The House of Hades hoo-4

by Rick Riordan

  Frank hadn’t known that pythons could snore. He hoped he hadn’t done that himself in python form last night.

  “Set your friend here,” said the man in denim.

  Frank placed Hazel gently on the bed. He removed her sword and tried to make her comfortable, but she was as limp as a scarecrow. Her complexion definitely had a greenish tint.

  “What were those cow things?” Frank demanded. “What did they do to her?”

  “Katoblepones,” said their host. “Singular: katobleps. In English, it means down-looker. Called that because—”

  “They’re always looking down.” Nico smacked his forehead. “Right. I remember reading about them.”

  Frank glared at him. “Now you remember?”

  Nico hung his head almost as low as a katobleps. “I, uh…used to play this stupid card game when I was younger. Mythomagic. The katobleps was one of the monster cards.”

  Frank blinked. “I played Mythomagic. I never saw that card.”

  “It was in the Africanus Extreme expansion deck.”

  “Oh.”

  Their host cleared his throat. “Are you two done, ah, geeking out, as they say?”

  “Right, sorry,” Nico muttered. “Anyway, katoblepones have poison breath and a poison gaze. I thought they only lived in Africa.”

  The man in denim shrugged. “That’s their native land. They were accidentally imported to Venice hundreds of years ago. You’ve heard of Saint Mark?”

  Frank wanted to scream with frustration. He didn’t see how any of this was relevant, but if their host could heal Hazel, Frank decided maybe it would be best not to make him angry. “Saints? They’re not part of Greek mythology.”

  The man in denim chuckled. “No, but Saint Mark is the patron saint of this city. He died in Egypt, oh, a long time ago. When the Venetians became powerful…well, the relics of saints were a big tourist attraction back in the Middle Ages. The Venetians decided to steal Saint Mark’s remains and bring them to their big church of San Marco. They smuggled out his body in a barrel of pickled pig parts.”

  “That’s…disgusting,” Frank said.

  “Yes,” the man agreed with a smile. “The point is, you can’t do something like that and not have consequences. The Venetians unintentionally smuggled something else out of Egypt—the katoblepones. They came here aboard that ship and have been breeding like rats ever since. They love the magical poison roots that grow here—swampy, foul-smelling plants that creep up from the canals. It makes their breath even more poisonous! Usually the monsters ignore mortals, but demigods…especially demigods who get in their way—”

  “Got it,” Frank snapped. “Can you cure her?”

  The man shrugged. “Possibly.”

  “Possibly?” Frank had to use all his willpower not to throttle the guy.

  He put his hand under Hazel’s nose. He couldn’t feel her breath. “Nico, please tell me she’s doing that death-trance thing, like you did in the bronze jar.”

  Nico grimaced. “I don’t know if Hazel can do that. Her dad is technically Pluto, not Hades, so—”

  “Hades!” cried their host. He backed away, staring at Nico with distaste. “So that’s what I smell. Children of the Underworld? If I’d known that, I would never have let you in!”

  Frank rose. “Hazel’s a good person. You promised you would help her!”

  “I did not promise.”

  Nico drew his sword. “She’s my sister,” he growled. “I don’t know who you are, but if you can cure her, you have to, or so help me by the River Styx—”

  “Oh, blah, blah, blah!” The man waved his hand. Suddenly where Nico di Angelo had been standing was a potted plant about five feet tall, with drooping green leaves, tufts of silk, and half a dozen ripe yellow ears of corn.

  “There,” the man huffed, wagging his finger at the corn plant. “Children of Hades can’t order me around! You should talk less and listen more. Now at least you have ears.”

  Frank stumbled against the bed. “What did you—why—?”

  The man raised an eyebrow. Frank made a squeaky noise that wasn’t very courageous. He’d been so focused on Hazel, he’d forgotten what Leo had told them about the guy they were looking for. “You’re a god,” he remembered.

  “Triptolemus.” The man bowed. “My friends call me Trip, so don’t call me that. And if you’re another child of Hades—”

  “Mars!” Frank said quickly. “Child of Mars!”

  Triptolemus sniffed. “Well…not much better. But perhaps you deserve to be something better than a corn plant. Sorghum? Sorghum is very nice.”

