Wrong Impressions

She felt her breath quaver, her body stiff and rigid. Much to her disappointment, her hands trembled feebly as a rosy red trail ran along her cheek.

Annabeth didn't bother wiping it away.

Looking at the current state she was in, the whole situation was almost ridiculous. Her hair was awfully disheveled, and her pallid dagger had been taken away. Lady Aphorei had not bothered to lock her in some cruel, twisted place—as if Annabeth was not worth her time.

Instead, the daughter of Athena was given a somewhat toneless room—as if a decent human being would even call it a room!

Her room was no more than chunks of stones arching like a dome with lustrous ore decorating the tops. Delicate vinery hung about; from the roofs to the grounds.

No matter how many times Annabeth had tried to find a doorway, there really wasn't one. It was obvious enough that they wanted her to know that there was no possible chance of escape.

She coughed madly, hugging her arms around her gashed knees in an attempt to make herself warmer. The damning goddess along with Lloyd had left her here, disappearing into the shadows and becoming mere mist.

Shadow travel, she thought bitterly, they've learnt shadow travel.

Annabeth didn't care if she were to rot in here. If she somehow managed to fight her way out alive, then at least she'd have information that might just help them to win this damning war.

Honestly, it wasn't much hard to connect two and two together.

Death and memory were scarily alike. Annabeth didn't want to admit it, but what Nico had told them back then—only know did she understand how important it meant.

Annabeth had been right; Aphorei had been using the god of the Underworld to her advantages, most likely to help the Dark rise. But yet that meant that Nico might've been involved in all this . . . what if he joined the them? The enemy?

Annabeth emptied her thoughts, refusing to acknowledge such a thing. Nico was their ally; he always had been from the very beginning. She doubted Hades would turn his back on them either.

She scoured the gloomy chamber, a frown on her face. She had done everything for the past hours; turning any crystals that may somehow open a secret entrance, angrily destroying the flowers and other ornaments that came in front of her way, and even attempting to break the rocky walls herself.

Before the she-devil goddess left, Annabeth had fought with everything she got—she had even managed to land a punch on Lloyd's dastardly face.

Yet, before she had time to lash out and throw another punch or two, Aphorei had threatened her with the only means of magic she got: the power to mess with her mind, her soul, her heart.

That punch felt good, she thought offhandedly. He deserved it anyway.

A lingering tuft of cold air bit at her, brushing past the garlands of freshly pickled greens and tiny narcissus. Annabeth willed her body to get up from the compressed space she was in, narrowing her eyes at the glowering shadows that spread wider and wider—

A juvenile cackle caught her attention; the trudges of footsteps that emerged from the dark grew louder and louder.

She knew that Aphorei and Lloyd were not coming alone.

Annabeth turned sharply, finding it hard to breathe all of a sudden as a choked sort of sound slipped past. Her eyes skipped over Lloyd and the simpering goddess; she was staring at the two other figures that were attired in tough leather.

"Malcolm, dear, you'll catch flies if you don't close your mouth." The goddess's tantalizing voice became softer and softer until Annabeth shut it out completely. "Aren't you related with our little prisoner here?"

Traitor.

That urge to sob and beg that all that was happening in front of her eyes were not real was shortly replaced by a calm, unwavering anger.

Traitor, traitor.

Annabeth raised her chin, a little no more than a few meters apart from them. She didn't dare breathe too deeply as she perilously tried to meet Malcolm's gaze.

There was no sign of recognition in the cool mask the son of Athena wore—he was a damning traitor, just like Lloyd—

There. There it was. The slightest parting of his lips almost went unnoticed, as Annabeth was so intent on those drab grey bags that fondled his under-eyes.

I'm sorry, were the silent words that his lips spoke. Annabeth didn't care. She wanted to—

"Well?" hummed Aphorei, narrowing her eyes. Eyes as dark as night. "Are you all going to ogle at each other and wait for Zeus to become a faithful husband for once?"

