Disclaimer: I don't own Percy Jackson. All my fanfic writings are non-profit. 'Tis all for fun.

Piece of Darkness I - A Knight or a Pawn

Chapter Fourteen

"Some men aren't looking for anything logical, like money. They can't be bought, bullied, reasoned or negotiated with. Some men just want to watch the world burn."

–Alfred Pennyworth, 'The Dark Knight'

I woke with a start.

I looked around with alarm, and immediately tried to stand up, but I was tied to a chair. I yanked at the ropes, but they were tough, and I was still weak from whatever I'd been drugged with. After a few moments of struggling, I gave up, and squinted around.

I found myself in a almost pitch-dark room, with only a tiny shred of light slipping in under the doorframe. I got the feeling that the room was small, and I had a hunch that I was underground, though I had no idea if this was mere imagination or not. It was cold, and the chair was hard. I didn't feel any great pain, so presumably I hadn't been manhandled while I was out.

Recollection of how I'd ended up here faded into my mind. I spasmed in desperation, fighting to break free, as I remembered that Wilson had kidnapped me, but still the ropes held.

Panic turned to despair as I tried to think through my options. There weren't any. No-one knew where I was, I hadn't given any specific destination when I'd left home, and for all I knew, Jake had taken me to some shadowy lair in the depths of Manhattan. If his shadow-travel powers were strong, I might not even be in New York.

A familiar sense of powerlessness crept through me, and I knew that I was trapped. If Wilson was crazy enough to kidnap me in broad daylight, who knew what he might do next?

As if it was timed, the door glided open silently - so quietly, I wouldn't have even noticed it, were it not for the glare of sunlight that beamed into my face as the door swung open.

A figure stepped inside, and closed the door. He or she stood in silent darkness for a moment, and a jolt of pure terror ran through me. There was no clever talk that would help me, no sight, no books, nothing. If Wilson wanted me dead, it could have been done already.

I frowned. Well, I wasn't dead, so that meant Wilson didn't have murderous intent - at least, not yet. Perhaps the situation wasn't as desperate as I'd originally thought.

I heard a rustle, a click, and then a lightbulb crackled into life.

(Right over my head, I might add. Talk about cliched. I felt like I was in a bad crime film.)

I wasn't surprised to see the Dark One himself standing in front of me, looking as nuts as ever. His aura was hard to see in the dim light, and for that I was glad - it made it easier to ignore.

I glanced around. The room was even smaller than I'd thought - a tall man would've had trouble lying down comfortably. The walls and ceiling were painted black, and if there were any windows, they'd been boarded up and painted over. The floor was covered with a raggy black carpet, and the door had enough bolts to keep out an army.

Wilson was standing stock-still, watching me. I didn't want him to get the upper hand (I think it says something about my character that I was tied to a chair in a stone box of a room and I was worried about not giving away the upper hand), so I started talking first.

"What do you want?" I said, doing what I could to sound as in-control as possible, despite the fact that I was tied to a chair and struggling with the after-effects of being knocked out.

Wilson sighed like I was a troublesome child being admonished for stealing cookies. "Who says I want anything, Cyrus? How do you know I'm not here to kill you?"

I groaned loudly.

"Okay, fine, you worked out that part," he went on, putting his hands in his trousers pockets. "Do you recall our conversation at camp?"

A glare was my succinct answer.

"Good," the Dark One smiled. "Then you'll remember that I said you'd get another chance."

"I also remember that you're a traitor who stole the Flame of Olympus and tried to bring back a Titan," I spat. I felt rather pleased with myself - he couldn't manipulate his way around that.

To my surprise, Wilson's face rumpled with (what looked like) hurt.

"Is that what they told you?" he said mournfully.

I said nothing, and continued to glare at him.

"Poor Rhea was imprisoned for eons, Cyrus," Wilson said, his tone suspiciously reasonable. "The gods shunned her, left her to rot in a prison forged by the evil Titan Kronos. Rhea was a servant of the gods."

I frowned. From what I remembered from myth, Rhea had been the one to help Zeus overthrow his tyrannical (and cannibalistic) father…

"I told you before that it's hard to know who to believe," the Dark One continued. "The gods present a convincing story, but you must always remember that the winners write the history books. What authority says that Rhea was a terrible immortal who ought to lie in a terrible prison for all time?"

"Chiron said—" I began.

"Chiron is the greatest servant of the gods of them all," Wilson said testily. "Do you really think you can rely on him for a trustworthy, objective account?"

