The House of Hades (Heroes of Olympus Book 4)

let’s go. Death is close.’
    ‘The
Doors
of Death are close,’ Annabeth corrected. ‘Let’s watch the phrasing.’
    They plunged into the crowd. Percy trembled so badly he was afraid the Death Mist would shake right off him. He’d seen large groups of monsters before. He’d fought an army of them during the Battle of Manhattan. But this was different.
    Whenever he’d fought monsters in the mortal world, Percy at least knew he was defending his home. That gave him courage, no matter how bad the odds were. Here,
Percy
was the invader. He didn’t belong in this multitude of monsters any more than the Minotaur belonged in Penn Station at rush hour.
    A few feet away, a group of
empousai
tore into the carcass of a gryphon while other gryphons flew around them, squawking in outrage. A six-armed Earthborn and a Laistrygonian giant pummelled each other with rocks, though Percy wasn’t sure if they were fighting or just messing around. A dark wisp of smoke – Percy guessed it must be an eidolon – seeped into a Cyclops, made the monster hit himself in the face, then drifted off to possess another victim.
    Annabeth whispered, ‘Percy, look.’
    A stone’s throw away, a guy in a cowboy outfit was cracking a whip at some fire-breathing horses. The wrangler wore a Stetson hat on his greasy hair, an extra-large set of jeans anda pair of black leather boots. From the side, he might have passed for human – until he turned, and Percy saw that his upper body was split into three different chests, each one dressed in a different colour Western shirt.
    It was definitely Geryon, who had tried to kill Percy two years ago in Texas. Apparently the evil rancher was anxious to break in a new herd. The idea of that guy riding out of the Doors of Death made Percy’s sides hurt all over again. His ribs throbbed where the
arai
had unleashed Geryon’s dying curse back in the forest. He wanted to march up to the three-bodied rancher, smack him in the face and yell,
Thanks a lot, Tex!
    Sadly, he couldn’t.
    How many other old enemies were in this crowd? Percy began to realize that every battle he’d ever won had only been a temporary victory. No matter how strong or lucky he was, no matter how many monsters he destroyed, Percy would eventually fail. He was only one mortal. He would get too old, too weak, or too slow. He would die. And these monsters … they lasted
forever.
They just kept coming back. Maybe it would take them months or years to re-form, maybe even centuries. But they
would
be reborn.
    Seeing them assembled in Tartarus, Percy felt as hopeless as the spirits in the River Cocytus. So what if he was a hero? So what if he did something brave? Evil was always here, regenerating, bubbling under the surface. Percy was no more than a minor annoyance to these immortal beings. They just had to outwait him. Some day, Percy’s sons or daughters might have to face them all over again.
    Sons and daughters.
    The thought jarred him. As quickly as hopelessness had overtaken him, it disappeared. He glanced at Annabeth. She still looked like a misty corpse, but he imagined her true appearance – her grey eyes full of determination, her blonde hair pulled back in a bandanna, her face weary and streaked with grime, but as beautiful as ever.
    Okay, maybe monsters kept coming back forever. But so did demigods. Generation after generation, Camp Half-Blood had endured. And Camp Jupiter. Even separately, the two camps had survived. Now, if the Greeks and Romans could come together, they would be even stronger.
    There was still hope. He and Annabeth come this far. The Doors of Death were almost within reach.
    Sons and daughters.
A ridiculous thought. An awesome thought. Right there in the middle of Tartarus, Percy grinned.
    ‘What’s wrong?’ Annabeth whispered.
    With his zombie Death Mist disguise, Percy probably looked like he was grimacing in pain.
    ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘I was just –’
    Somewhere in front of them, a deep voice bellowed: ‘IAPETUS!’

LXII
     

PERCY
     
    A T ITAN STRODE TOWARDS THEM, casually kicking lesser monsters out of his way. He was roughly the same height as Bob, with elaborate Stygian iron armour, a single diamond blazing in the centre of his breastplate. His eyes were blue-white, like core samples from a glacier and just as cold. His hair was the same colour, cut military style. A battle helmet shaped like a bear’s head was tucked under his arm. From his belt hung a sword the size of a