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Most demigods died young at the hands of terrible monsters. That was the way it had been since ancient times. The Greeks invented tragedy. The Earth Mother was older, more vicious, more bloodthirsty. Annabeth could imagine her laughing as they fell into the depths. She tried desperately to think of a plan to save them. She was a daughter of Athena. Neither of them had the power to fly—not like Jason, who could control the wind, or Frank, who could turn into a winged animal.

If they reached the bottom at terminal velocity…well, she knew enough science to know it would be terminal. The darkness took on a gray-red tinge. The whistling in her ears turned into more of a roar. The air became intolerably hot, permeated with a smell like rotten eggs. Maybe half a mile below them, Annabeth could see the bottom. For a moment she was too stunned to think properly. Red clouds hung in the air like vaporized blood.

The landscape—at least what she could see of it— was rocky black plains, punctuated by jagged mountains and fiery chasms. The stench of sulfur made it hard to concentrate, but she focused on the ground directly below them and saw a ribbon of glittering black liquid—a river.

He looked shellshocked and terrified, but he nodded as if he understood. Percy could control water—assuming that was water below them.

He might be able to cushion their fall somehow. Of course Annabeth had heard horrible stories about the rivers of the Underworld. They could take away your memories, or burn your body and soul to ashes. But she decided not to think about that. This was their only chance.

The river hurtled toward them. At the last second, Percy yelled defiantly. The water erupted in a massive geyser and swallowed them whole. Freezing water shocked the air right out of her lungs. Her limbs turned rigid, and she lost her grip on Percy. She began to sink. Strange wailing sounds filled her ears—millions of heartbroken voices, as if the river were made of distilled sadness. The voices were worse than the cold. They weighed her down and made her numb. She could sink to the bottom and drown, let the river carry her body away.

That would be easier. She could just close her eyes. Together they kicked upward and broke the surface. Annabeth gasped, grateful for the air, no matter how sulfurous. The water swirled around them, and she realized Percy was creating a whirlpool to buoy them up. Rivers had shores. Usually water reinvigorated him, but not this water.

Controlling it must have taken every bit of his strength. The whirlpool began to dissipate. Annabeth hooked one arm around his waist and struggled across the current. The river worked against her: Life is despair, they said.

Everything is pointless, and then you die. His teeth chattered from the cold. He stopped swimming and began to sink. Another cosmic joke for Gaea to laugh at: Annabeth dies trying to keep her boyfriend, the son of Poseidon, from drowning.

Not going to happen, you hag, Annabeth thought. She hugged Percy tighter and kissed him.

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You said we could have a future there! Tell me! But days ago, on the Argo II, Percy had told her that he imagined a future for the two of them among the Roman demigods. In their city of New Rome, veterans of the legion could settle down safely, go to college, get married, even have kids.

The fog started to clear from his eyes. Her limbs felt like bags of wet sand, but Percy was helping her now. She laughed, and the sound sent a shock wave through the water.

The wailing faded to background noise. Annabeth wondered if anyone had ever laughed in Tartarus before—just a pure, simple laugh of pleasure. She doubted it. She used the last of her strength to reach the riverbank. Her feet dug into the sandy bottom. She and Percy hauled themselves ashore, shivering and gasping, and collapsed on the dark sand. Annabeth wanted to curl up next to Percy and go to sleep.

She wanted to shut her eyes, hope all of this was just a bad dream, and wake up to find herself back on the Argo II, safe with her friends well…as safe as a demigod can ever be. But, no. They were really in Tartarus.

At their feet, the River Cocytus roared past, a flood of liquid wretchedness. When she looked at her arms, she saw they were already covered with an angry rash. She tried to sit up and gasped in pain. So the air was acid. The water was misery. The ground was broken glass. Everything here was designed to hurt and kill. Annabeth took a rattling breath and wondered if the voices in the Cocytus were right.

Maybe fighting for survival was pointless. They would be dead within the hour. Next to her, Percy coughed. She loved Percy for trying to lift her spirits. She had Percy. She forced herself to take stock. Her foot was still wrapped in its makeshift cast of board and Bubble Wrap, still tangled in cobwebs.

Her backpack was gone—lost during the fall, or maybe washed away in the river. Time to grieve later. What else did they have? No food, no water…basically no supplies at all.

