Chapter 32

Annabeth POV

The dream brings back certain memories of that night that I had somehow forgotten. The scent of chlorine clashing with the saltiness of the air as we sat by the pool. The way the impending fog had cast shadows over our reflections in the water. How the tears he shed hugged his eyelashes before they fell and how, as they ran down his cheeks it reminded me of a stray drop of paint escaping a paintbrush mid stoke, ruining the very painting it worked so hard to create.

I ruined him, and it tore me apart from the inside out.

It was like the words had been yanked from my mouth by some supernatural force the way a magician might pull a seemingly endless stream of handkerchiefs from his pocket––a never ending flow of twisted knots emerging from what appeared to be no viable source.

Because there was no viable source for my breaking up with Percy––I loved him with every ounce of my being, and I was absolutely sure of it...more sure than I had been about anything in my life. But I had to do it to keep him safe.

And so I made myself get up, the edge of the pool cold as ice beneath my feet as I rose. I had let my hair fall like a curtain by the sides of my face, blocking my peripherals from stealing a damning glance back at him, because I couldn't look back. If I had, I wouldn't have been able to turn away again.

The moment I heard the pool gate close behind me, I had rounded a corner where I was sure he couldn't see me and slid to the floor. The tears had come on like an avalanche, seeming to rise from the very pit of my stomach. I remember how sick I had felt and the way my body had convulsed as I cried.

I had never experienced anything like it. I wanted to melt into the wall, let it swallow me whole. I can still feel the press of it against my spine, the cold stone digging into my shoulder blades.

The first thing I feel as my consciousness begins to return is the press of a cold chair against my back, the rim of it pushing into the blades of my shoulders. The feeling is all too familiar, and with it, a feeling so raw it almost swallows me whole.

Only this time it isn't grief I feel. It's terror.

My eyes shoot open, and the room begins to come into focus. It's incredibly dark in the storage space, and I can just barely make out the silhouettes of crates that line the walls from floor to ceiling. There is a window directly in front of me, but all I can see through it is a never ending expanse of black. I have no idea where I am or how much time has passed, and the darkness seems to be mocking me, turning those few things I can see into blackhole barriers that prevent me from being able to gain any sort of bearings. My throat is painstakingly dry.

I hear her heels clicking against the stone before I hear her voice.

"For someone so smart, I can't figure out why you were dumb enough to ignore my message," Hera says, her voice painfully clipped.

The volume of her heels against the ground grows louder as she approaches me from behind, and I feel the hairs on my neck stand on end.

Along with my legs, torso, and hands, my neck is tied tightly to the chair in such a way that I can't even turn to look at Hera as she emerges from my right, shadows shifting across her body as she comes to stand in front of me.

The zip ties hold tight as I tug against them, and I'm suddenly reminded of a time back in kindergarten when I had accidentally fastened one around my wrist and couldn't get it off. My teacher at the time had had a look of complete and utter horror on her face before immediately rushing to grab a pair of scissors so that she could cut it before it could cut off my circulation.

There was no one to cut me free now.

Hera takes a step forward, her face emerging into view. She looks me up and down, her expression contorting with recognition.

"You're Thalia's little friend, aren't you?" She takes a speculative pause before reaching into the pocket of her dark skirt. "Is that how you got this?"

From her pocket she pulls out the key to her and Thalia's dad's house––the one with the obnoxious crest. The one I had taken from Thalia's jacket pocket without her knowing.

"She had nothing to do with this," I say, keeping my voice as level as I possibly can. It's difficult––my terror seems to be crawling up my throat like a hoard of spiders. "I'm the only one who planned to break in."

Hera looks at my face for a long time, her eyes narrowing, and I can tell she knows I'm telling the truth. Slowly, she returns the key to her pocket.

"You did take it from her, though?" she asks.

"Yes."

I need to keep her talking, to buy myself time.

I cock my head to the side for show. "I was surprised that your computer didn't even have a passcode," I remark, frantically trying to find gaps in the bonds that hold my hands behind my back, but it's useless––there are none.

Hera rolls her eyes. "Obviously I don't need one. I was alerted the moment you opened the laptop."

I bite my lip. She's right. I was stupid, uncautious. I should've thought of that. It was my own carelessness that landed me here.

