Alex Rider: Luck of the Goddess

A Tea Party

ALEX RIDER ANNNNNDDDDD PERCY JACKSON ARE GETTING A TV SHOW (see bottom for more details).

Chiara was starting to realize that being a big sister was just as stressful as it was annoying, but there was something in Alex's eyes that made her heart melt.

It was hope.

There had not been any hope in Alex's eyes the first time he IMed her. Chiara realized she had to content herself with leaving Alex to take care of himself, because if something could put hope back into the eyes of someone so broken as Alex had been, then it was worth the whole world. That is, if there was a world left to hope in by the time this ended.

That didn't mean she hadn't shared some of the things Alex said with Annabeth. Chiara knew she wasn't observant enough to figure it out. Hopefully, when everything blew over, Annabeth would finally be able to figure out just what exactly Alex Rider was, but that was a concern for another time.

Eighteen hours later, Alex was sitting in a café on the seafront at Saint-Tropez. It was the first week in September but this was the sort of town where the summer never seemed to end and the streets and cafés were still crowded. He had chosen a table at the corner, giving him an unobstructed view of the area around him. This was the old harbour. The quayside swept around a great expanse of water with about a hundred boats bobbing up and down in their moorings: everything from little dinghies, yachts and fishing boats to the single multi million-pound cruiser that towered over everything else. A long sea wall stretched out like a protective arm. The Mediterranean was on the other side, with Alexandria and the north coast of Egypt more than two thousand miles away.

The café was one of several. There was a long line of restaurants packed together with their differentcoloured canopies stretching out over the pavement. From where he was sitting, Alex could see waiters moving like circus performers, balancing great piles of plates and glasses as they curved and twisted expertly between the tables, although not as fast as the camp nymphs, but Alex figured that was an unfair uncomparison. Behind them, pink and white apartment blocks rose up with balconies providing front-row seats over the seafront. It was one o'clock and everyone had chosen to have lunch at the same time. The street was full of cars and motorbikes, ice cream sellers, postcard stands, street performers, tourists and travellers.

Had Jack been here?

It was impossible to say.

Alex sat quietly. He still hadn't fully recovered from the flight that had brought him here. He would have rather rode on a wild pegasus in a nose dive. Strapped into the rear cockpit of the Alpha Jet MSI, he had felt every bone in his body contract with the G-force as it blasted down the runway and into the air, rising at eleven-thousand feet a minute. The Alpha wasn't the most modern jet in operation but it was still incredibly powerful, cruising comfortably at six-hundred miles an hour. Alex had been given a jumpsuit and headphones to protect him from the deafening howl of the turbofans and he had sat in a sort of cocoon throughout the flight. The Egyptian pilot hadn't spoken to him. He clearly wasn't too pleased to find himself carrying a civilian passenger and one who was only fifteen years old at that. But he was too nervous to argue with the head of Jihaz Amn al Daoula and even managed a brief smile and a nod once they touched down at Nice Airport.

Alex had been taken to a side room, where he changed. Then, carrying his backpack with the rest of his clothes and his laptop, he had been escorted through passport control by a puzzled French official. Nobody asked any questions. A second official took a quick glance at his passport, nodded, and Alex suddenly found himself back in Europe and once again on his own. He had always liked the South of France with its palm trees, long beaches and unbroken sunshine. He took a local bus down to Saint Tropez, arriving shortly before eleven o'clock, several hours before Simon was supposed to arrive. It turns out that high powered jets can move faster than pegasus. First, there was the boring business of checking into a hotel, this one an attractive, dusty pink building behind the main square. It was market day and Alex strolled between the various stalls, picking out fresh croissants, fruit and cheese ... some of the best food he had ever eaten. He wolfed it down as he walked. He didn't want to waste any time.