Turns Out I Am Salmon-Flavored I could have done without the grasshopper pizza.
When we picked up dinner at the Black Ant, Annabeth decided to get adventurous. Along with our usual enchiladas and tacos, she ordered the tlayudas—basically beans, cheese, and spicy grasshoppers baked on a large tortilla.
“They’re really good,” she assured me. “And bug protein is way more sustainable than other meats.”
“Grover’s a vegetarian,” I reminded her.
“I got him mushroom tacos.”
“I am also considering becoming a vegetarian. At least for tonight.”
“Oh, stop,” she said. “You need to try new things! Besides, we should eat something special for our first night at Hecate’s.”
I shut up and decided to count my blessings that the Black Ant didn’t offer eye-of-newt enchiladas. We collected our bagful of mushroom and grasshopper entrées, then headed uptown to Gramercy Park.
I’d never spent much time in that neighborhood. It kind of screamed Rich
people live here. Move along, Percy Jackson. Rows of elegant brownstones and fancy apartment buildings faced a leafy rectangular park, which was surrounded by a black wrought-iron fence to keep out the riffraff. From what I’d heard, you could only get into the park if you owned one of the surrounding residences, which granted you a key to open the gates. I guess that made the area attractive to billionaires. They could boast about having a Gramercy Park key if they got tired of boasting about the sports teams or private jets they owned. Personally, I didn’t get the appeal. Manhattan has hundreds of perfectly good public parks that are a lot bigger and free.
Maybe that’s why I’ll never be a billionaire.
I figured it would be easy to find Hecate’s house. Gramercy Park West is only a block long. Even without knowing the house number, all we had to do was stroll down the sidewalk looking for a place witchy enough to be the goddess’s secret lair.
We passed the “manse” twice before we spotted it.
The whole facade was an optical illusion. If you looked at it from either side, its features blurred, blending into the other townhouses around it. The mansion only revealed itself when you looked at it dead-on.
Despite the clear evening, a layer of fog hung over the narrow front yard.
Tendrils of mist curled through skeletal white bushes in the garden. A walkway made of cobblestones—or maybe human craniums—wound toward the front porch.
The townhouse itself was a five-story patchwork of weathered granite slabs
—literal tombstones, some with the names and dates of the deceased still visible. Crouching gargoyles leered down at us from either side of the gabled roof. Black cast-iron filigree framed the windows, ran across the railing of the second-floor balcony, and spilled down either side of the main entrance like a mourning shawl made of metal lace. If Hecate wasn’t renting this place out for funerals and goth mitzvahs, she was missing out on big bucks.
“Okay, you’re right,” I told Annabeth. “This is already a perfect haunted house.”
“See?” Annabeth stepped back and studied the roofline. “I bet those gargoyles come to life.”
“Not taking that bet.”
My fingers twitched. I was tempted to grab my pen-sword from my pocket, but I didn’t think it would do me much good. If Hecate decided to attack us with gargoyles, tombstones, or evil shrubbery … Well, it was her front yard. She could do what she wanted.
I remembered my mom’s unsettled expression when I’d mentioned Gramercy Park. She was one of the rare mortals who could see through the Mist. I wondered if what had happened to her down here had anything to do with this half-invisible mansion ….
“You okay?” Annabeth asked. “Look, you don’t have to eat the grasshopper tlayudas—”
“It’s not that,” I said. “It’s just …”
I struggled to complete the thought. I had a bad feeling. I wasn’t sure why. As usual, my ratio of answers to bad feelings was way out of balance.
Before I could find words, I heard the clopping of hooves on pavement.
Either a horse carriage had veered off course from Central Park, or our friendly neighborhood satyr was running to join us.
“Hi!” Grover said breathlessly.
He’d accessorized his earlier outfit (minus the Crocs) with a massive rucksack over one shoulder, a walking stick, and a Day-Glo orange cap stitched with little dancing satyrs. I would have thought he was going on a camping trip, but since Grover lives in nature, I guess this was how he geared up for a week in the city, exploring the Great Indoors.
