This Cold Year ― Percy Jackson & Annabeth Chase²

―xiv. fates old and new

AS NAOMI DISAPPEARED IN A SHROUD OF DARKNESS (at the worst possible time), Tartarus made a sound like a mountain cracking in half: a roar or a laugh, Annabeth couldn't be sure. 

This form is only a small manifestation of my power, said the god. But it is enough to deal with you. I do not interfere lightly, little demigods. It is beneath me to deal with gnats such as yourself. 

"Uh..." Percy managed. "Don't... you know... go to any trouble."

You have proven surprisingly resilient, Tartarus said. You have come too far. I can no longer stand by and watch your progress.

Tartarus spread his arms. Throughout the valley, thousands of monsters wailed and roared, clashing their weapons and bellowing in triumph. The Doors of Death shuddered in their chains. 

Be honored, little demigods, said the god of the pit. Even the Olympians were never worthy of my personal attention. But you will be destroyed by Tartarus himself!

Annabeth genuinely had no idea how this could be worse. Tartarus—the Tartarus—was out to kill them; Naomi had disappeared in a shroud of darkness at the worst possible time; and the Doors were still chained. 

Come on. 

As Annabeth stared up at Tartarus's dark whirlpool face, she decided she'd rather die in some less memorable way—maybe falling down the stairs, or going peacefully in her sleep at age eighty, after a nice quiet life with Percy and Naomi. Yes, that sounded good.

It wasn't the first time Annabeth had faced an enemy she couldn't defeat by force. Normally, this would've been her cue to stall for time with some clever Athena-like chitchat. 

Except her voice wouldn't work. She couldn't even close her mouth. For all she knew, she was drooling as badly as Percy did when he slept. 

She was dimly aware of the army of monsters swirling around her, but after their initial roar of triumph, the horde had fallen silent. 

Instead, they kept their distance, waiting for Tartarus to act. 

It is good to have form, he intoned. However temporary. With these hands, I can eviscerate you just fine.

His voice sounded like a backward recording—as if the words were being sucked into the vortex of his face rather than projected. In fact, everything seemed to be drawn toward the face of this god—the dim light, the poisonous clouds, the essence of the monsters, even Annabeth's own fragile life force. She looked around and realized that every object on this vast plain had grown a vaporous comet's tail—all pointing toward Tartarus.

Annabeth knew she should say something, but her instincts told her to hide, to avoid doing anything that would draw the god's attention.

Besides, what could she say? You won't get away with this!

That wasn't true. She and Percy had only survived this long because Tartarus was savoring his new form. He wanted the pleasure of physically ripping them to pieces. If Tartarus wished, Annabeth had no doubt he could devour her existence with a single thought, as easily as he'd vaporized Hyperion and Krios. Would there be any rebirth from that? Annabeth didn't want to find out.

Next to her, Percy did something she'd never seen him do. He dropped his sword. It just fell out of his hand and hit the ground with a thud. Death Mist no longer shrouded his face, but he still had the complexion of a corpse.

Tartarus hissed again—possibly laughing. Your fear smells wonderful, said the god. I see the appeal of having a physical body with so many senses. Perhaps my beloved Gaea is right, wishing to wake from her slumber in this little one's body.