CHAPTER 4: SWAN SONG

PERCY

I stood on the rooftop, arms braced against the cool railing. Far above me, stars faded out of existence as the sunrise brightened, streaks of red and gold tearing the darkness apart. I hadn't slept at all—I'd texted Annabeth until night bled into day and she finally fell asleep. Thinking about it, a quiet smile stumbled onto my lips. I'd only spoken to her twice (once? Did texting count?) but already I found her occupying my daydreams.

In an hour I had work at the café—cashier duty, thank fuck. I didn't know if I could stand having to run around waiting tables until my feet fell off again, dealing with bitchy customers who didn't like the taste of their latte. Nope. Today, that was Henri's job.

I leant down and propped my chin on the railing, heaving a sigh. From up here, I could see right the way across Paris, all the way to the grey city skyline etched harshly against the horizon. It was strange, I thought, to watch people from so far away; they looked like little children's dolls whose lives were easier than breathing. I wonder if this was why God never intervened in our affairs, never chose to save us from each other. From his standpoint in far-away Heaven, our all-consuming, bloody wars probably looked like street skirmishes. I doubted he cared any more about our grief and loss and pain than he did for the papercut on my left thumb.

All this philosophising made my fingers itch for a cigarette.

When I descended the stairs back to Roxanne's apartment, I found Piper sitting outside on the doormat. She was leaning on the door, bare feet stretched out before her. She clutched her guitar, strumming and mumbling to herself. Every so often, she'd scribble down a couple more lines of music on the pad of paper next to her.

"Hey," I said, approaching her. She didn't look at me, just held up her index finger in the universal sign for Wait. She finished scribbling in her notebook and hummed in satisfaction with whatever she'd come up with. Then, "Yeah?"

I stared at her for a moment, brow cocked. "Any reason why you're sitting on the doorstep?"

"Roxanne's asleep. I didn't want to wake her." Piper's voice was a rasp, low and feeble.

"You sound ill."

"I'm not," she croaked. With excellent timing, she plunged into a coughing fit.

I switched to French to make it easier for her undoubtedly sick and addled brain. "You should go back to sleep," I said. Piper picked up her guitar and began tuning it, choosing to ignore me. I glared at her. "Fine. Don't come crying to me if you get sicker."

I pushed past her into the apartment. I headed into the bathroom and grabbed my toothbrush, meeting my reflection's gaze in the adjacent mirror. I tugged on a strand of my newly-dyed hair—the job was bright, maybe too bright, and redder than before. I'd cut it as well. It was short, shorn at the back, but I'd left it a little longer at the front. It helped to distort my features, casting a shadow over these silicon blue eyes.

I changed for work quickly, grabbing my flip phone and wallet. Unsurprisingly, I tripped over Piper as I hurried out the door. She swore colourfully through her sore voice and flipped me off. "Watch it!"

I spun, walking backwards, and returned the gesture while blowing a kiss. "Love you too!" I took the stairs as the elevator was broken, lighting a fag as I descended. I checked my watch. Thirty-five minutes until work. If I power-walked, that was plenty of time, right? The sun blinded me as I pushed open the lobby doors, cigarette in hand. It was deceptively cold outside—I wished I'd thought to bring a thicker jacket.

Something caught my eye. Across the street sat a long, sleek black car, its elegance juxtaposing its torn-up, dirty surroundings. I slowed, muscles tensing. I couldn't see who was inside; the car's windows were tinted. But, with agonising lethargy, one of the windows retracted. I stopped. My cigarette fell to the curb, forgotten.

The window had rolled down all the way. I caught sight of a man wearing a black, criminal's mask, and instantly stopped breathing.

I turned on my heel and bolted, panic slashing at my lungs. My heart hammered to the rhythm of my frenzied thoughts—they found me they found me they found me it beat out, so fast the words were lost to the haze. Distantly, I heard the sound of a car door slamming, of heavy footsteps on the pavement. I glanced over my shoulder to see several black-masked men giving chase. I heard one of them spit something I didn't quite catch in harsh, furious French.