Hera dips her head to the side. "Oh, don't feel bad, sweetheart. Even the smartest of us make foolish mistakes." Slowly, she turns, facing the window. The faint light that escapes it turns her figure into a milky silhouette––a dark shadow with a misleading halo of light. The image is cruelly fitting. "And you are smart," she says, her voice drawing. Hera turns back to face me, her expression harsh. "But you wasted your intelligence on a damning...foolish mistake." She shakes her head. "And now we have a sticky situation on our hands."

I swallow the acid that rises in my throat.

Keep her talking.

"That's right," I say, a hint of taunting in my voice. "People will be looking for me. How long has it been? A couple hours? A day?"

Hera purses her lips and gives me a pressed smile. "A little over a day. The alarms won't be sounding yet, but an explanation for your absence will certainly need to be provided soon."

The way she says it sends a chill down my spine. Like an explanation for my absence will be as easy to fabricate as the rest of the intricate lies she's woven. Could I really be that easily erased? The thought makes me want to gag––mostly because it's the truth––and the realization of it hits me hard. Who would my absence really affect? My asshole father, who has taken every road to prove I'm an element of lesser importance in his life? My mom, who works 24/7 sees no more than a couple times a year? Thalia, who thinks I'm a monster? Percy, whose heart I broke into shards? My throat feels even dryer than before––a desert in a drought.

As though she can read my mind, Hera says, "Oh that's right, you must be terribly thirsty." She quickly turns to call out, "Argus, the girl needs water! Bring her some!"

My head snaps up. "Argus?"

Argus, who's known my mom for years, who drove me to the resort on my first day here?

The cruel smile that takes over Hera's face is all the confirmation I need, and I feel like I'm going to be sick all over again.

A moment later, Argus walks in, water in hand. He looks the same as ever, his blond hair framing his jawline. I turn my head. I can't even look at him. He was probably the one that knocked me out and brought me here.

Argus reaches out to give the water to me, and, a moment too late, seems to remember that I'm tied up and can't take it. He holds the cup up to my lips. I keep them firmly shut in protest.

It's stupid to put my pride before my needs, but I'm not being rational right now––it's hard to be when you feel like pieces of your reality are crumbling around you.

Agus sighs. "Just drink the water, Annabeth. You're being ridiculous."

I turn on him. "Me? I'm being ridiculous?" My anger ignites. "What kind of sick person holds a teenage girl hostage like this? What kind of person holds anyone hostage like this?" I shake my head. "What is she giving you? Money? How can that possibly be worth this?"

Argus looks slightly hurt at my words, which is insane. Hera seems to think so too.

"Believe it or not, his loyalty has always laid with me," Hera says. "Because I know what it takes to have success in this world." She takes a step forward and grabs the cup out of Argus's hand, turning to him. "That is all."

Her words stick with me. His loyalty has always laid with me, because I know what it takes to have success in this world. It disgusts me to think of all of the donors and contributors like Argus and the Augurs who are complacent in Hera's schemes simply for material benefits.

Argus is all too happy to be leaving, and the expression of complacency on his face as he exists makes me sick.

As soon as he's gone, Hera turns her attention back to me and leans in close enough that I can smell the perfume on her neck.

"You're a smart girl, Annabeth, so I expect you will see the reason in what I say next." Her tongue curls as she speaks, reminding me of a snake. "This...morality you have...the thing that causes you to sit there with your head held high, even as you are tied up, useless––" she lowers her voice to a whisper, "is the very reason that you are the one in binds while I stand above you." She takes a step back, observing me. "I learned early on that the only way to be successful in a world that does everything in its power to keep you down is to never take no for an answer."

I glare at her. "Even if that means breaking the law, putting people in danger, and going to god knows what lengths to cover your tracks?"

Hera doesn't hesitate. "Absolutely." She smiles. "Mortality is the biggest 'no' of them all."

I shake my head. "You're disgusting."

"And you––" she says, "are wasting your potential on upholding a system that is doing nothing but hold you back." She cocks her head. "You are in that chair right now because of your quest to 'do the right thing.' Your inability to put your own self interest over your morality will be your downfall, and that is the saddest thing of all."

There is a long pause as she retreats, standing tall again, combing her long, dark hair over her shoulder with the hand that is not still holding the glass of water. Her movements are regal, powerful. But her kingdom is one built on malice.

