𝓟𝓻𝓪𝓮𝓵𝓲𝓪 - (𝓟.𝓙𝓪𝓬𝓴𝓼𝓸𝓷)

10.

vol i
➵ chapter ten ➵

"Percy, wake up."
Salt water splashes on his face. Annabeth is shaking his shoulder.

In the distance, the sun is setting behind a city skyline. There's a beachside highway lined with palm trees, storefronts glowing with red and blue neon, and a harbour filled with sailboats and cruise ships.

"Miami, I think," Annabeth says. "But the hippocampi are acting funny."
Sure enough, their fishy friends have slowed down and are whinnying and swimming in circles, sniffing the water. They don't look happy. One of them sneezes.

Percy can tell what they're thinking.
"This is as far as they'll take us. Too many humans. Too much pollution. We'll have to swim to shore on our own."

No one is psyched, but they thank Rainbow and his friends for the ride.
Tyson cries a little. He unfastens the makeshift saddle pack he'd made, which contained his tool kit and a couple of other things he'd salvaged from the Birmingham wreck. He hugs Rainbow around the neck, gives him a soggy mango he'd picked up on the island, and says good-bye.

Once the hippocampi's white manes disappear into the sea, they swim for shore. The waves push them forward, and in no time, they're back in the mortal world.
The group wanders along the cruise line docks, pushing through crowds of people arriving for vacations. Porters bustle around with carts of luggage. Taxi drivers yell at each other in Spanish and try to cut in line for customers.

If anybody noticed six kids dripping wet and looking like they'd just had a fight with a monster—they didn't let on.

Now that they're back among mortals, Tyson's single eye blurs from the Mist. Grover puts on his cap and sneakers.
Even the Fleece has transformed from a sheepskin to a red-and-gold high school letter jacket with a large glittery Omega on the pocket.

Annabeth runs to the nearest newspaper box and checks the date on the Miami Herald. She curses. "June eighteenth! We've been away from camp ten days!"
"That's impossible!" Clarisse says.

But time travels differently in monstrous places.

"Thalia's tree must be almost dead," Grover wails. "We have to get the Fleece back tonight."
Clarisse slumps down on the pavement. "How are we supposed to do that?" Her voice trembles. "We're hundreds of miles away. No money. No ride. This is just like the Oracle said. It's your fault, Jackson! If you hadn't interfered—"
"Percy's fault?!" Annabeth explodes. "Clarisse, how can you say that? You are the biggest—"
"Guys." Helia warns.
"Stop it!" Percy shouts.

Clarisse puts her head in her hands. Annabeth stomps her foot in frustration.
Percy had almost forgotten that the quest was supposed to be Clarisse's. For a scary moment, he even sees things from her point of view. How would he feel if a bunch of other heroes had butted in and made him look bad?

He thinks about what he and Helia had overheard in the boiler room of the CSS Birmingham—Ares yelling at Clarisse, warning her that she'd better not fail. Ares couldn't care less about the camp, but if Clarisse made him look bad ...

"Clarisse," Percy asks, "what did the Oracle tell you exactly?"
She looks up, takes a deep breath, and recites her prophecy:
"You shall sail the iron ship with warriors of bone, You shall find what you seek and make it your own,
But despair for your life entombed within stone,
And fail without friends, to fly home alone."