Annabeth snapped back to reality, idly forgetting the rest were still there. Her balled fists sent them a clear message that she wasn't going to give up so quickly if they planned to physically harm her.

The other figure that Annabeth had failed to pay attention to stepped forwards; the clashing pattern of scales were vivid on his cloak. "Be patient, Aphorei," said Nico Di Angelo, his face dead and unrecognizable.

"No." Annabeth might've already said the same words of denial when her eyes fell upon her half-brother. But Nico, of all people—she wouldn't think the son of Hades would actually—

You thought wrong, crooned that ever-so-familiar voice, they're all traitors. Trust no one.

Aphorei tilted her head ever so slightly to the side at the son of Hades. A calculative stare. "Go on then, Prince. You insisted our precious Annabeth here can be useful to us, did you not?"

Nico's eyes flashed, cradling worn scrolls held by a threadbare bind. A hint of gold sparkled on the front, the familiar imprint of letters and symbols flickering under the tarnished cave lights . . .

Annabeth's throat closed as she swallowed. "The Book . . . you have the—but I didn't, how did you—"

"A job well done indeed, Prince," purred the goddess, lifting her pale-white hand to the son of Hades before it offered a gentle pat on Nico's rigid shoulder. "I certainly had my doubts about you, and so did my son."

Son. This cruel, ruthless goddess had a son.

And so, Annabeth's eyes flicked from Malcolm to Nico to Lloyd. She eyed the brown locks that curled lightly by its ends, the dark burnished eyes, the way one of the three moved with such ease around the goddess . . .

Lloyd swaggered over, a glint in his eye simmering at Nico. "A completed task doesn't really serve as an excuse to not be Marked, Di Angelo." His words were more sharper towards the unfaltering son of Hades, who glared back.

Marked. Nico had flinched when Lloyd mentioned it.

They stared each other down, a promise of death on Nico's face. Annabeth dug her nails deeper into her palms when the son of Hades backed away. She caught the flash of an onyx-hued curve that moved beneath Lloyd's forearm sleeve before it disappeared again.

The self-righteous look on Lloyd's face made her more agitated than she already was.

"I did my part, Draco. I think your Mother knows that too," bit Nico, a knife-sharp edge to his words. A firm hand that belonged to Malcolm found itself on his shoulder, tugging the son of Hades away.

Mother. Aphorei was Lloyd Draco's mother, and he was her son by blood. He was never Poseidon's child to begin with. Annabeth shook, the truth being dumped right in front of her face.

Aphorei, the ruthless goddess, had meddled with Poseidon's memory.

It made Annabeth realise how dangerous this woman was, how easily she could just make anyone go insane—

There's got to be a limit, Faith had said.

Lloyd stood his ground, his mouth a second away from opening and snapping back a retort at Nico before Aphorei raised a poised hand.

Slowly, very slowly, a spider-like smile crawled upon the goddess's dainty little lips.

"I do not wish for you to engage in another fight, son." Nico fumed mutely as the goddess clicked her tongue in a deploring manner at him. "We have other matters to attend to. I do believe that this would be the perfect day for Nico's Marking. He, after all, has proved himself worthy by completing my task."

Annabeth had no idea of what the Marking was all about, but Nico's face turning a paler color than usual spoke volumes. She studied everyone's stances and positions; Annabeth could attack at any moment she wished if it were a completely different situation with completely different people.

The damning goddess of memory was what stopped her from doing such a foolish act.

For a sly moment, Lloyd nodded at his mother's words. An exact replica of Aphorei's wrathful sneer took over his features. Annabeth felt a sickly feeling lick at her insides—these, these two were family—

"Ah, can I trust you, Malcolm dear?" Aphorei's hard-steel look pinned the son of Athena down as she spoke icily, "How truly unfortunate that you wouldn't be able to witness our dear Prince's Marking. Yet, I suppose your presence is much needed here."