There is a logic to her words, no doubt about it. But it's a logic I will never agree with. Time and time again I have seen the toll malice takes on its victims––experienced it firsthand all of my life. And that is the system I refuse to uphold.

"Maybe you're right," I tell her, my voice coming out scratchy. "Maybe my morality will be my downfall in a certain regard." I narrow my eyes. "But from where I'm sitting, your downfall has been far more tragic than mine. You may be in a place of power––of impeccable economic success and immense influence––but it is a throne built on lies and selfishness and heinousness. It is a life without love, and I'm certain you are devoid of happiness because of it. I may be the one tied up in this chair, but I have a life that is bursting at the seams with that which matters."

In that moment, pictures flash through my mind like a flipbook at rapid speed. The press of Percy's body beneath mine after I ran into him on my skateboard and fell on top of him the day we met. Thalia, Piper, Hazel, and me twirling around in dresses at the beachside boutique. Percy's hands on my hips as we danced together under the glow of LEDs at the resort dance in the beginning of the summer. Our friend group circled around the ferris wheel basket at the Santa Monica Pier and the rush of courage that coursed through me the moment I kissed Percy's cheek in the photo booth. The feel of Percy's hand trailing up my arm as he laid across from me in the sand on the Fourth of July and the press of his hips under mine during our first heated kiss by the pool. Percy and me running from the workers at the resort dinner party after sneaking into the kitchen and pigging out on the fancy desserts they had laid out. The glow of my birthday candle illuminating Percy's face as he sits back in the shopping cart of the parking lot rooftop, and the way the lights of the Los Angeles skyline immediately come into focus the moment I blow the candle out. Thalia and me kicking the boys' butts in volleyball at the pool. My dad giving me my owl earrings and pulling me into a hug under the orange poolside umbrellas. Percy and me dropping Bobby and Matthew off at their golf lesson before wrecking the course by doing donuts in the golf cart. Percy's laugh as I geeked out over astronomy at the Griffith Observatory and the sound of his voice as he said 'I love you' to me for the very first time that same night. My mom combing her fingers through my hair as I laid my head on her lap, the love that coursed through her movements bringing lightness to the dark places of my heart.

I look at Hera long and hard. Normally the clean cut of her ruby lipstick draws away from the frown lines that vandalize her otherwise perfect skin, but right now, the shadows that cross her face make them stand out tenfold.

"I feel sorry for you," I tell her. "You may be successful by society's standards, but you have done the opposite of succeed in the areas where it really matters. You may be standing above me now in a physical sense, but as far as I'm concerned you dug your grave the day your skewed values took form in that twisted mind, and really, you'll always be buried far beneath me––no matter what you do."

It's the first time I ever see Hera unhinged. The look of pure rage that crosses her face at my words tells me that I've hit the nail on the head with my assessment...and she knows it too.

Slowly, Hera approaches me, her eyes glued on my face. It's as though she's envisioning tearing me limb for limb in her head, and my arms go number and number the closer she gets.

Hera crouches down in front of me, stooping to my level, and, very slowly, she raises the glass of water up until it's just inches away from my face. The sight of it awakens some innate, animal survival instinct in me, making the water seem like the most important thing in the world. And Hera knows this. It's why she taunts me with it.

I watch as Hera slowly tips the glass, a steady stream of water pouring over the edge and pooling into my lap.

A completely humiliating whimper escapes my throat at the sight of it, and I absolutely hate myself for making the sound.

Hera sneers, her eyes on my face as she pours out the rest of the glass, enjoying the way it makes my teeth grind.

The feeling of the water seeping through my leggings and onto my lap mocks me.

When the glass is finally empty, Hera stands, a look of satisfaction on her face. "You have chosen weakness, Annabeth Chase. And you'll have a slow, painful demise because of it." She sneers. "I'm getting some sleep. I'll deal with you in the morning."

And with that, she directs her attention behind me and stalks off, passing me briskly on my right. A cool breeze hits my face as she whisks by and it only contributes to the chill that seems to be encasing my body in ice, one centimeter at a time.

I shake my head.

I'm not thinking clearly––I know that. Shadows begin to pass before my eyes and I can't tell if it's really a shifting of light or just my imagination. I feel tears run down my face, but I don't even register them as an expression of sadness and hopelessness. They're merely more undrinkable water pooling into my lap.