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Off to a promising start. Annabeth glanced at Percy. He looked pretty bad. His dark hair was plastered across his forehead, his T-shirt ripped to shreds. His fingers were scraped raw from holding on to that ledge before they fell.

Most worrisome of all, he was shivering and his lips were blue. They both struggled to their feet. She scanned their surroundings. It was like staring through a thin mix of tomato soup and cement. The black-glass beach stretched inland about fifty yards, then dropped off the edge of a cliff. A distant memory tugged at her—something about Tartarus and fire. Before she could think too much about it, Percy inhaled sharply. A hundred feet away, a familiar-looking baby-blue Italian car had crashed headfirst into the sand.

It looked just like the Fiat that had smashed into Arachne and sent her plummeting into the pit. Annabeth hoped she was wrong, but how many Italian sports cars could there be in Tartarus? Under the crushed hood lay the tattered, glistening remains of a giant silk cocoon—the trap that Annabeth had tricked Arachne into weaving.

It was unmistakably empty. Slash marks in the sand made a trail downriver…as if something heavy, with multiple legs, had scuttled into the darkness. Percy was still shivering. The glass cuts on her hands were still bleeding, which was unusual for her.

Normally, she healed fast. Her breathing got more and more labored. That distant memory came into focus.

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She gazed inland toward the cliff, illuminated by flames from below. It was an absolutely crazy idea.

But it might be their only chance. We need to find the River of Fire. The cliff dropped more than eighty feet. At the bottom stretched a nightmarish version of the Grand Canyon: Even from the top of the canyon, the heat was intense. Every breath took more effort, as if her chest was filled with Styrofoam peanuts. The cuts on her hands bled more rather than less. Each step made her wince. Assuming they could make it down to the fiery river, which she doubted, her plan seemed certifiably insane.

He pointed to a tiny fissure running diagonally from the edge to the bottom. Might be able to climb down.

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He managed to sound hopeful. Annabeth was grateful for that, but she also worried that she was leading him to his doom. Of course if they stayed here, they would die anyway. Blisters had started to form on their arms from exposure to the Tartarus air. The whole environment was about as healthy as a nuclear blast zone. Percy went first.

The ledge was barely wide enough to allow a toehold. Their hands clawed for any crack in the glassy rock. Every time Annabeth put pressure on her bad foot, she wanted to yelp. A few steps below her, Percy grunted as he reached for another handhold.

Her arms trembled. But to her amazement, they finally made it to the bottom of the cliff. When she reached the ground, she stumbled. Percy caught her. She was alarmed by how feverish his skin felt.

Red boils had erupted on his face, so he looked like a smallpox victim. Her own vision was blurry. Her throat felt blistered, and her stomach was clenched tighter than a fist. We have to hurry, she thought. Their tattered clothes steamed from the heat of the river, but they kept going until they crumpled to their knees at the banks of the Phlegethon.

Percy swayed, his eyes half-closed. It took him a three-count to respond.

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Her throat was closing up from the heat and the acidic air. But also…some legends call it the River of Healing. I think…it might be the Underworld equivalent of ambrosia and nectar. Yes, but she was convinced they had no choice. If they waited any longer, they would pass out and die.

Better to try something foolish and hope it worked. Before she could change her mind, she cupped the fiery liquid in her palms and raised it to her mouth. She expected a taste like gasoline. It was so much worse. After barely nibbling it, she thought her respiratory system was going to implode. Drinking from the Phlegethon was like gulping down a ghost chili smoothie.

Her sinuses filled with liquid flame. Her mouth felt like it was being deep-fried. Her eyes shed boiling tears, and every pore on her face popped. She collapsed, gagging and retching, her whole body shaking violently. The convulsions passed. She took a ragged breath and managed to sit up. She felt horribly weak and nauseous, but her next breath came more easily. The blisters on her arms were starting to fade. Desperately, she cupped more fire in her palm. She tried again, pouring a whole handful down his throat.

This time he spluttered and coughed. Annabeth held him as he trembled, the magical fire coursing through his system. His fever disappeared. His boils faded. He managed to sit up and smack his lips. She was so relieved, she felt light-headed. That pretty much sums it up.