The son of Athena's movements were stiff, much like Nico's. Malcolm swiftly held out a gloved hand, to where the Book of Fyrmarcs lay tattered in his arms.

Not yours, hissed Annabeth silently, it's not yours.

Her half-brother's odd behavior back then suddenly made a lot of sense. Annabeth's stomach recoiled as she recalled the time Malcolm had asked for the key to her drawer, which was where she had absurdly hid the Book.

At the time, she had not so easily given him her drawer key. Annabeth could not think of what might've happened if she did—just the thought of the Book held by the wrong hands . . .

It already is, whispered the very same frail voice in the back of her head.

Aphorei ushered Nico and her son to step closer to the shadows by her side, though the son of Hades had never looked more frightened in his life.

There was that look of resignation on his face, as if he'd given up already. As if it would be useless to fight back.

"You know what you're supposed to do, Malcolm dear," said the sweet honeyed voice of the malicious goddess. Annabeth wanted to throw up. "Must I hear anything go awry . . . I don't think you'd like what I would do to you."

If Malcolm was scared, he didn't show an inch of it. "As you wish."

Annabeth had never felt her heart thump so loudly in her ears as the other three took a step towards the shadows before the idle darkness swallowed them whole.

She and Malcolm were alone in this hellhole.

Annabeth instinctively took a stance, knowing she would be showing no mercy if it had to come to a fight between the two of them. Malcolm took a shaky breath—and then, she watched with dread as that cold look of his crumbled.

"You traitor," was the first thing that she found herself saying.

Malcolm blinked, clearly trying his very best to avoid her furious gaze. Annabeth wanted to do so many things—she wanted to punch him, to hurt him, to ask him what made him join the Dark—

"Not here, not now." His words were so dead-point. Maybe the reason why he joined the Dark was because he'd given up. Maybe he had thought that their side could not win.

Annabeth gathered up her courage and landed a strike at his jaw, grimacing at the revolting crack her knuckles gave out.

A gasp echoed in the dimly-lit cavern, but Malcolm had recovered quickly. He staggered, ignoring the red trail that ran along from his nose to his chin and his bleeding lip.

Annabeth was unfazed by the growl that she received.

"What?" she taunted heartlessly. "Aren't you going to fight back? Why don't you show me what you've learned in your time here, with the Dark side? Surely they've taught you something!"

Malcolm didn't say anything as a vivid flare of emotion lay in his ashen eyes before it was masked up again with that lifeless look of his. He simply glanced at the Book of Fyrmarcs in his arms, haltingly turning worn page after worn page.

Maybe killing him was a mercy. He deserved worse.

"You aren't like this," she whispered quietly, but not gently. "The Malcolm I knew comforted me when I was at my worst. The Malcolm I knew never lost hope. The Malcolm I knew would have never become a traitor."

Annabeth tried to settle her burning rage growing worse and worse as Malcolm peered up at her calmly. He was so calm—

"I'm not the Malcolm you knew. Not anymore," he spat out, his hand resting on a page to where its shabby edges were tinted with the murkiest of blacks. Burnt. "Now, you are going to cooperate with me whether you want to or not."

Annabeth already had her answer. She sneered at him, "As if I'd do anything to help you. Please do spare me the formalities and kill me instead."

"I don't think so," said Malcolm, his gaze returning back to the Book of Fyrmarcs. "In fact, I think you'd be rather interested in what the two of us would be doing today."

She bit back her retort. Annabeth could handle torture; even if a quick death would've been better. Yet maybe, if she managed to somehow gather enough useful information . . .

"Where are we?" she snapped, eyeing Malcolm tenaciously and trying to shove her fear down and down and down.

He chuckled at her. "Information for information, eh? If I tell you, would you be so kind to cooperate?"

"Yes. Just tell me."

Malcolm finally ripped his intent stare from the Book of Fyrmarcs, staring right back at Annabeth's greys that hid a hatred—a raging hatred just for him. She wondered if he could hear her silent curses.