I sprinted across roads and through alleyways, trying to throw off my pursuers. I could hear them a few hundred metres behind me, utterly relentless. I figured they'd trained and were good at what they did, so—unlike me—probably wouldn't get tired anytime soon. Still, I knew more than a little about running away, so versed in the subject that I was. I aimed for the city centre, hoping to stumble across a crowd I could get lost in.

I ran and ran and ran. My breathing became ragged, barely fuelled by my shuddering lungs. My vision was becoming hazy with adrenaline, so I dug my fingernails into my palms to keep focus. It took every ounce of my iron will to disregard the aching stitch in my abdomen that only screamed louder for a reprieve with every hateful step. They found me they found me they found me they found me they found me they—

I didn't know if I was going to escape this time.

A roundabout loomed up ahead. Without hesitation, I plunged out onto the road. Drivers swerved and honked and roared profanity as I wove between cars, not bothering to slow my breakneck pace. The world was a wash of RED AMBER GREEN and impulse over instinct. I leapt over the hood of a stationary car, ignoring the driver's shook fist.

Finally, I'd made it across the roundabout. I checked behind me, and they still hadn't stopped. How had I not lost them?!

Turning a corner, I emerged into a dark, musty alleyway. I took off down it, hoping it might diverge, but it didn't. I leapt over bottles of sea-green broken glass, over gaping potholes and patches of ice hidden in the darkness.

There! A dim flood of light at the end. Hope flared in my limbs as a final burst of adrenaline flooded them, and I hurtled towards it. But as I neared the light, doubt pooled in my gut—doubt, followed by disbelief, followed by bitter dismay. I'd reached a dead end. A yellow, murky lantern hung from a hook on the wall. Swearing viciously, I punched the wall. I was so fucking dead.

I turned around, balling my fists. It might've looked like I was getting ready to fight, but really I was just trying to stop my hands from shaking. My pursuers raged down the alleyway, footsteps quick and sure.

The first one barrelled straight for me. I grabbed his shoulders and slammed him into the wall, but his fist flew out, landing straight in my stomach. Trying not to double over, I kneed the guy in the balls, but already two more came at me. Punches flew, bloodying my nose and lip. I kicked and swung and spat but they pinned me to the wall, beating me until blood ran into my mouth and I couldn't stand on my own two feet.

I was far too limp to fight back. They wrestled me to the floor, securing my hands behind me with zip-ties. "Fucking—let me go," I croaked. I could feel my vision starting to fade. Something wet and warm trickled down the side of my face.

One of them squatted down in front of me, tilting her head. Brown eyes, black mask. Utterly expressionless. "C'est fini, petit coureur," she whispered. She flipped me off, an ugly laugh bursting from between her lips.

A cold, languid delirium washed over me. Slowly, sluggishly, I fell into oblivion.

When I came to, it was still dark. I blinked and tried to sit up, but groaned in pain when my already sore head bashed against a hard, low ceiling. The muffled sound of honking car horns and the rumble of an engine reverberated around me. The realisation did not so much dawn on me as come crashing down, wrapping around my lungs and throat, squeezing, squeezing.

I was locked in the trunk of a car. Instantly, I started shaking. I couldn't get out, I couldn't move, I couldn't breathe. I hated tight spaces with a passion. With them came suffocation—a stupid phobia of mine. But right then, it didn't seem so stupid.

I forced myself to calm down, focusing on inhaling in, out, in, out. Slow. First things first: my hands were zip-tied. These I knew I could escape. I had before. Ignoring the biting pain as the ties cut into my skin, I pushed my wrists as far apart as they could go, raised my arms up behind them back, then slammed my hands down towards my waist with all the force I could muster.

After a couple of rounds of this, my hands were free. I sighed in relief, rubbing my chafed wrists. My phone was where I'd left it, in my back pocket—the bastards hadn't thought to take it off me yet, thank God. I flipped it open, and it glowed to life. Only five percent charge left. I opened my contacts, pressing Beauty Queen, then Call Mobile. I winced at the loud ringtone, quickly lowering the volume. "Pick up, pick up," I muttered. She didn't. I rang her again to the same effect. Again. Again. Again. I received her voicemail every fucking time.