The ties around my hands, my legs, my body, and my neck are more cutting than ever and I can't move anything beyond my fingers, toes, eyelids, and lips. It hurts to breathe.

I know I need to clear my head––to think of a way out of this impossible situation. If anyone can do it, I can.

But not right now. Not when my lap is so wet and my mouth is so dry and my fingers, toes, eyelids, and lips are so cold that even they can barely move anymore.

I call back my memories of my friends and my mom and my brothers and the resort. And I call back the San Francisco bay––the way the fog would roll in over the water, slowly swallowing the air and sea and sky.

And I let the fog roll in.

When I wake, my mouth is drier than ever, but my head is clear.

It takes my eyes several minutes to adjust.

A cool breeze circulates the room. It has a strong scent of saltiness to it, and I let the chill of it wake me, heightening my senses. It's still remarkably dark out and the room of crates and boxes is nothing but silhouettes and dark edges.

Good, I think. That means that not much time has passed.

I sit for what feels like an hour, testing the limits of my own consciousness. I quiz myself, reciting lines of memorized texts and the chain of events that led me to where I currently am––all to wake my mind. And to backtrack.

I don't recall any part of the journey here. All I remember is going under back in Hera's bedroom and then waking up here––and the conversation that followed.

My still wet leggings are a harsh reminder, but in a way I'm thankful for the coolness. It wakes me.

I don't see any sort of cameras monitoring me, but that certainly doesn't mean they aren't there. Either way, though, I know that I need to begin taking the risk of moving around––if they catch me obviously scouting for an escape it may be my downfall, but I'll certainly fall if I do nothing at all.

Once I am certain of my state of mind, I begin to scoot around the room on the chair, trying to get a better sense of my surroundings. Because of the way I'm tied, the process is painfully slow and absolutely brutal on my muscles. Directly across from me is the same window that I've been looking at the whole time. From the height of my chair, I can't get a view of what lies below, but either way, it would probably be my best chance at escape if I could figure out any possible way to break my bonds. Easy, right? It takes me what feels like forever to even cross the room, but as I do, I discover that the place Hera and Argus were entering and exiting through behind me is, unsurprisingly, a locked door––not much help.

Time passes like molasses, but I continue making my way around the room, inspecting the crates. They vary in size, and I can tell that all of the boxes are opened by the way the lids rest loosely on the tops, but because of my immovability, I can't do anything more than rub up against them. Some of them are labeled, but there's nothing inside of them that could be of help to me. It's all liquid chemicals––some of which are probably the very stuff being dumped into the ocean by Hera.

How anyone could do such a thing, I don't know.

I try filing down the zip ties against the edges of the crates, but they're far too soft to do any sort of damage unless I were to file the ties down for a week straight.

I look around for loose nails in the floorboards, for shards of glass tucked in corners––anything that I could use to cut the ties, but it's hopeless. Hera wouldn't have put me here if there was an easy route to escape.

I'm going to need to think outside the box.

Sometimes when I'm faced with my greatest challenges, I slip into something my dad used to call "the state" when I was a kid. Whether I was trying to figure out a way to build a structural support for a lego house, attempting a math problem that was beyond my years, or even just trying to dissect the intended meaning behind one of Helen's ridiculous tangents, my dad always said he would catch me in a trancelike state, venturing deep into the depths of my own mind to find whatever logic I needed to resolve the issue at hand.

As I got older, "the state" became a place of comfort for me. Within the confines of my own mind, I was in control, and there was no web I couldn't untangle if I took my issues there.

"The state" is where I retreat to now.

In my head I lay out all of the variables at hand, everything that is within my reach. I walk through possible scenario after scenario until I think I've run out––then I change the situation slightly and start all over.

I traverse every plaine of ingenuity within my mind.

And it is there that I discover my salvation––the key to my escape.

It is there that I realize I don't need to be thinking outside of the box, but rather, in it.

About a half an hour later, my muscles are aching, I'm bleeding where my mobility has caused the zip ties to dig deep into my skin, and I'm so drenched in sweat, I feel I could drown in it.

But I have succeeded in doing what I needed to, and for that it is all infinitely worth it.

Working as quickly as possible to minimize the chances of being caught, in the past several minutes, I managed to use the sheer force of my body to knock over one of the crates and spill the contents across the floor. The chemicals were in special plastic containment vials, not glass, so it wasn't possible to free myself from the zip ties with them. It was, however, possible for me to free myself with what was inside of them.

