn't see me clearly. I pulled my Yankees cap on quickly, before he could get up to investigate. I heard a knock on the door inside and the muffled voice of a woman. The boy swung himself out of bed. He passed close to the window as he started to get dressed, and my heart did a couple of cartwheels and a back flip when I saw his tousled black hair, lanky frame, and eyes that were a captivating shade of green.
Somehow, I'd managed to land right outside the bedroom window of my best friend, Percy Jackson.
Chapter 6
Author: shiiki
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Annabeth Chase, Percy Jackson, Tyson, Luke Castellan, Clarisse La Rue, Chiron, Thalia Grace, various others, Gen
Fandom: Percy Jackson
Summary: Annabeth Chase returns to Camp Half-Blood to find the safety of her home shattered: Thalia's tree has been poisoned, destroying the magic barriers protecting the camp, and Chiron is blamed. Only one thing can save the camp, and it's up to Annabeth and her best friend Percy to find it. The problem is, they set off with a monster in tow. Once again, the quest and the surprises it has in store is about to change everything she thinks she knows. An alternate PoV retelling of Percy Jackson and the Sea of Monsters.
In this chapter
Chapter Title: I Go Hang-Gliding Over Central Park
Rating: PG
Characters: Annabeth Chase, OC
Word Count: 4,148
Chapter Summary: Two more monster encounters later, Annabeth finally makes it to Percy's fire escape.
A/N: Prof Daly's comment about buildings and architecture was inspired by a TED talk by Michael Murphy. (And yes, I admit I listened to it solely because I was writing Annabeth fic. Who says writing fanfiction doesn't broaden your mind? :P)
Back to Fic Content Page
I sat in the park for a short while, catching my breath and taking stock of my injuries. The acid burn from the bonsai Hydra was already healing up nicely, thanks to Tyler. The hare's claw had torn shreds out of my jeans, but the cuts beneath them were superficial. My bum was sore from hours of cycling and I probably looked like a bedraggled mess. My hair, which I'd put up in a ponytail at some point, was so tangled I couldn't even find the elastic in the mess of curls. But none of this was serious. I'd been in worse scrapes.
The more important thing was to figure out where I was and how I'd get to Manhattan from here. I'd already been two days on the road.
I picked myself up and looked around me. The park I was in was large and square, and the trees had been planted in two neat rows that formed an archway over the grass. At the end, paved paths criss-crossed in a six-pointed pattern, with one leading to an orange-and-black building. It had a white domed toward rising out of the centre. A group of people were coming down the path, led by a boy in a bright orange sweatshirt that was about the same shade as my camp t-shirt. Large black letters proclaimed PRINCETON across his chest.
'We're moving on now to the University Art Museum,' the boy-I guess he was a student tour guide-announced to the group. 'Like the Hall you've just seen, it has a rich history as well, dating back to the late 1800s. Our Art and Archaeology departments are both housed here, so besides the art displays, there's also a good collection of Greek and Roman antiquities.'
My ears pricked up. I tried to blent in unobtrusively at the back of the tour group as it followed the student guide. I didn't have time to take a tour, but it wouldn't hurt to have a look at the exterior architecture before trying to find my next ride north.
The museum lawn was full of sculptures. Most of them were rather abstract, like this blue and bronze oval with a figure-eight hole in the centre, or a series of geometric shapes made out of steel that balanced on one long extension. The sign in front of that one called it the 'Cubi XIII'. I thought it resembled a four-armed stick-man with a hammer on his head. There were animal statues, too, including a great number of tigers, which the student guide explained were the mascots of Princeton University. They made a sort of honour guard leading to the entrance of the museum.
The building itself was pretty modern. I stood next to one of the tiger sculptures and studied it. It was a pretty clean design: brown panelled walls interspersed with green-tinted full-length windows. I was about to split from the group and see if I could find a bus or train station-Princeton was in New Jersey, which meant I was really close now-when I heard a deep growl.
My heart sank. Not another monster! Though I guess I should have expected it. There was certainly no end to the supply of monsters Kronos could engage to keep me from getting to camp.
The noise was coming from the nearest tiger sculpture. I backed away quickly, wondering if they were all actually monsters in disguise. It would be just my luck. Then I saw movement out of the corner of my eye.