I called Roxanne—fruitlessly. She had lectures in the mornings. Desperation was beginning to set in, a raging animal in my gut. I stared at Annabeth's contact. I was out of time. I called her, chewing my lip so hard I tasted blood.

"Hello?" she said, voice clear and steady and everything I'd forgotten it was supposed to be.

"Hi, um, it's Percy," I replied, voice low. "I'm kind of scared and alone and in danger even though you probably won't believe me, um, I've already tried calling everyone else and nobody picked up and—"

She cut off my rambling. "Christ, you're in danger? Where are you?"

"I, uh, I don't know. They've got me in the trunk of their car."

The line was silent for a few moments. When Annabeth spoke again, she sounded uncertain. "You'd better not be pulling some fucking sick joke, Jackson—"

"I'm not, I'm not, I swear," I whispered. I choked on a breath. "Annabeth, it's really dark in here and I can't really breathe and God, I'm scared, I'm scared."

"Do you need me to call the police?"

"No!" I blurted. She couldn't; they'd ask for identification. I wasn't legally allowed to be in Paris—or in Europe for that matter. "I mean…I'd rather you didn't. Please." I hated how fucking fragile I sounded.

Silence again on her end. I could hear her breathing gently, considering. "You said you're in the trunk of their car? Who's they?

I hesitated. "I can't really explain right now."

Annabeth took a deep breath. "Okay, Percy, I want you to try and kick out the tail lights. If you can't move your feet, punch them out."

I ran my fingers around the walls of the trunk, tracing the smooth, cool planes of plastic. It was difficult to tell which direction I was facing, and the car's trunk was so small and cramped I was pretty much doubled over in the fetal position. Eventually, I found what I figured must have been the tail lights—two squarish panels sitting adjacent to each other.

With a sharp inhalation, I punched the one closest to me. I repeated the action three, four, five times, gritting my teeth against the brutal singing of my knuckles. Thankfully, the tail light loosened. I pushed it out. It clattered onto the road outside, and brash daylight streamed inside in its place. "Done," I whispered into my phone. I looked out, relieved when I saw my kidnappers hadn't left the city. In fact, I even recognised where we were: a small suburb in north-eastern Paris. I told Annabeth whereabouts I thought I was.

"Okay, okay," she muttered. I could hear her fast footsteps on the other end of the line. "Text me exactly where you've stopped when you're stationary, yeah? I'm coming. Sit tight."

I faltered. "Wait! Annabeth, don't come alone. If it's too risky, you stay away, alright? And you'd better be fucking careful—"

A harsh laugh. "Oh, don't worry. I'll be careful." She hung up with a click.

I waited, trying not to breathe too deeply. Each moment that came and went was cruel and cold and sluggish, akin to a lifetime of fear. I counted the seconds feverishly, careful and even. 75, 76, 77, 78...A ceaseless onslaught of time ticked by.

But when the car finally slowed to a halt for good, I almost wished the wait could've never ended. I checked through the hole where the tail light had used to be, already texting Annabeth where we'd stopped. I knew it was unfair to expect her to help me, someone she barely knew—someone who'd been a total stranger just a few days ago.

She couldn't help me. I knew that; I wasn't naïve. I wasn't caught up in some delusion that I could actually escape this time. But at the very least she could tell Piper that I hadn't just upped and left, leaving her alone.

The trunk opened. Brutal sunlight and blunt hands both callous in equal measure grabbed at me, and I was hauled out of the trunk. It took all my strength to stand on my own two feet. They slapped a blindfold over my eyes, reducing my world to darkness once again. When they saw I'd got my zip ties off, they restrained me with handcuffs instead.

My captors lead me somewhere, dragging me along with rough hands bunched in my shirt. I didn't let my lip tremble, nor dare to curl in on myself. Instead, I walked with my chin up, spine straight, head held high. It was easier to feign bravery than feel it, after all. We walked for a few minutes. Every step was a fresh plume of fire arcing through the bruises and cuts all over my body. It was hard not to feel like a cripple, especially when I couldn't see.

They shoved me into a cool metal chair and re-cuffed my hands to something in front of me. I gasped involuntarily when my blindfold was ripped off. I was in an interrogation room. The door closed and locked behind the last of the guards.