"We are in the Underworld," he clarified loudly, as if he'd just stated the obvious. Annabeth felt the weight of a boulder fall from her shoulders until her very toes. "And you, Annabeth Chase, will be helping me to learn how to read the Fyrmarcs."

*.·:·. ✧ ✦ ✧ .·:·.*

When he had glanced at the steel clock hanging on the wall and read the time, Percy knew he wouldn't be able to fall asleep again.

Brilliant white rays of sunlight seeped from the silky maroon curtains. He and Faith had decided to crash in the nearby hotel for the night as they were both drained from yesterday's events that whizzed past.

Percy squinted his eyes at the intense light, trying to get up and remember what had happened last night. They had mostly snacked on the pizzas they raided (he still felt bad about that, even if they'd left a little bit of money), then fell asleep the moment they had closed their eyes.

Trying not to make any noise, he slowly got himself up as his toes touched the biting floors. With a long, sleepy sigh, Percy stood up and winced at the creaking sound that bounced off the walls.

A barbaric growl was what greeted him. Percy considered it to be for the sleeping hunter for a funny moment, but then he remembered a particular wyvern that stayed with them.

He cursed aloud, remembering that they'd left Lucius his own little rented room to rest. Because I'm not taking the risk of sleeping with that thing near me, Faith had said last night in a matter-of-factually tone.

Percy had agreed with her, and it was irritating to try to make the wyvern settle.

Percy rubbed his eyes roughly, staring at Faith's resting figure. She almost looked peaceful with the way she slept; the hunter could've been a resting mountain cat. Her knees were only a few inches apart from her abdomen, and her arms were comfortably curled around herself as she fidgeted.

He could almost imagine Faith snapping at him with her usual sardonic tone of hers.

Another snarl—honestly it was more of a howl this time—echoed in his ears. Faith stirred, lifting the thick blankets to cover her bodice in a lousy attempt to fall back asleep.

"You know, if you're not gonna move, I think Lucius would start eating the carpet," said the hunter's muffled voice. Percy snickered at her, making his way through the littered pizza boxes and Pepsi drinks that scattered throughout the floor.

I don't think even Lucius would eat carpet this dirty, he thought to himself with a snigger.

Percy did not hesitate to swing open the door that lead to Lucius's own droll room. He bit back his yelp when the door simply fell apart, collapsing into broken strips of wood in front of him. The hinges, apparently, were broken.

He hysterically fanned his hands everywhere, trying to get rid of the billowing dusty smog that arose.

"Seriously?" Percy couldn't help but snort. The wyvern had clearly no intentions breaking out, but it looked like it had quite a fun time mauling the door.

Yesterday night, they had learned that the best way to garner the beast's full and undivided attention was to simply speak out his name. They assumed that the wyvern had been put through rough and intense training to be able to understand them with no much problems.

Yet, when Faith pronounced Lucius's name wrong on purpose, the wyvern let out a huff ("That was a huff, I swear!" Faith laughed loudly) and bared its jagged fangs at her threateningly.

The son of Poseidon stared at Lucius, watching in curiosity as it didn't lift its barren head. Instead, the wyvern's nimble wings lifted up in the air lightly before draping its powerful and veined figure with a soft thud.

"Faith?" called Percy, hoping that the hunter could hear him from the other room. "We still have some meat for Lucius, right?"

Ringing silence answered him. It took all his might to restrain himself from cursing.

He tried again. "FAITH!"

"Keep your voice down." The hunter let out a long groan, agitated at being woken up so early. "Did you forget we're in a motel? Y'know, thin walls and all?"

Percy gave out an exasperated sigh. Dealing with a sleepy hunter that had infuriatingly bothersome comebacks that were rival to his own was not his ideal morning. Yet, he felt terribly amused. "Get up. Come on. I'll feed you to Lucius if you don't."

"Yeah? Try me."

"I'll dump a glass of cold water on you."

