Percy Jackson and the Olympians: The Chalice of the Gods(46)

As far as people were concerned, there weren’t many around. A lady was walking her dog down one of the paths. A few commuters hustled across the plaza. A couple of old guys were playing a chess game at one of the tables under the elm trees. The place was about as empty as anywhere in Manhattan ever gets.

“Ready?” Grover asked. He was trying to look brave and determined, but the image was undercut a little by the green sprinkles of matcha in his goatee.

“Let’s do it,” I said.

I’d eaten the last Cookie Monster donut—obviously the best flavor, being fluorescent blue—so now there was nothing left to do but find Gary.

Annabeth wrapped up the rest of her purple ube mochi, stuck it in her backpack, then passed around the tissues and menthol rub.

“Isn’t this what cops do before they examine dead bodies?” Grover asked, plugging up his nostrils.

“Let’s not make that comparison,” Annabeth suggested. “No dead bodies today, okay?”

“Oh-tay,” I said, which was all I could manage with wads of Kleenex up my nose. My eyes watered from the menthol. My throat stung like I was being given mouth-to-mouth resuscitation by a koala, but I supposed it was better than going into a nectar coma.

“Here we go.” Annabeth took out her glowing vial and twisted off the cap.

She tipped the vial ever so slightly, and three golden droplets trickled out. Instead of falling, they caught the breeze and floated through the air like soap bubbles. Each one drifted in a different direction.

“That’s not helpful,” Annabeth observed. “Should we split up?”

“Always a derrible idea,” I said.

So that’s what we did.

I wasn’t too worried about losing Annabeth and Grover, since they could go halfway across the park and still be in my line of sight. Annabeth followed her nectar drop down the main concourse toward the chess tables. Grover’s bubble led him cross-country through the trees. Mine wobbled toward the children’s play area. I passed a pedestrian hustling along with coffee in her hand, but she gave me a wide berth, as you do when you see a strange kid with tissues hanging out of his nostrils. She didn’t seem to notice the glowing nectar. Fortunately, she didn’t fall into a coma, either. Maybe the scent didn’t work on regular mortals.

As I followed the bouncing ball, I remembered what Grover had said about nature spirits fleeing the park. The place did feel abandoned. No squirrels. No rats. Not even pigeons. Even the trees seemed too quiet, which isn’t something you’d notice unless you’d spent time hanging out with dryads. You get used to their comforting presence, like someone humming a lullaby in your ear. When they’re gone, you miss them.

The gravel crunched under my feet. The Cookie Monster mochi churned in my stomach. When I reached the edge of the playground, I realized how tranquil everything had become. No cars passed on the street. The breeze had died. The tree canopies spread motionless overhead like sheets of green ice.

The nectar bubble drifted toward the play structure. It floated up the climbing chains to the top of the miniature fort, then burst into flames.

Yeah . . . that was probably normal.

I glanced back at my friends.

Grover had stopped next to a big elm tree. His ear was pressed against the trunk as if he were listening for voices. His nectar droplet had vanished.

About fifty yards to his left, Annabeth stood at the first chess table, watching a game. The two old guys were hunched over their board, glowering at the pieces, but neither of them moved a muscle. Annabeth’s glowing nectar bubble had also disappeared.

Something was wrong.

I wanted to call out to her, to break whatever weird trance she was in, but my voice wouldn’t cooperate. The tense silence made me afraid to yell or attract attention.

I felt like something was rewiring my brain, changing the way I perceived time. The last time I’d had this sensation . . . I’d been twelve years old, standing on a beach in Santa Monica, when I first witnessed the power of Kronos.

“It is similar, yes,” said a voice behind me.

I turned, reaching for my pen-sword, but I felt like I was moving through gelatin. Standing on the play structure was an old man . . . or rather, what an old man might look like if he was born old and lived another thousand years.

He was as small as a first grader, his back curved in the shape of a fishing hook. His skin hung off his bones in sagging brown folds like moth-eaten curtains. He wore nothing but a loincloth, leaving me a great view of his bent stick legs, gnarled feet, and concave belly. His head reminded me of a boiled egg that had been allowed to sit and rot for a week. And his face . . .

The man’s fleshy nose was webbed with red capillaries . . . the most vibrant color in his whole body. His eyes were milky from cataracts. His mouth looked as if someone had punched in all his teeth with a metal pipe.

“Take a picture,” the old man grumbled. “It’ll last longer.”

I tried to speak. The gelatin air seemed to coat my lungs, making it hard to breathe. I took the tissue plugs out of my nose so I wouldn’t suffocate.

“What do you mean?” I croaked.

The old dude rolled his eyes. “I mean pictures last longer than—”

“Not that. What did you mean by It is similar?”

“My power,” he said. “It’s similar to the way Kronos stretches time.”