A one-way mirror stretched blankly in front of me, showing me nothing but my own frayed reflection. My hair was matted with thick blood from a cut on my head, and a viciously purple black eye was already blossoming on the left side of my face. One of my contacts had come out somewhere along the line and now my gaze was brazenly multi-coloured.

The appraisal of that one vivid green eye was too much for me to bear. This is who you are, this is who you're running from, it screamed, louder, louder, stripping me to the skin.

I stopped looking at my reflection, but there was nothing much else to distract myself with. Time passed like a fluid. I bounced my knee, hummed a song, picked at the ridged scars on my cuffed hands. Sitting still had never been a virtue of mine, but with adrenaline coursing through my veins it began to feel a little like psychological torture. I knew they were probably watching me through the security camera up by the ceiling but by now I was beyond caring.

The door opened. A woman walked in, and within a heartbeat my flight instinct kicked into overdrive. I screwed up my fists, knuckles white.

"Percy." The woman gave a half-smile, expression utterly unreadable. Her presence dredged up a plethora of unwanted bad memories.

I nodded jerkily. "Juno." She sat down opposite me across the table, lacing her fingers before her. Everything about her reflected exactly how she appeared in my memories—black hair cropped to the chin, eyes a spill of dark ink. A familiar tattoo still adorned her forearm: the letters SPQR, written in careful, discreet lettering. A perfect twin with mine in every aspect except that the one I had was on my neck, below my ear. While she wore hers proudly, adorned with golden bands and bracelets, I still covered mine up with foundation. Both its placement and my hateful regard of it made it seem more like a prisoner's serial number.

The door opened twice more as a couple of Juno's lackeys entered. I did not fail to notice the tray laden with knives they wheeled in behind them. Too soon they left, leaving me alone and caged with a wolf.

Juno produced a small compact mirror from her pocket and took a few moments to redo her crimson lipstick. I tried to quell my hammering pulse. I opened my mouth, then shut it again, then spoke. "Would you like to address the elephant in the room, or shall I?" My voice was quiet and raw, but unwavering.

Juno finished up with her lipstick, humming with satisfaction. She finally turned her attention to me, ignoring my previous question. "I must say, Percy, I think I preferred you with black hair." When I didn't comment, she went on. "Blue contacts, too…" She reached out for my face, almost plaintive if I didn't know better. "Looks like you're missing one, darling."

I ducked my head to avoid her reaching fingers, a snarl already on my lips. "What the hell do you want? It's been seven years. You'd think he might be bored with searching by now." I shot out a harsh laugh. "He still misses Mom, huh?"

Juno tutted. "Gabriel, you mean? If you define miss as tears the world apart looking for her, I imagine you're on the right lines." She smiled, a perfect act. "But, Percy…I hope you know you have been missed."

"What, by Gabe?" I laughed again, uglier than before. Fear really did turn me insane.

Juno looked sad. Instead of replying, she stood up. "You may come in now," she called. Two men and a woman I didn't know entered—presumably Gabe's subordinates. One walked around to stand behind me. He put two hands on my arms, holding me down. I knew why. God, I knew why.

"Not gonna do it yourself?" I spat. I writhed in the man's grip, though the effort was completely, undeniably futile.

"It was easier," Juno murmured, "when you were younger." With that, she left.

One of the men sat down where Juno had, while the woman came and stood by my right side. I tried not to think about the metal tray sitting half a metre away from me. "Alright, kid," the man in front of me began, speaking French. I dimly wondered how they'd found out I knew the language. He had a scar slicing right the way down one side of his face and neck, so long it brushed his collarbone. His eyes were blue, light enough to be almost white. But, horrendous as he appeared, he was probably better than Juno. "We can break you either a little bit, or a lot, depending on how much you choose to tell us. Understand?"

I did not dignify him with a nod.

"Do you know where Sally Ugliano is at present?"

"Sally Jackson," I corrected, unable to help it. "And I buried her corpse just east of Vannes, if that's what you mean."

He just stared, then nodded to his associate beside me. Before I could protest, she grabbed my right pinky finger, shattering it in one swift motion.

I cried out, guttural and hoarse. "God! I'm not lying, I swear! She killed herself, how does Gabe not know that?!"

