Here is... chapter 19!

Nico

Leo was absolutely, completely crazy, Nico decided as he did exactly what Leo was doing—yelling random battle cries ("For the good of all non-evil people!" "Tacos!" "Let's kill Smoke Face!" "Lyssa sucks!"), brandishing his weapons, and running full-speed at an even crazier goddess than Hera who could easily crush everyone. Needless to say, Nico wasn't too happy with Leo's "plan". But since it was the only thing that even had a remote chance of working, well, Nico couldn't be too picky about Leo's choice. And it had the added bonus of watching Lyssa's face turn purple (or as purple as a shadow's face would get). Nico enjoyed that immensely, and he especially liked how visible steam rose from above Lyssa's head.

"What in the name of Uranus' chopped-up body are—" Interesting curse, Nico thought as he chucked a razor-sharp Imperial gold knife at the goddess' head. He'd found an entire set of Celestial bronze/Imperial gold throwing knives left behind by some Furor, and he intended to put them to good use. Of course, Lyssa dodged it easily (Nico's aim wasn't too great), but the gesture made her focus on Nico. Yay me! "So, Hades spawn, you want a rematch with me? Interesting choice, boy; but it's a choice you'll regret. After all, I only need one child of Hades… Levesque is much less troublesome than you…" Nico ignored the (not) subtle threat. As long as it wasn't directed at Hazel, he was fine with a few threats to his life. After all, he was still alive, right? He stood impassively, looking up at the spirit's enormous frame. From the corner of his eye, Nico saw Leo and Piper sneaking around with the all-important net, behind Lyssa. Good, I'll keep her distracted.

"Interesting choice, goddess," Nico kept his tone pleasant and mild. For some reason, that scared people. He continued, mimicking Lyssa's earlier threat. "But, unfortunately for you, it's a choice you'll regret. After all, I am the son of Hades…" He kept a relaxed posture and gazed defiantly at Lyssa with a stare that anyone in their right mind would run from. Of course, Lyssa was out of her mind, so… Nico concentrated, beads of sweat rolling down the base of his neck, and with a massive effort almost as large as Lyssa (it was harder if he was extremely tired, which he was), felt the presence of the dead rising up, all around him. Skeletons, ghosts, ghouls, spirits—no matter what you called them, they were the dead. And Nico controlled the dead. "I am the son of Hades in his original form—Greek. I am the Ghost King, the Prince of Shadows and Darkness. I am a dweller of the Underworld and Ambassador to Pluto; I am a survivor of Tartarus," Nico raised his voice so that it echoed around the room impressively. "I can summon skeletons, spirits, and more. I can make your worst nightmares come true, and I can make your afterlife hell—literally. I am Nico di Angelo, and I am the son of Hades!"

Nico raised his arms, and summoned more ghostly defenders. Silently, they appeared, marching in tidy rows behind Nico. There were archers, cavalry mounted on shimmering-mirage horses, and foot soldiers with lethal weapons held at the ready. Nico had made sure that while his warriors were ghosts, their weapons were not; they were all made of Stygian Iron, and would instantly return Furores back to the Underworld, where they belonged. There was silence all around, and Lyssa broke it. Nico could tell that she was trying to sound disdainful, but the undercurrent of—what was it? Fear? Awe? Whatever it was, it meant that Nico was doing a good job distracting Lyssa. Maybe too good… Lyssa seemed to grow larger, and when deities did that, no matter how crazy they were, it meant nothing good. Unfortunately, Nico was right on that point; it definitely was not a good thing.

"Is that so? Well, demigod, as it so happens, I am Lyssa, the spirit of rage, madness, and fury. I am the forerunner of insanity, and the personification of blind, raging fury," Well, that explains a lot… Nico thought snidely, almost smirking, but kept his face devoid of any emotion. He had a feeling that if he smirked, Lyssa would kill him right then and there. "I am the herald of your worst fears, I am the goddess who infected the great hero Hercules, and the one who can drive mortals and demigods alike mad with a single snap of my fingers. I am the ruler of the Furores. I am their recruiter, their dispatcher, and their master. I am the goddess who was sidelined by Dionysus! I am the true spirit, harbinger, personification, and goddess of rage, madness, and fury—the most painful methods of torture. I have caused great armies to turn on themselves, and I have caused great empires to fall. I have infected both great leaders and common peasants. And, now I am your executioner, son of Hades." Wisps of smoke detached form Lyssa and swirled towards Nico, who twisted away just in time to avoid being entangled in her web of rage, madness, and… oh yeah. Fury. The smoke was so close that Nico could feel the emotions pulsing within: there was red-hot, burning hatred, there was quieter, colder, but just as deadly fury, there was swirling, twirling, twisting madness and unstoppable, earthshaking rage.

