Chapter 71
The Greyhound station was a grimy island of fluorescent light and damp concrete, a stark contrast to the sun-drenched columns of the Big House we'd left behind. The scent of diesel fuel and wet asphalt filled the air, a far cry from strawberries and pine. Argus's taillights vanished into the rainy dusk, the unblinking eye on his hand a final, silent farewell in the rear window.
Percy shouldered his duffel bag, the familiar weight of Riptide in his pocket a small comfort. "We could just… go there," he said, his voice barely audible over the hiss of tires on wet pavement. He didn't specify where, but he didn't have to. A few blocks west, a few blocks south, and we'd be standing in front of 3A. Mom's apartment. *Our* apartment, even if Gabe's smell had claimed it.
Grover shifted nervously, his hooves clopping softly on the sidewalk. He clutched his fake feet tightly. "The bus to New Jersey leaves in forty minutes," he bleated, his eyes wide. "The Kindly Ones… they could be anywhere. We shouldn't stay in one place."
He was right. Every ordinary person hurrying past under a newspaper or an umbrella became a potential threat. Was that taxi driver staring a little too long? Did that woman's briefcase have a strange, sword-like shape? The paranoia was a cold drip down my spine, different from the rain.
I looked at Percy. Raindrops caught in his dark hair, and his green eyes—so like our father's—were fixed on the downtown skyline, where our old life was hiding in the gloom. I knew what he was thinking. The same thing I was. Was Mom okay? Had Gabe done the dishes even once? Was her blue Snoopy cookie jar still on the counter?
"We're not going," I said, and my voice surprised me with its firmness. It wasn't a suggestion. "Grover's right. It's a trap waiting to happen. They'd expect us to go home."
Percy's jaw tightened. He knew I was right, too, but knowing and feeling are two different monsters. "It's just a few blocks," he muttered, almost to himself.
"It's a million miles," I corrected softly. "We're not those kids anymore, Percy. We can't just go back."
The truth of it hung between us, heavier than our bags. The normal world—the world of McDonald's and billboards and parents driving kids to soccer—wasn't ours to slip back into. We were marked. The quest was a ticking clock in our chests, and every second we lingered was a risk.
To break the tension, I nudged Grover. "Come on. Let's get inside. I want to see if a Greyhound station nacho cheese dispenser is as tragic as I remember."
It was a weak joke, but it worked. Percy cracked a small smile, and Grover's nose twitched with a mix of horror and intrigue. We trudged into the station's buzzing, overlit belly. The air was thick with the smell of cheap coffee, industrial cleaner, and weary humanity. We found a cracked vinyl bench near our departure gate, a little island of our own.
Sitting there, watching the rain streak the giant windows, the proximity was its own kind of torture. We were so close to the last place we'd been a family. But that family was gone. Our family was right here—a satyr, a son of Poseidon, and me. Our home wasn't an apartment on the Upper East Side; it was a camp on a hill, and it was in terrible danger.