This Dark Night ― Percy Jackson & Annabeth Chase¹

―xvii. naomi murphy, child of hades?

THEY STOOD IN THE SHADOWS of Valencia Boulevard, looking up at gold letters etched in black marble: DOA RECORDING STUDIOS.

Underneath, stenciled on the glass doors: NO SOLICITORS. NO LOITERING. NO LIVING.

It was almost midnight, but the lobby was brightly lit and full of people. Behind the security desk sat a tough-looking guard with sunglasses and an earpiece.

Percy turned to his friends. "Okay. You remember the plan."

"The plan," Grover gulped. "Yeah. I love the plan."

Annabeth said, "What happens if the plan doesn't work?"

"Don't think negative."

"Right," she said. "We're entering the Land of the Dead, and I shouldn't think negative."

Percy took the pearls out of his pocket, the four milky spheres the Nereid had given him in Santa Monica. They didn't seem like much of a backup plan if things went south. 

Naomi squeezed his arm, giving him a reassuring smile. "We're gonna be okay."

Whether she truly believed that or was just trying to make him feel better, Percy couldn't tell.

Annabeth sighed, putting a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Percy. Naomi's right—we'll make it. It'll be fine."

She gave Grover a nudge.

"Oh, right!" he chimed in. "We got this far. We'll find the master bolt and save your mom. No problem."

Percy nodded, looking a little more confident. He slipped the pearls back into his pocket. "Let's whup some Underworld butt."

They walked inside the DOA lobby.

Muzak played softly on hidden speakers. The carpet and walls were steel gray. Pencil cactuses grew in the corners like skeleton hands. The furniture was black leather, and every seat was taken. There were people sitting on couches, people standing up, people staring out the windows or waiting for the elevator. Nobody moved, or talked, or did much of anything. Out of the corner of his eye, Percy could see them all just fine, but if he focused on any one of them in particular, they started looking... transparent. He could see right through their bodies.

The security guard's desk was a raised podium, so they had to look up at him.

He was tall and elegant, with dark skin and bleached-blond hair shaved military style. He wore tortoise-shell shades and a silk Italian suit that matched his hair. A black rose was pinned to his lapel under a silver name tag.

Percy read the name tag, then looked at him in bewilderment. "Your name is Chiron?"

He leaned across the desk. Percy couldn't see anything in his glasses except his own reflection, but the guard's smile was sweet and cold, like a python's—right before it struck.

"What a precious young lad." He had a strange accent—British, maybe, but also as if he learned English as a second language. "Tell me, mate, do I look like a centaur?"

"N-no."

"Sir," he added smoothly.

"Sir," Percy said.

He pinched his name tag and ran his finger under the letters. "Can you read this, mate? It said C-H-A-R-O-N. Say it with me: CARE-ON."

"Charon."

"Amazing! Now: Mr. Charon."

"Mr. Charon," Percy said.

"Well done." He sat back. "I hate being confused with that old horse-man. And now, how may I help you little dead ones?"