We Enter the Laboratory of Forbidden Ice Cream
Yes, eels.
In Hecate’s second-floor hallway, she kept a massive freestanding glass column of salt water filled with morays because, she told us, their toxic mucus was good for potions. That was more information than I needed to know.
Four long yellow monsters glided through the tank, wriggling around coral and fixing me with their soulless blue eyes. Hecate showed us how to feed them from a nearby freezer full of dead fish, but she needn’t have bothered. The eels were telling me all about it telepathically. Their thoughts chiseled their way into my skull like ice picks.
She feeds us six times a day, said the one who thought of himself as Larry. “Only feed them once a day,” Hecate said.
We get twenty fish each, said another eel, Fortunato. “One fish each,” Hecate instructed.
And the polecat looks tasty, too, said the eel called Bigwig. We can eat the polecat.
“We’ll figure it out,” I told the goddess. “I get along great with sea creatures.”
Feed us all the things, warned the fourth eel, Janet. Or we will bite you.
We were off to a great start.
A half dozen side corridors branched off from Eel Hall, each lined with black lacquered doors stenciled with creepy Art Deco skeletons. Art
Creepo?
“These are bedrooms,” Hecate said, gesturing down one of the corridors. “But they are only for the lucky acolytes I train in magic.”
Annabeth looked interested. “Do you do that often?”
“I haven’t for many years.” Hecate sighed. “Once, this mansion was a school for magic—”
“Weird concept,” I muttered, because sometimes I blurt stuff out that should not be blurted. It was just that I was having trouble imagining students running around the house, zapping one another with wands and making
potions out of eel mucus.
Before Hecate could smite me, Annabeth jumped in. “Hecuba mentioned that the school closed. Why was that?”
Hecate gave the hellhound a withering look. “We don’t talk about the school if we want to remain a happy family.”
The dog tucked her tail between her legs. On Hecate’s shoulder, the polecat chittered, probably teasing the hellhound.
Grover cleared his throat. “So where do we sleep, then?” He sounded vaguely worried, since sleep is one of his favorite things.
Hecate hesitated. If I were a betting man, I’d guess that the question of our sleeping arrangements hadn’t occurred to her.
“You may … camp in the living room,” she offered.
“Awesome!” Grover grinned triumphantly. “Glad I brought extra bedrolls!”
I imagined myself sleeping under the iron candelabra, waiting for it to fall and cut me into the shape of a sugar cookie. Or maybe I’d stretch out on the grand piano next to Gale the farting polecat. There were so many options.
“What about bathrooms?” I asked.
Hecate frowned. Another mortal necessity she probably hadn’t thought about in years: the need to flush. She gestured vaguely down another corridor. “You will find rooms with … baths … down there.”
“You just created new ones, didn’t you?” I asked.
“No!” she snapped. “Now, down here you will find the library ….” “Also off-limits?” I guessed.
Hecate arched her eyebrows. “I don’t limit access to books, Percy Jackson. I’m not a monster. If you think you can navigate the knowledge in my library, be my guest. But if that knowledge turns you into a flaming purple armadillo, don’t come crying to me later.”
I made a note of which hallway she was indicating. I didn’t want to stumble around at night, looking for a toilet, and find myself in a room full of
hazardous magical textbooks. Plus, the warning about the armadillo sounded oddly specific, like it had happened before.
Annabeth, however, had a gleam in her eyes. To her, knowledge was irresistible. Even the flaming purple kind, which kind of troubled me.
Grover raised his hand. “And is there a kitchen …?” He pointed to Annabeth’s bag of Mexican food. “Our tacos and enchiladas are probably getting cold.”
He sounded definitely worried now. He liked eating even more than sleeping. He really liked enchiladas, which he said were so important they deserved a separate category from “food.”
Hecate scoffed. “Of course I have a kitchen, although we call it the laboratory. It’s in the basement. Follow me.”
She led us down a different stairwell. How many were there? I got the sense that the house was way bigger than it ought to be—as if the inside, like the outside, blurred and blended into the surrounding buildings. I hoped I didn’t wander into a neighbor’s house by accident and surprise them in the shower.
The hellhound Hecuba padded behind us, still looking morose from her mom’s scolding. She left a trail of drool, which I suspected would make it
easy to track her comings and goings.
The polecat Gale was still perched on Hecate’s shoulder. She had a talent for waiting until I was directly behind her before ripping a stinker.
The basement turned out to be the brightest and most spacious area of the house. The white stone floor gleamed like ice milk. Windows let in bright light through frosted glass, which was weird since the sun had already started going down. Maybe each bank of windows existed in a different
time zone, at just the right time of day to capture the perfect light.
In the center of the room stood a line of stainless steel workstations that reminded me of morgue tables. Along the walls were enough white granite counters, mixing bowls, blenders, cutting boards, ovens, and range tops to keep an army of chefs busy. Displayed in glass-doored cabinets were
hundreds of jars, vials, and beakers filled with colorful liquids. Gooey objects floated in some of them, and I really did not want to know what they were. On the nearest stove, several covered pots simmered and steamed.
Hecate spread her arms proudly. “I know what you are thinking: This looks like the set of The Great Witches’ Brew Off. And you’re right. We filmed all seven seasons here.”
“Oh!” Grover said. “I loved the episode with the growth elixirs! When Alejandro turned into a Hyperborean giant—?”
“A classic,” Hecate agreed. “Season three, episode five.”
I glanced at Annabeth, who looked as mystified as I was. Maybe we could find the show on Hecate’s TV and binge it this week. She probably had a subscription to Olympus+ or whatever the gods were watching these days.
Grover sniffed the air. “What is that heavenly smell?”
He followed the enticing aroma—past the bubbling pots that smelled anything but delicious—to the farthest counter. There, an old-fashioned ice cream maker hummed: a silver canister spinning in a wooden bucket packed with crushed ice. It had been ages since I’d seen one like it.
Whatever it held gave off the mouthwatering scent of fresh strawberries, as if plucked straight from the sun-drenched fields of Camp Half-Blood. A bead of pink liquid dripped from the rim, and Grover trembled, barely able to contain himself. The fragrance was so tempting, even I wanted to sneak a taste.
“You will touch none of my work,” Hecate cautioned. “Everything must simmer just as it is until I return. However, I will make an exception for this strawberry milkshake experiment.”
Grover’s eyes widened with hope. “Really?”
“Tomorrow, at exactly ten a.m., it will reach the perfect consistency. You may unplug the motor, use safety gloves to remove the canister from the ice, and place it in the freezer. That is all. No tasting whatsoever, or there will be severe consequences. Do you understand?”
Grover’s face fell, as if trying to swallow a huge lump of disappointment. He nodded solemnly.
“Good,” Hecate said. “You may use the kitchen for your own cooking, but enough about your mortal needs. Let me show you how to properly care for my pets!”