"Please, Jackson. That's the best you can do?" Even though the brunette was curled up in massive heaps of blankets, Percy could almost feel her smiling smugly at him.

And so, he actually stormed in the bathroom and snatched the nearest glass he saw on the counter. Whilst watching the glass fill up with crystal clear water until it reached the very top, Percy made a tremendous effort to make a lot of noise so the hunter would know what he was planning to do.

To his mischievous delight, the abrupt sound of shifting comforters and slippered feet walking about was heard.

When Percy stepped foot out of the bathroom with a wicked grin on his face, Faith was already there to scowl at him menacingly.

"Don't. You. Dare," she hissed at him blithely. He took in her tangled hair and her drowsed eyes that held a sort of swaggered glare.

Percy mentally decided that he rather liked Faith looking all rumpled in the morning.

"Nice hair, your Majesty," he said with a straight face, then failing miserably as he laughed.

Faith glowered at him, her gaze flicking to his rugged black hair that stuck out in different directions. "Look who's talking." She flipped him the middle finger.

Percy was too quick for her to step away. Before he knew what he was doing, he aimlessly dumped the ice cold water on the hunter.

Faith screeched at him, completely doused in the numbing water that slid from her face to her jeans.

He wasn't surprised when she began swearing at him loudly, coming up with rather intriguing names and curses along the way.

On the other hand, the son of Poseidon was too busy laughing to tears as he desperately tried to stop himself from doubling over. "My gods—HA!—you should've seen your face—"

Eventually, Percy saw the hunter crack a small smile. It definitely was better than her scowling face. "Screw you, Percy."

The raven halted, coming to a pause as he realised he'd stopped laughing even though his poker face never left. "You called me Percy." It was strange; he was awfully used to hearing Faith call him 'Jackson.'

He decided that he definitely liked the sound of his first name instead of his surname on her lips.

The brunette let out a breathy chuckle, the euphoric sound mellow in his ears. "It's your name, isn't it?" said Faith smoothly.

"Right." Percy couldn't help but be smug. "So, are you going to take a bath now, or what?"

"I bathed last night, Jackson," she muttered, her bottom lip sticking out in a slight pout. "I was perfectly fine until you decided to drench me with cold-ass water this morning. That just reflects poor decision-making on your part."

Percy started. "It's not that hard—"

"To what? Take a bath?"

"—to call me by my first name. But you've got a point there too," he snickered, earning a light shove from the hunter on his shoulder.

Frustrated, Faith stuck her tongue out at him before striding towards their own tedious room. Percy idly ignored the fact that they had slept in the same bed—they didn't mind, anyway.

It wasn't as if they were all over each other—they were both too exhausted to care last night. Percy, for some hideous reason, was bothered by this.

He curiously eyed Faith standing in front of a petite mirror, running her numb fingertips through her wavy hair and trying to straighten it out.

The water he'd thrown at her wasn't that much, really—Percy doubted that she cared. There were darkening blobs on her fit clothes, indicating the areas where she was wet.

Percy felt bad all of a sudden.

He had an idea, but he wasn't much sure if it would work. It was not as if he'd tried it before on other people, anyway.

Faith sent him a weird look through the fogged mirror's reflection. Percy frowned. "Sorry," he said sheepishly. "I—y'know, as a son of Poseidon and all, I just thought that—well, I felt bad—"

He was confused when she began laughing at him lightly. "You're babbling. Get to the point, you prat."

Percy suddenly wished he hadn't spoken at all. Only when she threw him an expectant look was when he continued speaking. "Well, er—I was testing out if I could . . . make you dry." He really didn't know how to phrase that properly.

Faith stroked her soaked hair one last time before giving him an encouraging nod. "That's actually pretty cool. Go on, try it out on me." She paused, making a face. "But I still won't forgive you. I think most of my skin cells just died because of that cold water."