“I got bedrolls, a kerosene lantern, snacks—”
“Hold on,” I said. “You picked all that up in Central Park?” “Rats!” he said.
“Rats.” I glanced at Annabeth for clarification, but she just shrugged.
“It’s great!” Grover promised. “Those guys collect everything. You know, reduce, reuse, recycle ….”
He looked like he was ready to launch into a lecture about the virtues of bartering with rodents. Then his eyes drifted up to the gargoyles on the roof.
“Oh, wow.”
“I know, spooky,” Annabeth agreed.
Grover scratched his goatee. “I was going to say the one on the left looks like my Aunt Helena. But I guess that’s the same thing.” He beamed at us.
“So, we ready for this?” “No,” I said.
“Yes,” said Annabeth.
We followed the cranium-brick road to the front porch. Being under the wrought-iron latticework made me feel like I’d climbed into a torture cage for me and my closest friends. Maybe that was the effect Hecate’s architect had been going for.
The front door was divided into three wooden panels like a folding screen
—each glossy black with a silver door knocker in the middle. Each knocker was an animal head—a horse, a lion, a dog—that I associated with Hecate and also with changing my pants.
Annabeth studied the panels. “Maybe it’s a test. We have to choose one.”
“Or maybe Hecate opens all of them at once,” I said, “and sings something in three-part harmony.”
Grover shuddered. “You have a dark imagination. How about we knock on all three together?”
“NO!” screamed all the knockers at once.
I’d like to tell you I was surprised, but talking door knockers was not the weirdest scenario I’d envisioned. At least they were small and nailed to the door. They probably couldn’t do worse than bite our fingers off.
“One of us always speaks the truth!” said the horse. “One of us always lies!” said the lion.
I was about to say, Wait, I know this riddle!
Then the dog chimed in. “And one of us always says something completely random! RUTABAGA!”
The horse and the lion glanced at the dog. “Dude,” said the horse.
“We’ve talked about his,” said the lion.
“CARBURETOR!” barked the dog.
Even Annabeth seemed at a loss for words. “Um—”
“You must now face our challenge!” cried the horse. “Or else—”
Fortunately, we were saved from or else. The door opened on its own, all
three panels folding together as the knockers yelled, “Ow! Stop that! POOP DECK!”
Standing in the doorway was a ginormous hellhound.
Seeing a black Labrador the size of a rhinoceros, with bloodred eyes, a slobbering maw, and daggerlike fangs, my first instinct was to give her a big hug. I couldn’t help it. She looked so much like my old friend Mrs.
O’Leary.
Then I reminded myself that Mrs. O’Leary was an exception among hellhounds. Most of them tolerated demigods only as appetizers.
Grover reacted first, which was probably better than me giving the dog a surprise hug.
“Hi, I’m Grover!” he said. “Um, do we need to finish the door-knocker challenge, or …?”
The hellhound barked with such force it parted my hair down the middle.
“I see.” Grover turned to us and translated. “This is Hecuba. She says to ignore the door knockers. They haven’t worked properly since the school closed down.”
Annabeth frowned. “School?”
“I think that’s what she said.” Grover paused. “Although that particular kind of bark can mean a lot of things. School. Kennel. Pee spot.”
I was glad I hadn’t had to learn animal-speak for my school’s foreign-
language requirement. I’d barely been able to master numbers and colors in Spanish, even with my friend Leo Valdez as a tutor.
“WOOOF!” Hecuba barked again, her eyes fixed on me.
Grover looked troubled. “Uh, I don’t think so ….” He faced me. “You’re not salmon-flavored, are you? She says you smell like you’re salmon-
flavored.”
Annabeth covered her mouth, trying not to laugh.
I added one more thing to my mental list of stuff to thank my dad for.
Apparently, I smelled like Purina Catch o’ the Day to hellhounds. I wondered if I should reevaluate why Mrs. O’Leary liked me so much.
“No, I’m just Percy,” I told the dog. “That’s my name. Not my flavor.”
“Also kind of your flavor,” Annabeth added. Then to the dog: “I’m Annabeth. Hecate asked us to watch you for the week?”