  “Wait!” Frank pleaded. “We’re here on a friendly mission. We brought a gift.” Very slowly, he reached into his backpack and brought out the leather-bound book. “This belongs to you?”

  “My almanac!” Triptolemus grinned and seized the book. He thumbed through the pages and started bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Oh, this is fabulous! Where did you find it?”

  “Um, Bologna. There were these”—Frank remembered that he wasn’t supposed to mention the dwarfs—“terrible monsters. We risked our lives, but we knew this was important to you. So could you maybe, you know, turn Nico back to normal and heal Hazel?”

  “Hmm?” Trip looked up from his book. He’d been happily reciting lines to himself—something about turnip-planting schedules. Frank wished that Ella the harpy were here. She would get along great with this guy.

  “Oh, heal them?” Triptolemus clucked disapprovingly. “I’m grateful for the book, of course. I can definitely let you go free, son of Mars. But I have a long-standing problem with Hades. After all, I owe my godly powers to Demeter!”

  Frank racked his brain, but it was hard with the voices screaming in his head and the katobleps poison making him dizzy.

  “Uh, Demeter,” he said, “the plant goddess. She—she didn’t like Hades because…” Suddenly he recalled an old story he’d heard at Camp Jupiter. “Her daughter, Proserpine—”

  “Persephone,” Trip corrected. “I prefer the Greek, if you don’t mind.”

  Kill him! Mars screamed.

  I love this guy! Ares yelled back. Kill him anyway!

  Frank decided not to take offense. He didn’t want to get turned into a sorghum plant. “Okay. Hades kidnapped Persephone.”

  “Exactly!” Trip said.

  “So…Persephone was a friend of yours?”

  Trip snorted. “I was just a mortal prince back then. Persephone wouldn’t have noticed me. But when her mother, Demeter, went searching for her, scouring the whole earth, not many people would help her. Hecate lit her way at night with her torches. And I…well, when Demeter came to my part of Greece, I gave her a place to stay. I comforted her, gave her a meal, and offered my assistance. I didn’t know she was a goddess at the time, but my good deed paid off. Later, Demeter rewarded me by making me a god of farming!”

  “Wow,” Frank said. “Farming. Congratulations.”

  “I know! Pretty awesome, right? Anyway, Demeter never got along with Hades. So naturally, you know, I have to side with my patron goddess. Children of Hades—forget it! In fact, one of them—this Scythian king named Lynkos? When I tried to teach his countrymen about farming, he killed my right python!”

  “Your…right python?”

  Trip marched over to his winged chariot and hopped in. He pulled a lever, and the wings began to flap. The spotted python on the left wheel opened his eyes. He started to writhe, coiling around the axle like a spring. The chariot whirred into motion, but the right wheel stayed in place, so Triptolemus spun in circles, the chariot beating its wings and bouncing up and down like a defective merry-go-round.

  “You see?” he said as he spun. “No good! Ever since I lost my right python, I haven’t been able to spread the word about farming—at least not in person. Now I have to resort to giving online courses.”

  “What?” As soon as he said it, Frank was sorry he’d asked.

  Trip hopped off the chariot while it was still s
pinning. The python slowed to a stop and went back to snoring. Trip jogged over to the line of computers. He tapped the keyboards and the screens woke up, displaying a Web site in maroon and gold, with a picture of a happy farmer in a toga and a John Deere cap, standing with his bronze scythe in a field of wheat.

  “Triptolemus Farming University!” he announced proudly. “In just six weeks, you can get your bachelor’s degree in the exciting and vibrant career of the future—farming!”

  Frank felt a bead of sweat trickle down his cheek. He didn’t care about this crazy god or his snake-powered chariot or his online degree program. But Hazel was turning greener by the moment. Nico was a corn plant. And he was alone.

  “Look,” he said. “We did bring you the almanac. And my friends are really nice. They’re not like those other children of Hades you’ve met. So if there’s any way—”

  “Oh!” Trip snapped his fingers. “I see where you’re going!”

  “Uh…you do?”

  “Absolutely! If I cure your friend Hazel and return the other one, Nicholas—”

  “Nico.”

  “—if I return him to normal…”

  Frank hesitated. “Yes?”