The tiger pounced so quickly, I barely had time to react. It was black like the rest of the sculptures, blending in easily among them. I flattened myself on the ground so that instead of barrelling into me, it leapt over my head, hit the paved path leading up to the museum, and skidded towards the entrance. It let out a deafening roar, making the whole tour group on the museum steps turn around. I don't know what they saw, but they started screaming. The student tour guide yelled for everyone not to panic, but as the tiger bowled through them, he looked as though he might wet himself.
I drew my dagger as the tiger braced itself against the building and used it to spin around. It had amazing control-its paws barely made a sound as they hit the glass panels. Unfortunately, its tail gave a powerful swish straight into the windows. They shattered amidst more terrified screams.
The tiger came sprinting back down the museum path, straight at me.
'Oh, bronze bulls,' someone swore, 'not again! Cubi eight, command sequence: Smith-Beta one-six-nine. Tiger defence-begin activation!'
Somewhere to my left, the geometrical sculpture sprung to life, whirling like a top. Like a discus-thrower, it flung out three spinning objects that flew straight at the tiger. One of the discs sliced the tiger's head right off-it dissolved, mid-lunge-but the other two went sailing across the lawn straight into the museum walls. They collided with a crash, denting the panels.
A balding man around my father's age came limping down the path, though he moved rather quickly for a guy who used a walking stick. He wore one of those tweed sweater-vests that went out of fashion years ago, and although the hair at the top of his head was thinning and grey, he sprouted an impressive brown beard that obscured his mouth and chin completely. He sized me up with intelligent dark brown eyes.
'Well,' he said gruffly, turning back to assess the damage to the museum, 'at least the sculptures are intact this time.'
He shuffle over to the Cubi XIII, which was still spinning, and said firmly, 'Commence deactivation.' It slowed gradually, like a top running out of energy. When it finally stopped revolving, a little keypad shot out of the circle-the part I'd thought looked like a stick-figure head-and the man punched a code into it. The keypad retracted and the sculpture went still.
'Automatons,' the man explained. 'They can be pretty useful, but don't ever forget to deactivate them.'
'Er, okay,' I said. 'How did you-I mean, thank you-'
'You're a demigod, aren't you?' the man said. 'Probably with a strong scent, too, since it went for you and not me. I get a couple of monsters now and then. Must have been like a flare beacon, with two of us smelling twice as much.'
'You're a demigod, too,' I realised. Given that I'd already met two on my journey so far, I shouldn't have been so surprised, but this man was my dad's age, if not older. I'd grown up learning how rare it was for demigods to live past their twenties. Running into three adult demigods-well, two, if you considered that Ethel was basically sort of immortal-in as many days seemed far too coincidental.
'What gave it away?' the man said dryly. He glanced across the lawn. Campus security was coming up from the green. 'Perhaps we should speak in my office.'
I hesitated. My experiences so far had been pretty much fifty-fifty. Following a stranger into an enclosed space was always a risk. Then again, if he'd meant me harm, all he'd needed to do was let the tiger finish the job.
My reluctance didn't go unnoticed. The man gave a curt little laugh. 'Suspicious one, aren't you? Well, that's good, I guess. It'll keep you alive longer. Take it from someone who managed to grow up. I'm Benjamin Daly. My dad's Hephaestus. I'll let you be if you want, but I imagine you're not going to want to deal with them on your own.' He jerked his head towards the scowling officers.
He was right. I nodded and followed him. One of the security officers came up to him as we entered the museum.
'Prof Daly,' he said, 'You know what happened?'
'Idiot theatre students and a mishandled buggy full of props,' Benjamin Daly lied glibly. 'They've high-tailed it, of course. If you can just take care of the shattered glass. And, uh, that lot.' He indicated the tour groups, some of whom were still hyperventilating. 'I have a student project to discuss.' He put his free hand on my shoulder.
The officer rolled his eyes and went off.
Prof Daly released me and we continued into the building. 'You're a university professor,' I said, impressed.
He nodded. 'Architectural design.'
My eyes widened. 'Really?'
'Hmph. What's with the tone of surprise? I'll have you know we cabin nine folk are pretty good at designing.'
