Title: He Just Won't Let Her Go
Rating: T for Language.
Disclaimer: I am not male, middle-aged or funny enough to own Percy Jackson. Enough said.
Author's Note: I know I have to update everything else, but bear with me? I had this idea, and I wanted to see where it would go. AU, obviously.
Chapter 1
A Waiting Game
Her feet beat out a pattern on the forest floor. Her breath comes in sharp pants, her muscles ache. But she won't stop, not now, not ever. A daughter of Death can never stop running.
The late afternoon sunlight is dazzling, blinding, streaming down from a clear blue sky. Reflecting off the turquoise waves of the sea, off the shiny buildings, the rust-red towers of the Golden Gate Bridge. She's close. She can feel it.
The brambles tear at her bare feet as she scrambles down the side of the hill, towards the gleaming city. She's travelled for days, weeks even, to get here, to be here. And now the day's finally arrived. She won't have to run anymore.
Following her instincts, she enters the city through a back street which twists and turns like a maze. It is quiet; no-one's out. No-one except herself and the singing birds, fluttering between rooftops.
A sudden rustle makes her start – she whirls around, pulling the bronze knife concealed in her belt. "Who's there?" she rasps, her voice disturbing the quietude. No answer. "I said who's there?"
The lid of a nearby dustbin clatters to the ground. She tenses, ready for a fight, until a small head emerges from the rubbish. "Meow," it says.
She laughs bitterly, sliding the knife back into its scabbard. Only a cat. She's encountered plenty of those in her time, scrawny, scraggly creatures scrounging for food in bins. She's come close to following their example, but she's never been so desperate to actually do it.
Minutes of walking stretch into hours as she traverses the alleys, slowly making her way down to the glittering seashore. A cool breeze blows off the waves, whipping her tangled hair around her face as she stares into the distance, the sand crunching beneath her toes. She's supposed to be here – she's sure of that. Now it's just a waiting game. For what, she doesn't know.
Nothing. Still nothing. She retreats into the shelter of the city, her arms hunched up in her jacket as the chill of the night sets in. The streetlamps glow golden, casting an aura of light every few paces along the noisy, bustling streets. She slips through the crowd as easily as silk through fingers, past girls in high clubbing heels and boys in loud, raucous groups, eyes darting everywhere.
Her hand slides into a pocket, removes a fancy leopard-print wallet. Then she's gone, melting away into the shadows as though she'd never even been there.
Safely in the backstreets, she settles herself against a wall, opening her prize. A driver's license, a credit card, and a bundle of receipts. All worthless. She lets them fall, landing on the tarmac with an empty clatter.
A cherry-red lip-gloss, stuffed into the zip pocket. And, finally, what she was looking for. A wad of twenty-dollar notes. Enough to keep her fed for weeks, maybe even buy some jeans to replace these old rags that she's had for as long as she can remember.
She tilts her head back against the rough bricks of the wall, letting her eyelids drift shut. Sleep never comes easy on the streets, but she needs it. If she's tired, she'll make a blunder, and that's when the cops start to get suspicious.
She's woken by a whispering of harsh voices. A clatter of hooves against a hard surface. Her eyes snap open. she tries to move her hands. But they are bound tightly, the rope chafing her skinny wrists. She lets out a ferocious stream of swear-words into the darkness, eyes still adjusting.
A hand lashes out, slaps her hard across the cheek. "Shut your foul mouth, girl."
She narrows her eyes defiantly. "No."
"She's a fiery one," a second voice comments.
"Fuck you," she spits in the general direction of the second speaker.
"Can we please just get on with this," the third creature sounds more bored than anything else. "He'll be expecting us."
"Where the fuck are you taking me?" she grinds her teeth together, letting out a snarl from the back of her throat.
"Do not make me gag you," a light flickers into life, revealing three men, harsh, wild men with the bodies of humans and the hindquarters of horses. Centaurs, of all the proud, stubborn creatures that could have captured her, it had to be them. She's always hated horses.
She is flung unceremoniously over the back of a dark one, head and heels hanging either side of his body, useless. "Do not try to escape," her captor warns her, his tone indicating that he would have no trouble shooting her down with the quiver of arrows he has strapped to his muscular back.
"You must be really dumb to think I'd escape with my hands bound," she grunts. "Go on, giddy up."
"I am not a rocking horse," the centaur says, offended, and with that he's off, moving so fast her head spins from motion sickness. She shuts her eyes, keeping her mouth closed against the bile that seems determined to make an appearance.
It takes her a few seconds to realise when they've finally stopped. Hands pull her off the centaur's back, pushing her downwards until her knees make contact with rough wooden decking.
She looks up, into the coldest blue eyes she's ever seen, and her stomach acid forces its way up her throat, through her mouth and onto his feet.