He looked around as if just coming to terms with where they were. Maybe that Tartarus was empty space, a pit with no bottom. But this is a real place. They both gazed up at the blood-colored clouds swirling in the gray haze. No way would they have the strength to climb back up that cliff, even if they wanted to.

Now there were only two choices: She remembered what Percy had said just before they fell into Tartarus. That idea seemed even crazier than drinking fire. How could the two of them wander through Tartarus and find the Doors of Death?

For everybody we love. The Doors have to be closed on both sides, or the monsters will just keep coming through. Still…when she tried to imagine a plan that could succeed, the logistics overwhelmed her. They had no way of locating the Doors. How could they possibly synchronize a meeting with their friends? She decided not to mention any of that. They both knew the odds were bad. Besides, after swimming in the River Cocytus, Annabeth had heard enough whining and moaning to last a lifetime.

She promised herself never to complain again. Annabeth spun as a massive dark shape hurtled down at her—a snarling, monstrous blob with spindly barbed legs and glinting eyes. She had time to think: But she was frozen in terror, her senses smothered by the sickly sweet smell.

His blade swept over her head in a glowing bronze arc. A horrible wail echoed through the canyon. Annabeth stood there, stunned, as yellow dust—the remains of Arachne—rained around her like tree pollen. The golden dust of the spider settled on the obsidian rocks. Annabeth stared at her boyfriend in amazement.

As it passed through the thick hot air, it made a defiant hiss like a riled snake. Percy kicked the dust on the rocks, his expression grim and dissatisfied. She deserved worse. It almost made her glad Arachne had died quickly. Now, you were saying…downstream? The yellow dust dissipated on the rocky shore, turning to steam.

At least now they knew monsters could be killed in Tartarus…though she had no idea how long Arachne would remain dead. Lucky us. Annabeth plodded along, half in a stupor, trying to form a plan. Since she was a daughter of Athena, plans were supposed to be her specialty; but it was hard to strategize with her stomach growling and her throat baking. It just kept you going so you could experience more excruciating pain.

Her head started to droop with exhaustion. Then she heard them—female voices having some sort of argument—and she was instantly alert. On the other side, in the narrow path between the river and the cliffs, voices snarled, getting louder as they approached from upstream. Annabeth tried to steady her breathing. The voices sounded vaguely human, but that meant nothing.

She assumed anything in Tartarus was their enemy. Besides, monsters could smell demigods—especially powerful ones like Percy, son of Poseidon. Annabeth doubted that hiding behind a boulder would do any good when the monsters caught their scent. This one sounded much younger and much more human, like a teenaged mortal girl getting exasperated with her friends at the mall.

For some reason, she sounded familiar to Annabeth. There was a chorus of growling and grumbling. I was there a couple of years ago. I know the way! More hissing, scuffling, and feral moans—like giant alley cats fighting. Just leave one special morsel for me—the one named Percy Jackson.

She forgot about her fear. Before this war is over, mortals and demigods will tremble at the sound of my name—Kelli! She glanced at Percy. Even in the red light of the Phlegethon, his face seemed waxy.

Empousai, she mouthed. Percy nodded grimly. She remembered Kelli. One of them had been Kelli. Annabeth had stabbed her in the back and sent her…here. To Tartarus. The creatures shuffled off, their voices getting fainter. Annabeth crept to the edge of the boulder and risked a glimpse. Sure enough, five women staggered along on mismatched legs—mechanical bronze on the left, shaggy and cloven-hooved on the right. Their hair was made of fire, their skin as white as bone.

Annabeth gritted her teeth. She had faced a lot of bad monsters over the years, but she hated empousai more than most. In addition to their nasty claws and fangs, they had a powerful ability to manipulate the Mist. They could change shape and charmspeak, tricking mortals into letting down their guard.

Men were especially susceptible. Not a great first date. Kelli had almost killed Percy. Annabeth really wished she still had her dagger. Percy rose. He was sure it had primo powers. There had to be a secret switch or a pressure plate or something. He spent hours crawling over the statue, which took up most of the lower deck. Her body ran the length of the port corridor, her outstretched hand jutting into the engine room, offering the life-sized figure of Nike that stood in her palm, like, Here, have some Victory!

The statue was wedged tight in the corridor, so Leo had to climb over the top and wriggle under her limbs, searching for levers and buttons.