The man didn't even have to nod this time. Without warning, the woman snapped my ring and index fingers. An influx of shitty memories clawed their way to the surface of my thoughts. Memories of pain, of Juno burning my hands, breaking them again and again until every joint healed wrong and swollen and crooked.

This time, I screamed through gritted teeth. "What the fuck do you bastards want to hear? That she's alive? Well, she's not!"

Scar-face laughed. "Did you kill her?"

"Say that again and you're dead."

He folded his arms across his chest, cocking his head. "Well, did you kill her, Percy Jackson?"

I spat at him for the insinuation. "She shot herself, scar-face."

Blinding rage flashed across his features. "Liar," he seethed. Then, to the woman: "Use a knife."

Obediently, the woman selected a small knife from her array. She went for my arm, but the man held up a hand. "No. Let's give the little boy a 'scar-face' of his own, shall we?"

She grabbed my jaw, turning me roughly toward her. Panic seized me, and I tried to get away, but the man behind me grabbed my neck and held me firm. She raised the blade to my cheek. White-hot pain emanated from where she dragged the knife with almost surgical precision. I bit my lip so hard that I tasted blood in an attempt to contain my inevitable scream, but it didn't work. Sick satisfaction was apparent in the woman's eyes. "You fucking sadist," I breathed.

Unlike her partner, she did not react to my insult. I supposed I should've been relieved. Still, the woman did not let go of my face, no matter how hard I tried to wrench away. Tears were already stinging my eyes. Seven years free had softened me, acted as sandpaper against my rough edges. "I hear you have a good voice," she whispered. She made another cut, parallel to the last. "Sing me a swan song, would you, little runaway?"

I said nothing, even as hot tears dripped down my cheeks, saltwater mixing with crimson blood. I hoped there was some crumpled copy of defiance in my mismatched eyes.

She released her grip.

They asked me a dozen more questions. I had nobody to lie for, so I just didn't, but often they chose not to believe me. Every one of my fingers was soon broken, along with my wrists. When they rolled up my sleeves, they found self-inflicted scars, but that did not stop them from inflicting new ones—some deep, some ragged, some bubbling with heat. Pain became first a constant, then it became irrelevant. I ignored their questions and retreated far away into some long-forgotten headspace I hadn't needed for seven years. A little deranged, I began to sing Starman with what was left of my broken, raw voice. I wondered if that was my swan song after all.

When the door slammed open, I didn't look up. (I couldn't look up. I was half-sprawled, broken, on the interrogation table.)

When gunshots rang out, I did not stop singing. (I did not think to stop singing. Some part of me still hoped it would drown out my screaming nerves.)

When someone undid my handcuffs, I finally fell unconscious. (There was only relief—relief that the pain would go away. Waking up was not a concern of mine.)

ANNABETH

As I drove, I kept glancing down at where my fingers gripped the handlebars. There was blood on my hands, under my nails, and it was not my own.

I'd murdered everyone in the building, but that wasn't the scary thing. The scary thing was that I knew I'd do it a hundred, a thousand times over for the person slumped against me on the back of my motorcycle. He kept drifting in and out of consciousness. In the moments he was awake, he always cried out and tried to curl his ruined hands into fists. I had to stop the bike every thirty seconds to readjust him and offer comforting words, but I wasn't even certain Percy heard them.

It took us almost an hour to reach my safe house—a tiny apartment somewhere in the broken parts of Paris. Thank God my apartment was on the ground floor, as I didn't know if I'd have been able to drag him up several flights of stairs. As it was, it felt like a Herculean effort to get him onto the couch. Having made him comfortable, I grabbed some bandages, splints and antiseptic to clean and dress his wounds. I was by no means a qualified professional, but I'd had to tend to my own injuries enough. He winced and stirred when I pressed alcohol to each individual cut. Splinting his fingers was harder and took the longest. I did his arms quickly, feeling somehow invasive when I touched the faded scars there.

When I finished bandaging him up, I threw a blanket over him but didn't switch off the light. I didn't know if it was a good idea for him to wake up alone in the darkness. I left him and went into my little kitchen to rummage through the cupboards. I had several days' worth of food and supplies tucked away.