'No, I didn't mean-well, I want to be an architect when I grow up,' I told him. 'I'm Annabeth Chase. My mom is Athena.' Then I realised what he'd said. 'Cabin nine-you know Camp Half-Blood, then?'
'Well, of course. I went there, once upon a time, didn't I? Hmph. So you like architecture. Well, you have the lineage for it.'
'Did you make the automatons here?' I asked.
'No, of course not. The sculptures are all older than me. I suspect the original architect for Princeton was a half-blood, too. Automatons would have come in very useful when this place was a stronghold in the Revolutionary War. I just figured out how to activate them-handy trick to keep the monsters at bay, though it gets a bit messy sometimes, as you saw.'
I winced, thinking of the ruined glass and dented walls. 'Sorry.'
Prof Daly waved his hand dismissively. 'It's happened before. I just get some students to do a building project. Monsters find me from time to time, so I need the automatons. I'm hardly in fighting shape these days. But like I said, you need to know what you're doing with automatons. They become unstable over time if you leave them activated for too long.'
We turned down a long corridor and Prof Daly unlocked the door to his office. 'So,' he said, once he'd taken a seat behind his desk. 'What brings you to Princeton, Annabeth Chase?'
I explained about Camp Half-Blood and my journey north from Richmond. Prof Daly smiled faintly when I mentioned stopping to check out the museum architecture before carrying on.
'I helped work on the design of the building when we expanded it, you know,' he said.
'It's very … modern,' I said carefully.
'Yes, no overt Greek influences, I'm afraid,' Prof Daly agreed. 'But I left the outer appearance to someone else. I went for interior function. You'll find the exhibition halls match the collections they showcase perfectly. All the interior designing follows the time periods of the exhibits. It's like Daedalus's Labyrinth-you'll know Daedalus, of course?-except you're only travelling through time figuratively in a museum.'
'Have you been in the Labyrinth, then?' I said in awe.
His face closed off a little. 'Once,' he said, but he didn't elaborate. 'If you're an architect worth your salt, though, you should spend some solid time studying the Labyrinth. It was the pinnacle of architecture in its time-arguably even now.' He reached across the table and pulled a book off a shelf. He opened it to a page with various pictures of monuments, all of which were on my bucket list: the Statue of Liberty, Hoover Dam, the Golden Gate Bridge …
'Buildings aren't just expressive sculptures, Miss Chase. They embody aspirations-that of the architect, but also that of society.'
I found myself nodding fervently at his words. Last year, I'd ended up in a time-warped casino in Las Vegas (another long story) where I'd gotten the chance to build my own utopian city. I felt like every bit of my design had to match not only what I wanted to express, but what I believed that ideal world to be.
'Each of these pieces tell the history of their time period, but no structure has managed to embody the spirit of architecture better than the Labyrinth,' Prof Daly said. 'Great architecture makes a statement about civilisation. Truly great architecture lives and breathes. It is like an idea-an archetype like the gods themselves.'
'I want to build something that great,' I admitted. 'A monument that will last forever.'
Prof Daly laughed, though not unkindly. 'Good luck with that,' he said. 'We still don't know about forever. They do say the gods themselves are only immortal as long as western civilisation continues. Even Chiron-I assume the old centaur is still at camp?'
'Yeah … he taught you, too?'
'Oh yes,' Prof Daly said fondly. 'He said to me once, though, that he doesn't take immortality for granted, even though he's trained heroes for three thousand years. His life force is still tied to the tradition of teaching.'
'I think I remember him saying that before.'
'So you see, forever is a difficult construct to pin down.'
We both fell silent as we considered this. I thought about Kronos, trying to return to power with Luke's help and destroy western civilisation. Would that in fact cause everything to crumble-both the mortal and mythological worlds? I could conceptualise death-I'd been to the Underworld, after all-but the idea that none of this, not a single experience, would exist, or even be known to have existed … I couldn't wrap my head around it at all.
'I supposed that's quite enough philosophy for a little chat,' Prof Daly said wryly, looking at my expression. 'Sorry, it's an occupational hazard of being an academic.' He folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. 'Well, Miss Chase, I wish you luck with your dreams. But in the present, it seems you have other more urgent goals.' He looked at his watch. 'I suppose I can take an early day. I commute in from Edison, and that's close enough to the Jersey border, I imagine. I can give you a lift.'