Percy would've smiled, but a bypassing thought stopped him from doing so. He hadn't used his power over water all that much, ever since . . . ever since he ran from camp. He was mad back then—he had been furious at Poseidon for claiming Lloyd as his traitorous half-brother.

A surge of feather-light tingles gently overtook his senses. Percy vaguely remembered what it felt like, to make water do his will—slowly, very slowly, tiny crystal droplets towered over Faith. It glided towards one another, taking the form of a massive droplet that floated over her head.

"How pretty," murmured Faith, patting her dry body apprehensively as she stared at the swelling droplet. Percy willed it to disappear, simply making it mist to air.

She cut in, "Could you, like, control blood or something? It'd be cool, if you could."

Percy glanced down, aware of the swell that stabbed him on the chest. "It's terrifying," he said faintly. "Last time . . . Annabeth was afraid of me when I tried to choke someone with their own blood. She told me never to do that again, so I didn't. I still won't."

He didn't want to speak any further. It was rather shocking—even to Percy himself—that he could confide such personal things to the hunter with no hesitation. It wasn't all that hard, really—he had always been longing for someone to know and listen to his struggles.

Faith kept quiet before she glimpsed at him—she looked as though she could read every secret he hid. "I can listen well, you know." This time, she avoided his eyes. "If you ever need to let it all out."

"I know," said Percy quickly, uncomfortable as ever. "Thank you, but—"

A flash of bare dappled wings made them jump back. Lucius languidly bowed his head, striding past them with an eerie grace.

"What's your problem?" Faith huffed at the unconcerned wyvern, who only showed off its fangs at her.

In all honesty, Percy was just glad that the beast came to intervene. "He's probably starving. Now, do we still have meat?"

Faith hesitated for a second before turning back to the mirror and snatching a fine-toothed comb. "Check for yourself, Jackson. I don't wanna get myself within a ten foot radius of that disgusting thing."

Percy scrunched his nose at her as he leered upon Lucius. "Too late for that, I think." The cunning beast, in some unexplainable way, had managed to find the damp brown plastic where Percy had stashed his raw meat.

A knock or two brought his attention back to the present. A stifled voice yelled from the outside, startling them, "Half an hour! You have half an hour!"

Faith's eyes snapped to the door, then at the steel clock. The sound of retreating footsteps could be heard. She muttered something incoherent, pursing her lips as she wrapped her neck with a delicate pearly scarf—the same one she'd worn yesterday.

When she grabbed his bag and slung it over her shoulder, he blurted, "Am I forgetting something here?"

"Don't you remember last night?" Faith began ushering the curious wyvern over to her side. "I rented these rooms only until eight o'clock this morning. It's 'bout to be eight in, like, thirty minutes, so the staff's probably gonna remind us to start packing. Oh, and Jackson? Please do go take a shower. Maybe even bring Lucius with you."

The son of Poseidon rolled his eyes at her, breaking into a teeny grin. "Oh, yes, such a wonderful idea. You know, just exposing my precious manly equipment in front of a killing machine—"

A soft-cushioned pillow was thrown across the room, smacking against Percy's face.

Faith began laughing at his mock-offended look. "Seriously? Precious manly equipment?"

"I'm not kidding! Lucius could permanently scar me for life!"

The hunter was now desperately trying to gasp for air. "You're unbelievable. Go away and take a damn shower!"

Percy struggled to keep a straight face as he sauntered over to a flimsy oak cabinet, pulling a plump beige towel from a coiled hanger. He shot the hunter one last smirk. "You sure you can handle Lucius all by yourself?" he asked, going for a sarcastic tone, but there was a tinge of worry that was hidden beneath.

Faith twisted to the side, clasping her strands with a lover's touch as she crooned at him, "I can handle a few minutes with Lucy, Jackson." Her gentle fingers wove through her hair; she was braiding it, he realised. "And yes, I'm going to call the beast Lucy whether you like it or not."

"Lucy's a girl name."