I found some instant coffee and made myself some. Back in the lounge, Percy was still asleep, so I treaded quietly and selected a book off the shelf for me to read. I kept a few of my favourites in the safe house because the prospect of going weeks without reading material sounded like shit to me. It was laughable, I supposed, but why the hell not?

I was about halfway through The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy when Percy began to wake. He did it slowly, haltingly, in fits and starts. When he finally regained consciousness, he squinted at the sunlight falling into his eyes from the window. "What the—" he murmured, raising a bandaged arm with a wince. I closed my book quietly, dog-earing the page to keep my place. I watched him try to sit up and promptly fall back on the couch, groaning.

"You're at my place," I said gently.

Percy only looked vaguely surprised. "Oh, it is you." Then, quieter: "I thought that was a dream. You—on the motorbike. Saving me." He turned his arm over, admiring his bandages and the ten splints in his fingers. "You're pretty good at this medical stuff, huh?" The seconds ticked by, an incessant, brutal reminder of our silence. When he spoke, his voice was hardly audible. "I can't…I can't believe you came."

I hadn't noticed before as he'd been unconscious, but his eyes were startlingly mismatched. One was his old blue, muted and quiet. Fake. The other one, the real one, was green. Lucid but not bright, a dark splash of raging ocean. I sort of preferred it; green seemed more like him. "You're lucky," I managed, but it was too small a statement. Who are you? I wanted to ask. Why did they hurt you? What have you done to them?

"Thank you," he said suddenly. "For everything. You didn't have to."

I blinked. What the hell did I say to that? I hesitated. "I did have to." The words hung between us, thicker than air and strangely choking.

Percy shrugged off the awkwardness, reaching out. "Help me sit up?" His mouth quirked, and I smiled back, mirroring him. Wordlessly, I helped him into a sitting position. He patted the couch beside him, brows raised.

I hesitated for an instant but sat down eventually. "So. Any explanations to offer?"

He pinched his lips together. "Just, ah…some people don't like me."

I snorted. "Evidently."

He hit me, but it was so pathetic with his broken hands that we both laughed. A moment later, he leant his head on my shoulder. "I'm glad you're here."

"I'm glad I am too," I said wryly.

He rolled his eyes. "Sure, sure." Our gazes met, his stare a tidal wave of conflicting green and blue against mine. "Can you pass my jacket?" I did so, and he rummaged inside it until he found a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. "Oh, thank fuck." He lit one, dragging long and deep. Blowing the smoke away to the side, he sighed in relief.

"Those things are like little time bombs," I said. "Still, guess I wouldn't peg you as the type to care about lung cancer."

His laugh was hoarse. Taking another drag, he stared me in the face, a petty smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "This is exactly how much I care," he replied, and promptly blew a thick cloud of smoke across the room.

"You're impossible," I muttered, flapping a hand to disperse it.

He laughed again, silent. "Yeah, well, you're insufferable." Settling his head in my lap, he took a final puff of his fag and set it onto the coffee table beside him for later. A lock of red hair had fallen across his face, framing the shoddy bandages I'd used to hide the awful gouges they'd cut into his face. I brushed the strands aside, fingers shaking a little. He smiled up at me, eyelids fluttering as he drifted into sleep. His lashes rested on his cheeks, long and black and gently curling.

It was strange how when he slept, all the pent-up emotion slowly disappeared from his face. His brows unknotted, his jaw unclenched, his breathing evened out, finally unhindered. I stroked his hair absently, staring out the window at the slowly darkening city outside.

In no time at all, I fell asleep too.

Hey, guys. Sorry this is a little late but I've actually been revising (shocking, I know) for my mocks that are in like two weeks. Having said that, I literally just killed like 10 hours I should've spent revising writing this in Starbucks instead of writing it over the holiday like a reasonable human being, so yeah uh I hate myself? this chapter's not edited WHOOPS i'm sure you all love me :) Also if I linked the Pinterest board I made for this in the next chapter, would you be interested? idk I mean it's just basically an aesthetic kinda thing

Shoutout to mylifeisogre, you're amazing :) thanks so much for the praise and continued support xx