They began a kind of deadly dance: Nico and the smoke, twisting and spinning and turning around and around. Nico stabbed, slashed, and thrust with his blade, but his arm was tired, and his movements less agile after summoning his own spirits. Every time some smoke drifted away into nothingness, Lyssa sent more and more, and soon they surrounded him. Nico fought like a crazy person, and his own summoned warriors fought with him. They weaved through the smokiness together in a rhythm, and strangely, soon Nico's arm wasn't tired anymore. A broken bone snapped back into place, his wounds healed, his energy restored.

He could clearly see the trapped souls in Lyssa's smoke, and with a simple slash, he sent one free. Another cut, another soul freed from Lyssa's eternal torment. Skeletal soldiers formed ranks behind him as he set havoc to the smoke, the Furores, the throbbing madness, the unrelenting rage, the burning fury. He felt strong, powerful—no, he was strong. He was powerful. Every slash or stab of his blade dissolved more smoke. He, his sword, the Furores. They danced to a lethal pulse, they danced to the gentle, yet destructive, cadence of death. The world became black, white, and gray. There was no past nor future… there was only the now. The dead were Nico's, and the living were his to reap, but he only attacked Lyssa. He was vaguely aware of a dark aura surrounding him like a set of armor, but it didn't really matter. He could do anything; he was Nico di Angelo, son of Hades. And then Lyssa flickered to Furor, and the last thing Nico saw before the blessing of Hades left him was a flash of gold—a net being thrown over the smoke.

Jason

He had to die. He had to kill him. But he isn't dying! What more could Jason do? He'd already tried a farraginous* medley of attacks, but the obstinate son of Poseidon was equally bent on destroying Jason. That did make the son of Jupiter's job harder, but he would complete his task, or die trying. It was his duty, to become Lyssa's champion and host. And Jason was a Roman. Romans completed their duty—if they didn't, that meant that they were dead. Jason knew with absolute certainty that only one demigod would come out of the duel alive.

And as he didn't plan on dying quite yet (he couldn't even legally drive yet!), Jackson would have to be sacrificed. Jason moved with calm efficiency, deflecting all of Percy's blows and retaliating with his own. His opponent was a skilled swordsman, Jason had to admit, even though he was possessed by the Furores, but his own powers were much stronger than Percy's. Water was no match for storm, especially if that storm happened to be Jason.

Strangely, Jason didn't feel tired from using his powers so much, like he usually would. There was a slight pain in his side and arms, but that was all. The Furores were helping him, guiding him, lending him strength. With their assistance, he was slowly driving Percy back; and that was the first sign of a winning battle. For he was Jason Grace, with Jupiter's powers, one of the most powerful demigods in existence, and the soon-to-be destroyer of Perseus Jackson. He was strong, powerful, and confident. He had his trusty weapon, Ivilis. He had years of experience under his belt. He had his powers, fully charged and ready to go. Jason was a fighter, a survivor. He wouldn't just curl up and die. He would fight. And then Jason got stabbed.

For a brief moment, he felt no pain, just a slight, uncomfortable pinching sensation. He continued pressing forward, sparring with his sword, which crackled loudly with barely restrained electricity. And then the pain came—the waves upon waves of mind-numbing, desperate, frenzied pain. In all of his years as a demigod, Jason had never experienced anything like that before. And that was saying a lot, considering that he'd been at Camp Jupiter (and thus, fighting monsters) practically since birth, and he'd fought both a Titan and a primordial goddess. The pain was wild, burning, crushing agony; it was a dull numbness that spread and spread until he collapsed in a heap on the ground. He forgot about his enemy, he forgot about the fight. He forgot all his anger, frustration, and fury. It wasn't gone (it was still there, simmering beneath the surface), but Jason prioritized. Jason not dying was ultimately more important than the other person dying. Jason might be possessed, but he wasn't stupid.

