FOR ONE EXCITING MINUTE, Percy felt like he was winning. Riptide cut through the arai as though they were made of powdered sugar. One panicked and ran face-first into a tree. Another screeched and tried to fly away, but Percy sliced off her wings and sent her spiraling into the chasm.
Each time a demon disintegrated, Percy felt a heavier sense of dread as another curse settled on him. Some were harsh and painful: a stabbing in the gut, a burning sensation like he was being blasted by a blowtorch. Some were subtle: a chill in the blood, an uncontrollable tic in his right eye.
Seriously, who curses you with their dying breath and says: I hope your eye twitches!
Percy knew that he’d killed a lot of monsters, but he’d never really thought about it from the monsters’ point of view. Now all their pain and anger and bitterness poured over him, sapping his strength.
The arai just kept coming. For every one he cut down, six more seemed to appear.
His sword arm grew tired. His body ached, and his vision blurred. He tried to make his way toward Annabeth, but she was just out of reach, calling his name as she wandered among the demons.
As Percy blundered toward her, a demon pounced and sank its teeth into his thigh. Percy roared. He sliced the demon to dust, but immediately fell to his knees.
His mouth burned worse than when he had swallowed the firewater of the Phlegethon. He doubled over, shuddering and retching, as a dozen fiery snakes seemed to work their way down his esophagus.
You have chosen, said the voice of the arai, the curse of Phineas…an excellent painful death.
Percy tried to speak. His tongue felt like it was being microwaved. He remembered the old blind king who had chased harpies through Portland with a WeedWacker. Percy had challenged him to a contest, and the loser had drunk a deadly vial of gorgon’s blood. Percy didn’t remember the old blind man muttering a final curse, but as Phineas dissolved and returned to the Underworld, he probably hadn’t wished Percy a long and happy life.
After Percy’s victory then, Gaea had warned him: Do not press your luck. When your death comes, I promise it will be much more painful than gorgon’s blood.
Now he was in Tartarus, dying from gorgon’s blood plus a dozen other agonizing curses, while he watched his girlfriend stumble around, helpless and blind and believing he’d abandoned her. He clutched his sword. His knuckles started to steam. White smoke curled off his forearms.
I won’t die like this, he thought.
Not only because it was painful and insultingly lame, but because Annabeth needed him. Once he was dead, the demons would turn their attention to her. He couldn’t leave her alone.
The arai clustered around him, snickering and hissing.
His head will erupt first, the voice speculated.
No, the voice answered itself from another direction. He will combust all at once.
They were placing bets on how he would die…what sort of scorch mark he would leave on the ground.
“Bob,” he croaked. “I need you.”
A hopeless plea. He could barely hear himself. Why should Bob answer his call twice? The Titan knew the truth now. Percy was no friend.
He raised his eyes one last time. His surroundings seemed to flicker. The sky boiled and the ground blistered.
Percy realized that what he saw of Tartarus was only a watered-down version of its true horror—only what his demigod brain could handle. The worst of it was veiled, the same way the Mist veiled monsters from mortal sight. Now as Percy died, he began to see the truth.
The air was the breath of Tartarus. All these monsters were just blood cells circulating through his body. Everything Percy saw was a dream in the mind of the dark god of the pit.
This must have been the way Nico had seen Tartarus, and it had almost destroyed his sanity. Nico…one of the many people Percy hadn’t treated well enough. He and Annabeth had only made it this far through Tartarus because Nico di Angelo had behaved like Bob’s true friend.
You see the horror of the pit? the arai said soothingly. Give up, Percy Jackson. Isn’t death better than enduring this place?
“I’m sorry,” Percy murmured.
He apologizes! The arai shrieked with delight. He regrets his failed life, his crimes against the children of Tartarus!
“No,” Percy said. “I’m sorry, Bob. I should’ve been honest with you. Please…forgive me. Protect Annabeth.”
He didn’t expect Bob to hear him or care, but it felt right to clear his conscience. He couldn’t blame anyone else for his troubles. Not the gods. Not Bob. He couldn’t even blame Calypso, the girl he’d left alone on that island. Maybe she’d turned bitter and cursed Percy’s girlfriend out of despair. Still…Percy should have followed up with Calypso, made sure the gods sprang her from her exile on Ogygia like they’d promised. He hadn’t treated her any better than he’d treated Bob. He hadn’t even thought much about her, though her moonlace plant still bloomed in his mom’s window box.
It took all his remaining effort, but he got to his feet. Steam rose from his whole body. His legs shook. His insides churned like a volcano.
At least Percy could go out fighting. He raised Riptide.
But before he could strike, all the arai in front of him exploded into dust.