"How do you know it's not a girl?" Faith looked thoughtful for a moment before she shot him a disapproving stare. "You're stalling. Go take a shower, you daft dimbo."

Percy didn't fight the satisfied grin that was plastered on his face.

*.·:·. ✧ ✦ ✧ .·:·.*

Going outside was harder than they thought.

Apparently, the news of two rogue teenagers along with a crazed mutt (Faith had cackled when she'd read this in a newspaper) raiding a pizza place spread out quickly. According to the police, those 'teenagers' were also involved in the train incident, which had occurred in the same day.

When they had left the building extra early, the streets were crowded with people who wore buttoned suits and ties. It was a busy work day, it seemed.

Faith had grown self-conscious just a few minutes after they had went outside; she used the Mist to glamour themselves up a bit so no one would be suspicious of seeing the same faces on the newspapers on the street. She'd even changed Lucius's appearance into a lanky-looking cat instead of a dog.

She didn't trust the beast just yet; there were too many possibilities. She also doubted it would be any use for them, except for the easy transportation around Los Angeles. Yet, even flying around sounded too risky. Percy never liked heights much, and so did she.

Leering at the wyvern that trampled through the red and orange leafs that scattered amongst the brick grounds, Faith started. "Are you sure—"

"Yes, I'm sure," snapped the son of Poseidon, earning a flinch from her. He sighed, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Sorry. We've talked about this already. I don't want to let Lucius go. His kind are powerful."

At the mention of the wyvern's name, the beast kept up with their pace to give them a smouldering eye. Faith couldn't help but notice the thin folds of rash skin from Lucius that spiked into small thorn-like knives.

"Are you saying we could use them to win the war?" asked Faith bluntly, side-stepping to the side as a dazed stranger passed by. She continued in a lower tone, "I don't think any of the other wyverns are like this one."

Percy sharply pivoted to the right, continuing on with his brisk walk. Faith followed meekly as fast as possible, hoping Lucius wouldn't impale her with its barbed tail while her back was turned.

"We're close," said Percy, looking around for a quick second. "The recording studios should be just somewhere in this area. If we have time, maybe we could rescue Annabeth after dealing with Lady Aphorei."

She glanced down, only realising how terrified she was of what was to come. Faith had ignored her fears for some time now—telling herself that everything would be all right.

Faith drew a long breath. Gods, this was the worst time for her fears to show—there was a tingling touch winding in her senses. Annabeth had said it herself; that the hunter would lose her memory. What if it was now?

What if the she-devil, goddess of memory, happened to be there? In the Underworld, waiting for her misery to come?

Seconds of moments be ensnared, the wispy voice of the Oracle murmured. When she and Annabeth were on bad terms, at the train . . .

Faith knew the daughter of Athena wasn't mistaken when she'd argued back, Lady Aphorei is not just some beautiful goddess wandering about—she might be even the one that would kill you once we arrive in the Underworld!

That had stung more than Faith would've liked. Losing her memory was just as awful as dying. She didn't know if every single one of her memories would be taken; if she was lucky enough, a few of her most cherished moments would remain. She didn't know if she would go totally insane from the loss. She didn't know what would happen if Elijah saw her again, with no recollection whatsoever—

"You're panicking. Breathe," murmured Percy.

Faith did, just realising at how long she'd been holding her breath. The second her eyes had fluttered open, Percy was throwing her a concerned look.

She went pink. "I—sorry. I got distracted."

A warm, calloused hand rubbed against her fingertips. He gave her a reassuring smile—it was enough to make her mood less bitter. "We'll be fine," whispered Percy, so quietly that it was almost drowned by the sound of shuffling citizens around them.

A low purr echoed behind them, indicating Lucius's impatience.

Faith hadn't noticed it, but when she dared look up, a sign of jumbled letters stared down upon her. She watched, ignoring the thump in her head, as the words and letters wove through one another. It fused in a blur of black and silver, then—

"DOA Recording Studios," she breathed, eyes bright.