Hecuba tilted her head, the way dogs do when they hear walk or treat or son of Poseidon for dinner. She barked a third time, and I realized her breath did in fact smell like salmon. I wondered if it was from the last demigod
Hecate had invited over.
“Great, thanks!” Grover said. “She says C’mon in.”
We followed the hellhound inside, leaving behind the muffled cries of the door knockers. “Wait! We work fine! PORK RINDS!”
Inside, a black marble foyer opened into a great room that reminded me of a medieval church. Not that I’d ever been in a medieval church, but I saw Spamalot once, so I felt like an expert.
Carved wooden beams held up the peaked ceiling, which was painted black and speckled with silver constellations. Stained-glass windows lined the
walls on either side, despite the fact that the townhouse was wedged up against other townhouses, so there shouldn’t have been any side windows.
In the corners of the room, more stone gargoyles squatted on columns.
Hanging from the central rafter was a massive candelabra—an iron wheel with lit candles that looked like it would really hurt when it eventually landed on me. (I’ve found that the more something could potentially hurt, the more likely it is to happen, and no, I’m not going to dwell on how depressing that is.)
Persian rugs covered the gray stone floor, all embroidered with scenes of tortured spirits. Four straight-backed mahogany benches faced the far end of the room, where a dais was set up with a lectern and a grand piano.
Above that, affixed to the railing of a wraparound staircase, was a crossed pair of unlit torches.
It was the kind of room a god would design: grandiose, impractical, and uncomfortable, like Hecate had thought, This is probably how humans live,
right? Sure! I couldn’t imagine spending four nights here without developing an anxiety disorder. Unfortunately, that was my quest. Bummer.
The hellhound padded over to the dais and barked.
A smaller animal, who’d been curled up asleep on the lectern, lifted its head. Judging from its noodlelike body, triangular face, and the mask of black fur around its beady eyes, I guessed it was a polecat.
It yawned, stretched, and then farted with a sound like air being pinched from a balloon.
“Hi!” Grover strolled up to the varmint with a total disregard for toxic fumes. “I’m Grover. How do you do?”
I wouldn’t have offered my hand to the polecat. It had pointy teeth.
Nevertheless, the polecat stood on its high legs and extended one dainty paw, shaking politely with Grover. Then it farted again, because etiquette.
“Gale?” Grover asked. (I seriously hoped he wasn’t translating the polecat’s flatulence.) “That’s a lovely name. These are my friends, Annabeth and Percy.”
Before I could say anything like Hello or What in the gods’ names have you been eating? the smell hit me. My eyes watered. If I was going to spend a school week with Gale, I’d need to go shopping for deodorizers. Maybe I could tie a new-car-scented air freshener to her tail.
Then from above us, a voice called, “Ah, there you are!”
Standing on the balcony at the top of the staircase was the goddess Hecate.
To answer your burning question— What do gods wear at home? —I can now confirm: yoga pants and an oversize sleep shirt. Hecate’s hair was tied
back in a loose bun, and her face and shirt were covered with dark smudges, like my mom when she’s been cleaning the oven. (Sorry, Mom.) She definitely did not look ready for visitors.
“Are we early?” I asked. “We can come back—”
“No, no!” Hecate gave me a smile that was about as warm and welcoming as her decor. “You’re just in time. I can give you the three-drachma tour of the house.”
“Cool!” Grover said.
Hecate stared at us expectantly.
I wondered if I was supposed to bow, or offer my hand, or fart with gusto. “Oh,” Annabeth said at last. “You’re not joking about the three drachmas.” The goddess’s eyes glinted. “I never joke about drachmas, my dear.”
Annabeth fished around in her pockets. She came up with three golden coins. As usual, I was grateful she was so prepared. Otherwise, I would’ve had to get into the whole awkward conversation about whether Hecate took IOUs.
“Just put them on the piano,” Hecate said.
Once Annabeth had made her offering, Hecate’s smile warmed just a bit. “Right, then. Come on up! The eels won’t feed themselves!”
