This Cold Year ― Percy Jackson & Annabeth Chase²

―viii. the giant makes a mean drakon stew

THINKING NICO AND HAZEL WERE DEAD HAD BEEN BAD ENOUGH. Being isolated from Percy and Annabeth had been horrible.

But watching Percy die slowly from gorgon's blood poison and being unable to do anything? That was the worst curse of all.

Bob slung Percy over his shoulder like a bag of sports equipment while the skeleton kitten Small Bob curled up on Percy's back and purred. Bob lumbered along at a fast pace, even for a Titan, which made it almost impossible for Naomi and Annabeth to keep up.

Naomi's lungs rattled. Her skin had started to blister again. They probably needed another drink of firewater, but they'd left the River Phlegethon behind. Naomi was so sore and battered that she'd forgotten what it was like not to be in pain.

"How much longer?" Annabeth wheezed.

"Almost too long," Bob called back. "But maybe not."

The landscape changed again. They were still going downhill, which should have made traveling easier; but the ground sloped at just the wrong angle—too steep to jog, too treacherous to let her guard down even for a moment. The surface was sometimes loose gravel, sometimes patches of slime.

Naomi and Annabeth stepped around random bristles sharp enough to impale her foot, and clusters of... well, not rocks exactly. More like warts the size of watermelons. If Naomi had to guess, she supposed Bob was leading them down the length of Tartarus's large intestine.

The air got thicker and stank of sewage. The darkness maybe wasn't quite as intense, but she could only see Bob because of the glint of his white hair and the point of his spear. She noticed he hadn't retracted the spearhead on his broom since their fight with the arai.

She tried not to think the worst.

Percy flopped around, causing the kitten to readjust his nest in the small of Percy's back.

Occasionally Percy would groan in pain, and Naomi felt like a fist was squeezing her heart.

They kept walking endlessly. Naomi's knees felt warm and wobbly, like wire hangers bent to the point of snapping. Percy groaned and muttered something she couldn't make out.

Bob stopped suddenly. "Look."

Ahead in the gloom, the terrain leveled out into a black swamp. Sulfur-yellow mist hung in the air. Even without sunlight, there were actual plants—clumps of reeds, scrawny leafless trees, even a few sickly-looking flowers blooming in the muck. Mossy trails wound between bubbling tar pits.

Directly in front of them, sunk into the bog, were footprints the size of trash-can lids, with long, pointed toes.

Sadly, Naomi was pretty sure she knew what had made them.

"Drakon?" Annabeth guessed dejectedly.

"Yes." Bob grinned at her. "That is good!"

"...It is?" Naomi asked.

"Yes," Bob said. "We are close."

Bob marched into the swamp.

Naomi and Annabeth hurried after him, hopping from moss patch to moss patch.

At least the terrain forced Bob to go slower. Once Naomi and Annabeth caught up, they could walk right behind him and keep an eye on Percy, who was mumbling deliriously, his forehead dangerously hot.

Several times he muttered one of their names, and Naomi fought back tears. Small Bob just purred louder and snuggled up.

Finally the yellow mist parted, revealing a muddy clearing like an island in the muck. The ground was dotted with stunted trees and wart mounds. In the center loomed a large, domed hut made of bones and greenish leather. Smoke rose from a hole in the top. The entrance was covered with curtains of scaly reptile skin, and flanking the entrance, two torches made from colossal femur bones burned bright yellow.