The Moon's Shine (PJO)

Chapter 63

A tall, wiry merman with a red tail stumbled out of the Watering Hole—Atlantis' best hotel. He'd saved up just enough in the past few weeks to book a room for two in the building full of gilded furniture and white-gloved servers. It should've been the best twenty-four hours of his life . . .

But as he found himself surrounded by enemy krakoi at spearpoint, he suddenly didn't think that anymore. Instead, it felt like a nightmare.

"Tyron," said the merwoman clinging to his arm in fright—his girlfriend, Lizen. "Please tell me this is a dream."

"I'm wishing the same," he said solemnly. "We did drink four martinis each."

". . . That's nothing against our genetics. Maybe . . . we knocked heads on the dance floor?"

But the horrified expressions on the merpeople around them were definitely genuine. And Tyron wasn't in the mood to test whether the weapons were real.

"Why are you doing this?" he heard a chubby merman demand. He seemed very important, with golden rings on each of his fingers and a sharp white tuxedo. 

"You . . . are . . . hostages," one of the warriors managed to bumble out, but Tyron was busy cringing away. "You . . . will . . . stay . . . here."

"Man, he's ugly," Lizen muttered. Tyron was too frightened to laugh.

"You will free us eventually, right?" another merman asked, and everyone fell quiet, waiting for the response.

A perverted smile warped across the warriors face. "Hostages . . . are . . . less . . . than . . . animals."

"How in Poseidon's name does that make sense?" Gold Rings exclaimed. "What does that make you? Dirty mold?"

"You'd be insulting the mold," Lizen quietly added, and Tyron shook his head in panic.

But Gold Rings' insult was the last thing the warrior wanted to hear.

My Lord, where are you? Tyron prayed fiercely as the ugly krakoi raised his spear amidst protests from Gold Rings. Your followers are in danger. Please help us.

The speartip shot forth toward Gold Rings' heart without a delay. The audience, including Tyron Lizen, averted their eyes. 

But the weapon never pierced his chest. There was a clang, and then the spear clattered to the floor. Tyron opened his eyes to see a young man who seemed only a few years younger than him decapitate the krakoi with a silver trident.

"Mind if I join the party, boys?" the man said casually, as if effortlessly killing creatures was his day job. "I'm feeling a bit lonely. Adventuring with my dad doesn't cut it—he treats me like I'm still two years old."

The krakoi turned their backs to the crowd, wary of the new arrival. But one person wouldn't cut it against two dozen such monsters. Tyron knew that if he wanted to survive with his girlfriend, he had to help this man. As the krakoi's armor gleamed at him, though, his body shook with fright. What was he, a therapist of a local corporation, supposed to do against these trained killing machines?

His mind was drawn out of his thoughts as Lizen tugged on his arm. "Listen!" she hissed. "These guys are saying that that man is Percy Jackson. The Percy Jackson."

". . . Jackson. Cool."

Lizen gave him a disapproving stare. "You don't know who he is, do you?" When he shook his head, she continued, "He's basically the hottest topic for the week in the city—the only demigod son of our lord. Apparently Lord Poseidon accepted him as his official heir."

"Heir?" Tyron asked. "What about Prince Triton?" Replacing the eternal guardian of Atlantis with a nobody was not a good idea. "He's done so much for us. There'll be protests—and a lot of them. Maybe I'll join in as well."