𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐅𝐄𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 ― j. grace ³ ✓

seven

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THIS FEELING

CHAPTER SEVEN
[ F R A N K ]

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THEY BARELY MADE it inside.

As soon as their host threw the bolts, the cow monsters bellowed and slammed into the door, making it shudder on its hinges.

"Oh, they can't get in," the man in denim promised. "You're safe now!"

"Safe?" Frank demanded. "Hazel is dying!"

Their host frowned as if he didn't appreciate Frank ruining his good mood. "Yes, yes. Bring her this way."

Frank carried Hazel as they followed the man farther into the building. Nico offered to help, but Frank didn't need it. Hazel weighed nothing, and Frank's body hummed with adrenaline. He could feel Hazel shivering, so at least he knew she was alive; but her skin was cold. Her lips had taken on a greenish tinge — or was that just Frank's blurry vision?

His eyes still burned from the monster's breath. His lungs felt like he'd inhaled a flaming cabbage. He didn't know why the gas had affected him less than it had Hazel. Maybe she'd gotten more of it in her lungs. He would have given anything to change places if it meant saving her.

The voices of Mars and Ares yelled in his head, urging him to kill Nico and the man in denim and anyone else he could find, but Frank forced down the noise.

The house's front room was some sort of greenhouse. The walls were lined with tables of plant trays under fluorescent lights. The air smelled of fertilizer solution. Maybe Venetians did their gardening inside, since they were surrounded by water instead of soil? Frank wasn't sure, but he didn't spend much time worrying about it.

The back room looked like a combination garage, college dorm, and computer lab. Against the left wall glowed a bank of servers and laptops, their screen savers flashing pictures of plowed fields and tractors. Against the right wall sat a single bed, a messy desk, and an open wardrobe filled with extra denim clothes and a stack of farm implements, like pitchforks and rakes.

The back wall was a huge garage door. Parked next to it was a red-and-gold chariot with an open carriage and a single axle, like the chariots Frank had raced at Camp Jupiter. Sprouting from the sides of the driver's box were giant feathery wings. Wrapped around the rim of the left wheel, a spotted python snored loudly.

Frank hadn't known that pythons could snore. He hoped he hadn't done that himself in python form last night.

"Set your friend here," said the man in denim.