'Oh, that's-that's nice of you,' I said.
Prof Daly shrugged. 'I can afford to help a fellow demigod once in a while. Let's just hope we don't attract any more friends from Tartarus along the way.'
The traffic on Route One was horrendous, but it probably wasn't monster-induced. By the time Prof Daly pulled into Edison, it was late evening. He looked dubiously at the setting sun.
'If you want,' he offered, 'I have a couch you could camp on for the night.'
'I probably should keep moving,' I said. 'Thanks, though.'
'Well, if you're sure.'
He dropped me off at the transit rail station, where I spent the rest of the money my dad had given me on a ticket to New York. An hour later, finally, I was at Penn Station.
I came out of the station and walked the familiar road down to the foot of the Empire State Building. The last time I'd been here, over a year ago, was on a camp field trip to visit the Olympian Winter Solstice council. High above, on the 600th floor, was Mount Olympus, the home of the gods. Where my mother lived.
I wished I could go up again. For a moment, I imagined what it would be like if I were a regular kid, the kind with a mortal mom at whose home I could spend the night. But Olympus wasn't like that-you didn't just saunter in without an invitation. Gods had blasted people out of the sky for even coming too close sans permission.
Instead, I dug out Percy's letter from my bag and checked the address. I knew Percy had printed it out carefully-the most legible part of his letter-but over the last three days, the letter had gotten crumpled and damp, and the ink was smudged. Coupled with my dyslexia and the limited light as night fell, I struggled to make out the letters on the page. My mind registered the numbers-5, 108, 82-but the letters felt jumbled. I knew Percy lived on the Upper East Side, though, so I started walking north along Fifth Avenue.
The grid-like streets felt increasingly hostile and threatening as the sky overhead grew dark. It was a cloudy, starless night, with not even a comforting moon in sight. The skyscrapers towered over me, casting long shadows. I was reminded terrifyingly of that time in Brooklyn with Luke, Thalia, and Grover, the one I'd dreamed of several nights back. It had been a situation just like this, trying to find our way in an unfamiliar city, that had resulted in our wandering into the Cyclops's mansion. Every homeless bum I passed seemed to leer malevolently at me. Any one of them could be a Cyclops, living on the streets like they did. Searching for Percy's apartment in the dark suddenly felt like a really bad idea.
I could probably have gone straight to camp. Now that I was in the New York area, I could call up the magical taxi service that canvassed the state. But I really wanted to find Percy. It just felt important to me. Probably because I'd made him promise last year not to go adventuring without me; it hardly seemed fair not to return the favour. Besides, Chiron had said to tell him … well, I didn't know what, but either way, I should find him. And then there was the first dream I'd had, that had started everything, about the Cyclops in Percy's school. Yes, there were many reasons why I should wait so that we could go into camp together.
I reached Central Park with some relief. The natural space was more reassuring to me than the claustrophobic streets squeezed between high-rise buildings. I decided the park was as good a place as any to camp out while I waited for morning to come.
OoOoO
I slept fitfully, waking often at every random noise: the revving of a distant car engine, the laughter of drunk college students stumbling past, the hoot of an owl. I was still drowsy when the sky began to lighten. My neck ached from days of sleeping rough. My backpack was a foot away-I'd started out using it as a pillow, but I'd rolled off it at some point. At least my cap was still on my head, giving me the small protection of invisibility.
I rubbed my eyes blearily and yawned. And then I was suddenly alert as a shadow fell over me. The shape of an enormous bird of prey blotted out the sky. It resembled an eagle, but it was easily twice the size of any eagle I'd ever seen. Its head was thin and raptor-like and its plumage jet-black. I saw the wings spread wide for a second before they angled backwards and the bird swooped. It resembled an My arms flew up automatically to shield my head, but the bird went for my backpack. Its talons closed over the bag and its wings extended again to take flight.
'No!' I cried, and dove for my backpack. My finger closed around it just as the bird took off. With the bag weighed down by an invisible demigod, I hoped the bird would just let go, but it was incredibly powerful. It was perhaps a roc-an ancient bird of prey strong enough to lift an elephant. Its claws sunk deeper into my backpack and with a violent flap of its magnificent wings, it lifted off, dragging me into the air as I clung to my backpack.