  “Then in exchange, you stay with me and take up farming! A child of Mars as my apprentice? It’s perfect! What a spokesman you’ll be. We can beat swords into plowshares and have so much fun!”

  “Actually…” Frank tried frantically to come up with a plan. Ares and Mars screamed in his head, Swords! Guns! Massive ka-booms!

  If he declined Trip’s offer, Frank figured he would offend the guy and end up as sorghum or wheat or some other cash crop.

  If it was the only way to save Hazel, then sure, he could agree to Trip’s demands and become a farmer. But that couldn’t be the only way. Frank refused to believe he’d been chosen by the Fates to go on this quest just so he could take online courses in turnip cultivation.

  Frank’s eyes wandered to the broken chariot. “I have a better offer,” he blurted out. “I can fix that.”

  Trip’s smile melted. “Fix…my chariot?”

  Frank wanted to kick himself. What was he thinking? He wasn’t Leo. He couldn’t even figure out a stupid pair of Chinese handcuffs. He could barely change the batteries in a TV remote. He couldn’t fix a magical chariot!

  But something told him it was his only chance. That chariot was the one thing Triptolemus might really want.

  “I’ll go find a way to fix the chariot,” he said. “In return, you fix Nico and Hazel. Let us go in peace. And—and give us whatever aid you can to defeat Gaea’s forces.”

  Triptolemus laughed. “What makes you think I can aid you with that?”

  “Hecate told us so,” Frank said. “She sent us here. She—she decided Hazel is one of her favorites.”

  The color drained from Trip’s face. “Hecate?”

  Frank hoped he wasn’t overstating things. He didn’t need Hecate mad at him too. But if Triptolemus and Hecate were both friends of Demeter, maybe that would convince Trip to help.

  “The goddess guided us to your almanac in Bologna,” Frank said. “She wanted us to return it to you, because…well, she must’ve known you had some knowledge that would help us get through the House of Hades in Epirus.”

  Trip nodded slowly. “Yes. I see. I know why Hecate sent you to me. Very well, son of Mars. Go find a way to fix my chariot. If you succeed, I will do all you ask. If not—”

  “I know,” Frank grumbled. “My friends die.”

  “Yes,” Trip said cheerfully. “And you’ll make a lovely patch of sorghum!”

  FRANK STUMBLED OUT OF THE BLACK HOUSE. The door shut behind him, and he collapsed against the wall, overcome with guilt. Fortunately the katoblepones had cleared off, or he might have just sat there and let them trample him. He deserved nothing better. He’d left Hazel inside, dying and defenseless, at the mercy of a crazy farmer god.

  Kill farmers! Ares screamed in his head.

  Return to the legion and fight Greeks! Mars said. What are we doing here?

  Killing farmers! Ares screamed back.

  “Shut up!” Frank yelled aloud. “Both of you!”

  A couple of old ladies with shopping bags shuffled past. They gave Frank a strange look, muttered something in Italian, and kept going.

  Frank stared miserably at Hazel’s cavalry sword, lying at his feet next to his backpack. He could run back to the Argo II and get Leo. Maybe Leo could fix the chariot.

  But Frank somehow knew this wasn’t a problem for Leo. It was Frank’s task. He had to prove himself. Besides, the chariot wasn’t exactly broken. There was no mechanical problem. It was missing a serpent.

  Frank could turn himself into a python. When he’d woken up that morning as a giant snake, perhaps it had been a sign from the gods. He didn’t want to spend the rest of his life turning the wheel of a farmer’s chariot, but if it meant saving Hazel…

  No. There had to be another way.

  Serpents, Frank thought. Mars.

  Did his father have some connection to snakes? Mars’s sacred animal was the wild boar, not the serpent. Still, Frank was sure he’d heard something once.…

  He could think of only one person to ask. Reluctantly, he opened his mind to the voices of the war god.

  I need a snake, he told them. How?

  Ha, ha! Ares screamed. Yes, the serpent!

  Like that vile Cadmus, Mars said. We punished him for killing our dragon!

  They both started yelling, until Frank thought his brain would split in half.

  “Okay! Stop!”

  The voices quieted.