Wilson sighed again, and walked around to the back of the chair. I heard him crouch down, and felt my ropes begin to loosen as he untied me.

Emotion told me this was a good thing.

Reason told me quite the opposite.

Wilson went still, and I stiffened. I could sense that he was kneeling right behind me, and if he wanted to bump me off, this was the moment to do it.

"After all, did he even tell you about the prophecy?" he whispered.

I heard a disturbance in the air - the swooshing sound made when something passes through the air rapidly - and I looked around quickly.

Wilson was gone. He'd vanished into the shadows, like Nico had done back at my apartment.

Honestly. Couldn't these guys just use the door?

I tugged at the ropes, and they fell away. To my surprise, Wilson had untied all of them, and I was able to shrug them off easily. Then I stood up.

Or rather I tried to stand up.

The room started to spin before I'd even straightened up, and I wobbled ominously. Ever the stubborn one, though, I stayed standing for a moment, before giving in and collapsing back into the chair.

Clearly, being drugged didn't agree with me.

I avoided thinking about my predicament for the next few minutes. Instead, I focussed on clearing my head, and working out as much wooziness as possible. I took deep, calming breaths, closed my eyes, counted to ten, stretched my arms and legs, and did whatever other therapeutic tics I could think of. Finally, after what felt like ten minutes or more, I stood up again, and managed to not fall over, which I felt was a great personal achievement.

I took a step forward, and somehow ended up in the chair again.

"These things take time," I muttered philosophically, and rubbed my eyes vigorously, trying to break up the tension that was gathering there. I could feel the beginnings of a headache starting to build, and this was a really bad time for one.

Eventually, after half an hour or more, I was able to walk around the room without feeling like I was about to crumble into a pile of dust. The room itself was kind enough to stop spinning around, and I finally regained enough composure to think.

It was certain at this stage that Wilson wasn't going to kill me. Judging by his unconvincing spiel, he still wanted to make me join the Dark Side. Presumably, I'd been left to "think over my options", "consider my position", and become "more receptive" to his way of thinking. The Dark One probably thought I was an average kid who'd be easily broken.

He'd mentioned something about a prophecy. This was new. It didn't take a genius to see what Wilson's plan was. He would play on the fact that I didn't know about this prophecy, make it into something mysterious, and then feed me a little piece of it to gain my trust.

(Before you say, "Wow you're really clever, Cyrus," I'll emphasise that I'm really not. I'm just fairly good at noticing patterns, and the "trick-the-uninformed-kid" pattern sure isn't hard to spot.)

I didn't know why I was so deeply opposed to everything the Dark One had to say to me. It wasn't even because of his theft of the Flame - I couldn't give two whits about that. I just had this instinctual dislike of the guy. If he said black, I was going to say white. I didn't know why, I simply knew that's how it was.

That's how I knew that no matter what tricks he pulled, I wasn't going to give in. I hadn't signed up to the demigods and their cause, but I wasn't signing up to this one, either.

So, when Wilson reappeared in a corner of the cell like a shadow pretending to be a human, I was ready.

"You didn't try to escape!" he said, his tone full of surprise which might have been real but was probably not.

I stopped trying to pace around the tiny cell, and sat down. Then I went back to my previous approach, and glared at him.

"What are you talking about?" I muttered, still trying to gain some kind of moral or intellectual high ground.

(Hey, I wasn't tied to a chair anymore! That's progress!)

The Dark One stepped over to the door and turned the handle. The door opened.

"I didn't lock the door, Cyrus," Wilson said softly.

My mouth opened slightly as I tried to take that in. It'd been about two hours since Wilson had left, and all that the time, I could've just walked out the door?

I cursed myself. How had I not even tried that?

I didn't have to think long to find the answer: I'd been over-thinking things, and so I'd overlooked something as simple as checking the door handle.

More proof that I'm not cut out for the hero business, I guess.

"Why didn't you lock it?" I said, transferring my anger onto Wilson. It wasn't his fault I'd made such a stupid mistake, but then he had kidnapped me, so I felt pretty justified putting all my ills onto him.

"Why would I lock it?" the Dark One replied smoothly, closing the door and leaning against it. "I'm not your enemy, Cyrus. You think I'm your enemy, but I'm not."

"I suppose you're my greatest friend, then," I muttered. "After all, friends often drug and kidnap each other, right?"