The jerk as we took off shook my cap from my head. I caught it before it could fall to the ground, an action that left me hanging precariously to my backpack with only one hand. I shoved my cap in my pocket and got a better grip around the bag strap with that hand. No longer invisible, my backpack and I swung from the roc's feet like a crazy hang-glider soaring over Central Park. The roc flapped laboriously, slowly gaining height, and I realised I was in serious trouble. Even if I managed to free my bag from its claws, I would have a fifty foot drop to deal with, and it was getting higher by the minute.
There was a ripping noise and I saw the seams of my backpack straining, starting to split.
'Oh gods,' I breathed, 'mayday!' I wasn't sure why I'd blurted that out-I think I picked up the word from my dad, who had been researching historical air battles recently.
My feet tingled. My shoes, the ones I'd bought in Washington, were vibrating. The wings at their sides-which I'd forgotten to cut off-extended and began to flap. I continued to be dragged along by the roc, but the strain on my arms evaporated and the pressure was off my backpack.
My shoes were flying me along. Completely by chance, I'd stumbled on the code word to activate them. (I certainly hadn't bothered to check what it was on the packaging that I'd thrown out immediately after buying them.)
Responding to the lightening of the weight it was carrying, the roc soared even higher. I had to act quickly. Now that my shoes were bearing my weight, I could hang on single-handedly with ease while I drew my knife.
I didn't want to attack the roc since I really just needed to get my things away from it. So I slashed at the cloth of my backpack just under where the roc's talons had dug in. The lower half came free in my other hand, leaving only tattered strips of cloth hanging off the roc's claws. I accidentally scraped the tip of my dagger against its feet, though, and it let out an angry screech and shot upwards. One sharp claw raked briefly across my cheek.
My hand flew to my face. My other arm hugged my backpack close to my chest. I twisted my body instinctively towards the earth, thinking to descend, but that position sent me diving headfirst towards the skyscrapers below. My drachmas slipped out of the holes in my backpack in a shower of gold. The eagle, cheated of its loot, went into a spiralling dive after them.
I pulled myself upright and tried to pretend like I was going down a flight of stairs. That seemed to work better. My feet flailed a lot as the winged shoes pulled them this way and that, but I had a bit more control over the descent.
It got harder the closer I got to land, as I had to weave among the buildings, trying not to fly into a wall. About five storeys above ground, I swerved out of the way of one brownstone building and snagged my shirt on the rusty edge of a fire escape landing opposite of it. I caught the rail with my free hand and swung myself onto the landing with a thump. The winged shoes stopped once my feet hit the steel platform. I dropped my bag onto the landing and leaned up against the railing to catch my breath.
I stared at the wings sprouting from either sides of my sneakers. They were still extended, floating lazily up and down. I'd planned to cut them off and it was lucky that I'd forgotten to do so, but I still didn't feel like I trusted them. That erratic flight down could just as easily have killed me. I wasn't sure I'd be able to control them properly.
I took my knife and sliced off the wings. They turned into a pile of feathers and floated off towards the ground.
Having taken care of that, I touched my cheek gingerly. There was a stinging line of blood where the eagle had clawed me. I dabbed it with the teeniest bit of nectar from my flask, which was excruciating on immediate contact, but then relieving once the godly liquid began to work its magic. I wiped the blood off my face with my sleeve.
Then I looked up, straight through the window at the end of the fire escape landing. I was outside a boy's bedroom and its occupant was sitting bolt upright in bed like he'd been startled awake. My landing must have roused him.
The glass was grimy-streaked with bird droppings and dirty rainwater-so I hoped he couldn't see me clearly. I pulled my Yankees cap on quickly, before he could get up to investigate. I heard a knock on the door inside and the muffled voice of a woman. The boy swung himself out of bed. He passed close to the window as he started to get dressed, and my heart did a couple of cartwheels and a back flip when I saw his tousled black hair, lanky frame, and eyes that were a captivating shade of green.
Somehow, I'd managed to land right outside the bedroom window of my best friend, Percy Jackson.
Chapter 6