Page 91 of Blood of Olympus

Without thinking, I vaulted out of bed⁠—

“Nyssa!”

—and crept outside, peering slowly over the edge of the stone balustrade.

Cerberus stared back at me, all six of his eyes mournfully blinking at different intervals, but remaining fixed on me. He sat statue-still, his enormous tail uncharacteristically tucked between his muscular hind legs.

“What is it, boys?” I trilled softly, wondering why he’d wandered so far from the portal he guarded so fiercely.

Caelus stepped up beside me, wrapping a bedsheet around my shoulders but left his arms there too. I could feel his protectiveness like a lump in my throat, fueled by what we had just shared — and I felt it too.

What I thought had been love and the primal drive to shield him from all who sought him harm before, felt like a drop in the ocean of what I harboured now. It was as though our bond had grown. Warped. Reforged itself into something new. Something hardier. Something even Atropos would struggle to cleave.

Even if it wasn’t true, I let the feeling swathe me in the hope that we might both make it out of this war alive.

Sir Bruce whined again, his two outer heads swivelling to peer north. The central one kept his eyes trained on me, though, imploring me to understand their unspoken message.

I spun on my heel, ignoring Caelus’ protests and rushed to don my leathers. Distractedly, I noted him doing the same. When both boots were laced, I stood, only to be blocked by a seven foot brick wall of a god clasping my upper arms.

His head dipped and his storm-filled eyes pierced mine. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know.” I frowned. “But he wants me to go with him.”

Caelus’ white brows lowered in a frown but he stepped back and allowed me to pass. “Alright, let’s go then.”

I wasn’t going to argue. Truthfully, I was relieved he wanted to come. I never wanted him out of my sight again. The thought rankled at me, twisting my face into something resembling a grimace. I grit my teeth, fighting the urge to clench my fists and start swinging at the inevitability of our future parting.

Sir Bruce met us by the front steps. His gigantic frame took up the bulk of the gardens. In fact, his enormous ass was currently pulverising the beds of belladonna and black dahlias, releasing a sickly sweet scent into the night air.

I reached up to scratch the hound’s moping left head right between the ears, smiling when he leaned into it.

“What’s wrong, Brucey? Why are you here?”

In answer, his right head dropped a slobbery-something at my feet that I hadn’t noticed in his mouth before. With any luck, it wasn’t another pretentious summons.

As the object rolled to a stop against my boot, I was relieved to see that it was no parchment scroll — but instead found myself morose to look upon a splintering skull.

Melancholy ached beneath my sternum, coiled like a sleeping serpent.

“Charon isn’t here, boys,” I murmured, kicking the ancient skull along the path. “He isn’t coming to play fetch with you.”

Sir Bruce loped after it slowly, like he, too, was depressed about it, but couldn’t resist the impulse to chase.

Caelus grasped my hand wordlessly, squeezing it three times.

I love you, he sent across our link.

And I, you, I sent back. For as long as my heart still beats — and beyond that.

Cerberus looked back at us forlornly, one of his heads nudging the skull further down the track. A low keen rumbled at the back of his throats as he rolled it further still. He trotted back over, his large body circumnavigating us, then sniffed at our backs.

With no warning at all, Sir Bruce shoved hard and even with decades of training, it still almost sent me sprawling to the ground. He shoved again and I stumbled, using the momentum to shift into a jog. One of his heads let out a happy bark as he chased us along the winding trail.

Oh. He’s fetching us.

With that revelation uncovered, Sir Bruce sped ahead. His long legs set the arduous pace, and before I knew it, we’d crossed both bridges over the Styx, following some indiscernible cacophony that grew louder and more piercing the closer we got. Seconds later, where the sharp crescendo was loudest, we slid to a stop on the bank of the northernmost island.

Across the river where no living soul could accidentally wander, lay the Isle of Judgement — at least it should have been lying there, as bright as any beacon in this realm of eternal midnight, calling forth all the shades of the departed.