As usual, he found nothing. He knew it was made from a hollow wooden frame covered in ivory and gold, which explained why it was so light.

Annabeth had said…well, he tried not to think about Annabeth. He still felt guilty about her and Percy falling into Tartarus. Leo knew it was his fault. He should have gotten everyone safely on board the Argo II before he started securing the statue.

He should have realized the cavern floor was unstable. He had to concentrate on fixing the problems he could fix. Anyway, Annabeth had said the statue was the key to defeating Gaea. It could heal the rift between Greek and Roman demigods. Leo figured there had to be more to it than just symbolism. Or maybe the smaller figure of Nike came to life and busted out some ninja moves.

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Leo could think of all kinds of fun things the statue might do if he had designed it, but the more he examined it, the more frustrated he got. The Athena Parthenos radiated magic. Even he could feel that. The ship careened to one side, taking evasive maneuvers. Leo resisted the urge to run to the helm. Jason, Piper, and Frank were on duty with Hazel now.

They could handle whatever was going on. Besides, Hazel had insisted on taking the wheel to guide them through the secret pass that the magic goddess had told her about. Leo hoped Hazel was right about the long detour north. It had no moving parts. He wanted it to make sense, like a machine.

Finally he got too exhausted to think straight. He curled up with a blanket in the engine room and listened to the soothing hum of the generators. Buford the mechanical table sat in the corner on sleep mode, making little steamy snores: Shhh, pfft, shh, pfft.

Leo liked his quarters okay, but he felt safest here in the heart of the ship—in a room filled with mechanisms he knew how to control. Besides, maybe if he spent more time close to the Athena Parthenos, he would eventually soak in its secrets. Unfortunately, that meant dreams. He stumbled into workbenches, knocked over toolboxes, and tripped on electrical cords.

He spotted the exit and sprinted toward it, but a figure loomed in front of him—a woman in robes of dry swirling earth, her face covered in a veil of dust. Where are you going, little hero? Gaea asked. Stay, and meet my favorite son. The night your mother died, I warned you. I said the Fates would not allow me to kill you then.

But now you have chosen your path. Your death is near, Leo Valdez. He sobbed in desperation and turned, but the thing pursuing him now stood in his path—a colossal being wrapped in shadows, its shape vaguely humanoid, its head almost scraping the ceiling twenty feet above. He blasted the giant, but the darkness consumed his fire.

Leo reached for his tool belt. The pockets were sewn shut. My son will not allow any fires tonight, Gaea said from the depths of the warehouse. He is the void that consumes all magic, the cold that consumes all fire, the silence that consumes all speech. Leo wanted to shout: Suddenly, he found himself at Camp Half-Blood, except the camp was in ruins.

The cabins were charred husks. Burned fields smoldered in the moonlight. The dining pavilion had collapsed into a pile of white rubble, and the Big House was on fire, its windows glowing like demon eyes. Leo kept running, sure the shadow giant was still behind him. He wove around the bodies of Greek and Roman demigods.

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He wanted to check if they were alive. He wanted to help them. But somehow he knew he was running out of time. He jogged toward the only living people he saw—a group of Romans standing at the volleyball pit. Two centurions leaned casually on their javelins, chatting with a tall skinny blond guy in a purple toga. Leo stumbled. It was that freak Octavian, the augur from Camp Jupiter, who was always screaming for war.

Octavian turned to face him, but he seemed to be in a trance. His features were slack, his eyes closed. This cannot be prevented. The Romans move east from New York. They advance on your camp, and nothing can slow them down.

Leo was tempted to punch Octavian in the face. Instead he kept running. He climbed Half-Blood Hill. At the summit, lightning had splintered the giant pine tree. He faltered to a stop. The back of the hill was shorn away. Beyond it, the entire world was gone. Leo saw nothing but clouds far below—a rolling silver carpet under the dark sky. She looked more like a living Athena Parthenos, with the same golden robes and bare ivory arms.

When she rose, Leo almost stumbled off the edge of the world. Her face was regally beautiful, with high cheekbones, large dark eyes, and braided licoricecolored hair piled in a fancy Greek hairdo, set with a spiral of emeralds and diamonds so that it reminded Leo of a Christmas tree. Her expression radiated pure hatred. Her lip curled. Her nose wrinkled.