Without knowing it, Hera left me every ingredient I needed to make an acidic chemical reaction––one strong enough to eat through the zip ties.

It's a fitting kind of irony, I think––that her evil is the very thing that ended up allowing me to win in the end.

And a smile plays at my lips as I stand, hoisting the very chair I was tied to up over my shoulder. Acid burns eat at my skin, a painful reminder, but I go through it again without hesitation a million times over for all of the satisfaction it gives me to be able to hoist up this damn chair.

And with every bit of strength I can muster, I throw the chair as hard as I can at the window.

The window breaks in a shatter of glass, and shards rain down on me like confetti. It was a loud crash, and I know it probably won't go unheard. And even if it does, I'm still sure that there's some sort of surveillance on me, even if it isn't being monitored like it should be.

I need to get out. Now.

I look out the window.

As I suspected, the storage room is part of the system of caves that Percy and I discovered while following Octavian that one day so long ago. The window is suspended high above the cliffs and the sea, and I know that what I'm about to do is dangerous as hell.

But I'll take my chances, because I know that no matter what, what'll be waiting for me in this room in just a few minutes will be infinitely more dangerous.

I rip off a piece of my shirt to wrap my hands in cloth before grabbing the window frame and hoisting myself onto the ledge.

Here goes nothing.

I scale the cliffside carefully, immensely grateful for all of the time I've spent outdoors in my life, getting used to the feeling of rock beneath my limbs.

The cliffside isn't too steep at first, but after a little bit, it begins to drop off, and I feel the wear on my muscles fast. It becomes abundantly clear how much weaker I am after not eating or drinking for a day and sitting tied up for hours straight. But I put the thought of my own weakness out of my mind. I let the sea below me give me strength.

I trail the wall towards the right, remembering the cave's location in relation to where it connects back to the resort. It's a long trek, and I have to think logically about every move I make. One misstep, and I end up splayed across the rocky seaside below.

I'm surprised at how quickly my eyesight has adjusted––thankfully, I'm able to see everything. It must be a byproduct of not being in the light for so long.

I guess that's one upside to being held captive.

I work my way across the cliffside horizontally––I don't dare try to climb upwards. Not yet at least. I have to save that for last, when the slope returns, closer to the resort.

Sweat runs down my spine and my legs shake violently, threatening to give way. It reminds me of how I used to feel back when I did ballet. No wonder I quit.

I've been climbing for several minutes, and I'm sure that Hera has noticed my absence by now.

But I'm long gone. I just need to make it through this.

And get there before she does.

The realization makes me quicken my pace, and I begin to work my rhythm more rapidly, feeling out footholds and handholds with my body rather than my eyes.

And that's where my mistake lies.

The lights of the resort have just come into view when I quicken my pace even more, my eyes set on an opening up above.

I have begun working upwards now, shifting my attention up vertically to a crevice where moonlight pokes through stone like a beacon.

I'm just inches away.

And if my eyes had been on the rocks below rather than the moon above, I probably would've noticed that the rock I step on next is embedded in dirt rather than stone.

And before I even realize what's happening, I'm falling.

In a fraction of a second, a million thoughts flash through my mind.

I'm first filled with a terrible sadness––at all of the love in my heart that I never followed through on. For my brothers, the menaces whose taste for mischief match my own. For my friends, who brought more smiles to my face this summer than ever before in my life. For my mom, who was there for me when I needed her most. For Thalia, who, with her strength, inspires me more than anyone. And for Percy, who taught me what it felt like to feel truly, deeply loved.

But it only takes an instant for that sadness to turn to happiness––at what I had, at what I was beyond fortunate enough to have been able to experience.

And as I feel my fingertips leave the dirt, acceptance swells in my heart, and I prepare to be engulfed by air and sea and sky.

And I am in a way.

Because a moment later, my wrist snaps violently, and I feel my arm yank in it's socket. I look up, back towards the moon––back towards my beacon.

And there, I see that my outreached arm has been engulfed by the air and sea and sky.

Percy's face is a whirlwind of emotions as he stares down on me, hand wrapped tightly around my forearm.

And when I lock eyes with him, he looks more handsome than ever.

A sop escapes my throat.

"We're staying together," he promises me. "You're not getting away from me. Never again."