The Tower of Nero (The Trials of Apollo #5) - Rick Riordan Page 0,10
arrow agreed. BUT THOU ALREADY KNOWEST THE ANSWER TO THY QUESTION, O LESTER. SEEKEST THOU THE PLACE OF THE SEVEN-LAYER DIP.
With that, the projectile fell silent.
I groaned in misery. The arrow’s message was perfectly clear. Oh, for the yummy seven-layer dip of our hostess! Oh, for the comfort of that cozy apartment! But it wasn’t right. I couldn’t.…
“What did it say?” Meg demanded.
I tried to think of an alternative, but I was so tired I couldn’t even lie.
“Fine,” I said. “We go to Percy Jackson’s place.”
“HELLO, MRS. JACKSON! IS PERCY HOME?”
I shivered and dripped on her welcome mat, my two equally bedraggled companions behind me.
For a heartbeat, Sally Jackson remained frozen in her doorway, a smile on her face, as if she’d been expecting a delivery of flowers or cookies. We were not that.
Her driftwood-brown hair was tinseled with more gray than it was six months ago. She wore tattered jeans, a loose green blouse, and a blob of applesauce on the top of her bare left foot. She was not pregnant anymore, which probably explained the sound of the giggling baby inside her apartment.
Her surprise passed quickly. Since she’d raised a demigod, she’d doubtless had lots of experience with the unexpected. “Apollo! Meg! And—” She sized up our gigantic tattooed, mohawked train conductor. “Hello! You poor things. Come in and dry off.”
The Jackson living room was as cozy as I remembered. The smell of baking mozzarella and tomatoes wafted from the kitchen. Jazz played on an old-fashioned turntable—ah, Wynton Marsalis! Several comfy sofas and chairs were available to plop upon. I scanned the room for Percy Jackson but found only a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair, rumpled khakis, oven mitts, and a pink dress shirt covered by a bright-yellow apron splattered with tomato sauce. He was bouncing a giggly baby on his hip. The child’s yellow onesie pajamas matched the man’s apron so perfectly, I wondered if they’d come as a set.
I’m sure the chef and baby made for an adorable, heartwarming scene. Unfortunately, I’d grown up on stories about Titans and gods who cooked and/or ate their children, so I was perhaps not quite as charmed as I might have been.
“There is a man in your apartment,” I informed Mrs. Jackson.
Sally laughed. “This is my husband, Paul. Excuse me a sec. I’ll be right back.” She dashed toward the bathroom.
“Hi!” Paul smiled at us. “This is Estelle.”
Estelle giggled and drooled as if her own name was the funniest joke in the universe. She had Percy’s sea-green eyes and clearly, her mother’s good nature. She also had wisps of black and silver hair like Paul, which I had never seen on a baby. She would be the world’s first salt-and-pepper toddler. All in all, it seemed Estelle had inherited a good genetic package.
“Hello.” I wasn’t sure whether to address Paul, Estelle, or whatever was cooking in the kitchen, which smelled delicious. “Er, not to be rude, but we were hoping to— Oh, thanks, Mrs. Jackson.”
Sally had emerged from the bathroom and was now busily wrapping Meg, Lu, and me in fluffy turquoise bath towels.
“We were hoping to see Percy,” I finished.
Estelle squealed with delight. She seemed to like the name Percy.
“I’d like to see him, too,” Sally said. “But he’s on his way to the West Coast. With Annabeth. They left a few days ago.”
She pointed to a framed picture on the nearest end table. In the photo, my old friends Percy and Annabeth sat side by side in the Jackson family’s dented Prius, both of them smiling out the driver’s-side window. In the backseat was our mutual satyr friend Grover Underwood, mugging for the camera—eyes crossed, tongue stuck out sideways, hands flashing peace signs. Annabeth leaned into Percy, her arms wrapped around his neck like she was about to kiss him or possibly choke him. Behind the wheel, Percy gave the camera a big thumbs-up. He seemed to be telling me directly, We’re outta here! You have fun with your quests or whatever!
“He graduated high school,” Meg said, as if she’d witnessed a miracle.
“I know,” Sally said. “We even had cake.” She pointed to another picture of Percy and Sally, beaming as they held up a baby-blue cake with darker blue icing that read CONGRATULATIONS, PERCY THE GRADUTE! I did not ask why graduate was misspelled, dyslexia being so common in demigod families.
“Then”—I gulped—“he’s not here.”
It was a silly thing to say, but some stubborn part of me insisted that Percy Jackson must be here somewhere, waiting to