There was only the pain now. He was feverish, then cold. Freezing, then burning. He dropped Ivilis—it was too hot (or cold?) to touch. Jason moaned, completely unaware that he'd even done so. Clenching his eyes shut, he waited for the inevitable to come. And it did come. First, his vision blurred, then his hearing dulled. The welcome darkness descended upon him, blanketing his senses softly. His shoulders relaxed and his muscles loosened. Distantly, he heard cries of pain, outrage, and horror. Vaguely, he felt a tugging sensation somewhere on his torso, and a sticky liquid steadily flowing out of a wound, staining his shirt. With the last of his strength that seemed to have abandoned him, Jason forced his eyelids open, and he saw everything in one quick glimpse. He saw a dark-haired boy with smoky eyes in front of him, holding a bloodied bronze sword. He saw a tan girl with kaleidoscopic eyes screaming something, but he couldn't hear the words. He saw a dark mass writhing like a caged animal under a golden net, held down by a blond girl and a tall Asian boy. He saw a curly-haired girl with a sword gesturing frantically to two more people—a pale, dark-haired boy yelling something (was that a skeleton he was yelling at?), and a Latino guy who appeared to be on fire.

But the whispers—the whispers only he could hear—were clear as day, and impossible to ignore. Lyssa needs you, they entreated him. She will heal you, but you must continue to fight! Suddenly, Jason's senses sharpened, his mind returned, and his awareness was clear once more. I thought she wanted one of us to die! He thought absently to the Furores, but he was already under their spell again. The answer to his question didn't really matter; of course he would still fight! Why wouldn't he? He was loyal to the spirits, since they were his masters, after all. And anyway, he wanted to crush that arrogant son of Poseidon into the realm of Hades. The spirits' answer came anyway: She has her reasons… you see, she needs you alive as a bargaining chip, for her release. Not that you'd care. Your so-called friends are nothing to you. The words meant nothing to Jason. And he had no idea who the "friends" were. But it didn't matter. He rose up slowly, his eyes smoky grey once more, and, ignoring Percy's cry of surprise, wrestled the shorter demigod to the ground.

"You bastard—" Jason grunted, flipping his enemy onto his back.

"I wouldn't be talking, Zeus spawn," Percy shot back, eyes narrowing. Jason saw the attack too late: he tried to roll away, but Percy slashed at his arm and a spot of blood leaked out.

The sight of the red fluid seemed to spark something in the other demigod. Percy attacked and attacked, and wouldn't let up. Jason's left leg collapsed under him, and he fell to the ground. This is it, for real this time… but then a flash of gold caught Jason's eye. His sword! He snatched it up agilely and leaped up. Miraculously, his leg held this time. He grinned manically. The fight was back on.

Feint to the right! Good, good. Kick him! No, not there—yes, good! In the head! Jason obeyed immediately, using his powers to supplement his fighting. All he could hear was his blood pumping loudly and the clang of metal against metal, gold against bronze, demigod against demigod. Fry his brains out! Not that he has any… more, more! A whirlwind of thunder and crackling lightning swirled around Jason, but Percy summoned a matching hurricane around him.

He almost killed you in Kansas! Jason slashed at his adversary's face without pity. Remember that time when he sat down at the head of the table, your rightful place? A vicious stab at Percy's arm. Blood came out. Good. Jason was gaining ground now. He took your spot as praetor! He replaced you! That was the final straw. Jason leaped up, and brought his sword back. It glinted menacingly, and then he felt a whoosh of cool air as he rose and hovered in midair. "Say goodbye, Greek scum!" Jason laughed. Being in his father's domain lent him more strength, and he was going to use it to defeat the infuriating Percy Jackson once and for all.

* Yes, "farraginous" is a word. Look it up :)

Next update: Over the weekend, or on Monday.

Happy Halloween, everyone!