"I'm not saying that," Wilson replied, shaking his head. "Obviously I'm not your friend, but that doesn't mean I want to hurt you. What I want is for you to see things clearly. If you don't want to see things clearly, fine, but I think you do. I think you sense you're not being told the whole truth, and you want the whole truth. You deserve it."

He looked in my eyes, and I gazed back. My resolve was starting to feel a little shaky - maybe he was right. I didn't really know a lot about the world of the gods. I hadn't been told anything that I couldn't doubt. Maybe my instinctive dislike of Jake was incorrect - it wouldn't be the first time that I'd misjudged someone.

I realised that I needed to know more about Jake Wilson. Only then would I know if I could trust him.

"Who are you?" I said, in a less aggressive tone. If I had any chance of getting him to open up, it sure wasn't through antagonising him.

Wilson looked surprised at the question. "I told you before," he said. "My name is Jake Wilson."

"Yeah, I know that," I replied. "But I don't know anything else about you. You're asking me to trust you - how can I do that unless I know who I'm trusting?"

He sighed, and closed his eyes for a moment, as though considering what to say. I stayed quiet, and for the first time I started to feel a little optimistic. Perhaps if I talked him into a friendly mood, he'd bring me out of the cell, and then I'd be able to make a break for it.

"Well, my father is Erebus," Jake said quietly. "What do you know about him?"

I racked my brains, recalling the five books I'd read on Greek mythology when I was ten. "He's the lord of darkness or something."

"He's the personification of the shadows," Jake nodded. "Children of Erebus share many abilities with children of Nyx and Hades, such as the ability to shadow-travel. But I'm the only child of Erebus, and because Erebus is essentially the high lord of shadows, I have more powers over darkness than children of Nyx or Hades."

I nearly blurted out, "That explains your aura," but luckily I thought better, and instead said, "That's how you can randomly appear from nowhere like a freaking ghost?"

Wilson laughed, but it was a strained laugh, laced with anger.

"That's probably the briefest explanation of shadow-travel I've ever heard," he said, still pretending to be amused.

"And your mother?" I said, as fast I could, hoping to catch him off-guard.

I succeeded. Wilson paled, his cheerful mask freezing on his face like a layer of ice hardening on a cold rock. His hand drifted over to where his black sword was strapped to his belt, and his other hand clenched into a tight fist.

"My mother," he half-whispered, half-growled. "She died when I was seven."

I drew in my breath sharply. So this was the well from which his inner darkness sprang.

"How did she die?" I said, very quietly.

"Apparently, she died in a car accident," Jake said flatly.

"But…?"

"But the truth is that the gods killed her," he said. "Perhaps they jammed the brakes so that the car would skid. Maybe they caused the car to over-accelerate and run through the red light and into the oncoming truck. Maybe they made sure the ambulance got delayed long enough so she didn't get help in time. I don't know. Who's to say?"

He paused, staring at his shoes. I gulped. No wonder he hated the gods, if he believed they caused his mother's death. But did they kill her?

"How do you know that?" I asked carefully. "How can you be so sure that they killed her?"

"It was shown to me," Jake muttered. His right hand clenched upon the hilt of his sword, and I suddenly felt very aware of how close I was to that ominous blade. "It was made clear to me that the gods did it."

"But…why? Why would they do that?"

Suddenly, bizarrely, Jake smiled. His eyes were manic as he looked up at me, and his aura crackled with pure darkness.

"Because they know," he whispered, crouching down. "All those deities up on Olympus? They know. They know that I have the power to bring them down. They know that after all this time, I am the one who will rise against them, and cast them down into the depths of Tartarus where they belong. I am the one who will call forth the shadows and bring in a new age."

I eyed him warily. I could understand his anguish over his mother, but now Wilson was looking nothing short of paranoid.

"Er," I said. "What the heck are you talking about?"

I thought that would make him mad, but he just laughed again. "You really don't know about it, do you?" Wilson said, his tone full of infuriating pity.

"Know about what?"

"The prophecy!" he whispered, leaning towards me. "The prophecy that's been kept from the demigods for hundreds of years, the prophecy that supersedes all the others, more important than the Great Prophecies themselves!"

I had no clue what he was talking about, and told him so.

"The first prophecy, Cyrus," he hissed. "The prontos profiteia!"

The shadows in the corner behind Jake contorted, and rapidly resolved into the figure of a tall teenager. The darkness receded away from the figure, and it immediately became clear who it was.

Nico di Angelo stood over the still-crouching Jake Wilson, a bronze sword in his hand and an ugly expression on his face, and said, very quietly, "Hi, Jake."