  “Cadmus,” Frank muttered. “Cadmus…”

  The story came back to him. The demigod Cadmus had slain a dragon that happened to be a child of Ares. How Ares had ended up with a dragon for a son, Frank didn’t want to know; but as punishment for the dragon’s death, Ares turned Cadmus into a snake.

  “So you can turn your enemies into snakes,” Frank said. “That’s what I need. I need to find an enemy. Then I need you to turn him into a snake.”

  You think I would do that for you? Ares roared. You have not proven your worth!

  Only the greatest hero could ask such a boon, Mars said. A hero like Romulus!

  Too Roman! Ares shouted. Diomedes!

  Never! Mars shouted back. That coward fell to Heracles!

  Horatius, then, Ares suggested.

  Mars went silent. Frank sensed a grudging agreement.

  “Horatius,” Frank said. “Fine. If that’s what it takes, I’ll prove I’m as good as Horatius. Uh…what did he do?”

  Images flooded into Frank’s mind. He saw a lone warrior standing on a stone bridge, facing an entire army massed on the far side of the Tiber River.

  Frank remembered the legend. Horatius, the Roman general, had single-handedly held off a horde of invaders, sacrificing himself on that bridge to keep the barbarians from crossing the Tiber. By giving his fellow Romans time to finish their defenses, he’d saved the Republic.

  Venice is overrun, Mars said, as Rome was about to be. Cleanse it!

  Destroy them all! Ares said. Put them to the sword!

  Frank pushed the voices to the back of his mind. He looked at his hands and was amazed they weren’t trembling.

  For the first time in days, his thoughts were clear. He knew exactly what he needed to do. He didn’t know how he would pull it off. The odds of dying were excellent, but he had to try. Hazel’s life depended on him.

  He strapped Hazel’s sword to his belt, morphed his backpack into a quiver and bow, and raced toward the piazza where he’d fought the cow monsters.

  The plan had three phases: dangerous, really dangerous, and insanely dangerous.

  Frank stopped at the old stone well. No katoblepones in sight. He drew Hazel’s sword and used it to pry up some cobblestones, unearthing a big tangle of spiky roots. The tendrils unfurled, exuding their stinky green fumes as they crept toward Frank’s feet.

  In the distance, a katobleps
’s foghorn moan filled the air. Others joined in from all different directions. Frank wasn’t sure how the monsters could tell he was harvesting their favorite food—maybe they just had an excellent sense of smell.

  He had to move fast now. He sliced off a long cluster of vines and laced them through one of his belt loops, trying to ignore the burning and itching in his hands. Soon he had a glowing, stinking lasso of poisonous weeds. Hooray.

  The first few katoblepones lumbered into the piazza, bellowing in anger. Green eyes glowed under their manes. Their long snouts blew clouds of gas, like furry steam engines.

  Frank nocked an arrow. He had a momentary pang of guilt. These were not the worst monsters he’d met. They were basically grazing animals that happened to be poisonous.

  Hazel is dying because of them, he reminded himself.

  He let the arrow fly. The nearest katobleps collapsed, crumbling to dust. He nocked a second arrow, but the rest of the herd was almost on top of him. More were charging into the square from the opposite direction.

  Frank turned into a lion. He roared defiantly and leaped toward the archway, straight over the heads of the second herd. The two groups of katoblepones slammed into each other, but quickly recovered and ran after him.

  Frank hadn’t been sure the roots would still smell when he changed form. Usually his clothes and possessions just sort of melted into his animal shape, but apparently he still smelled like a yummy poison dinner. Each time he raced past a katobleps, it roared with outrage and joined the Kill Frank! Parade.

  He turned onto a larger street and pushed through the crowds of tourists. What the mortals saw, he had no idea—a cat being chased by a pack of dogs? People cursed at Frank in about twelve different languages. Gelato cones went flying. A woman spilled a stack of carnival masks. One dude toppled into the canal.

  When Frank glanced back, he had at least two dozen monsters on his tail, but he needed more. He needed all the monsters in Venice, and he had to keep the ones behind him enraged.

  He found an open spot in the crowd and turned back into a human. He drew Hazel’s spatha—never his preferred weapon, but he was big enough and strong enough that the heavy cavalry sword didn’t bother him. In fact he was glad for the extra reach. He slashed the golden blade, destroying the first katobleps and letting the others bunch up in front of him.