In a valley between the mountains lay a massive field of ice. The edge plunged into the sea, hundreds of feet below, with sheets of frost constantly crumbling into the water. On top of the ice field stood a legion camp—ramparts, moats, towers, barracks, just like Camp Jupiter except three times as large. At the crossroads outside the principia, a figure in dark robes stood shackled to the ice. Percy’s vision swept past him, into the headquarters. There, in the gloom, sat a giant even bigger than Polybotes. His skin glinted gold. Displayed behind him were the tattered, frozen banners of a Roman legion, including a large, golden eagle with its wings spread.
We await you, the giant’s voice boomed. While you fumble your way north, trying to find me, my armies will destroy your precious camps—first the Romans, then the others. You cannot win, little demigod.
Percy lurched awake in cold gray daylight, rain falling on his face.
“I thought I slept heavily,” Hazel said. “Welcome to Portland. ”
Percy sat up and blinked. The scene around him was so different from his dream, he wasn’t sure which was real. The Pax floated on an iron-black river through the middle of a city. Heavy clouds hung low overhead. The cold rain was so light, it seemed suspended in the air. On Percy’s left were industrial warehouses and railroad tracks. To his right was a small downtown area—an almost cozy-looking cluster of towers between the banks of the river and a line of misty forested hills.
Percy rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. “How did we get here?”
Frank gave him a look like, You won’t believe this. “The killer whale took us as far as the Columbia River. Then he passed the harness to a couple of twelve-foot sturgeons. ”
Percy thought Frank had said surgeons. He had this weird image of giant doctors in scrubs and face masks, pulling their boat upstream. Then he realized Frank meant sturgeons, like the fish. He was glad he hadn’t said anything. Would have been embarrassing, his being son of the sea god and all.
“Anyway,” Frank continued, “the sturgeons pulled us for a long time. Hazel and I took turns sleeping. Then we hit this river—”
“The Willamette,” Hazel offered.
“Right,” Frank said. “After that, the boat kind of took over and navigated us here all by itself. Sleep okay?”
As the Pax glided south, Percy told them about his dreams. He tried to focus on the positive: a warship might be on the way to help Camp Jupiter. A friendly Cyclops and a giant dog were looking for him. He didn’t mention what Gaea had said: Your friends will die.
When Percy described the Roman fort on the ice, Hazel looked troubled.
“So Alcyoneus is on a glacier,” she said. “That doesn’t narrow it down much. Alaska has hundreds of those. ”
Percy nodded. “Maybe this seer dude Phineas can tell us which one. ”
The boat docked itself at a wharf. The three demigods stared up at the buildings of drizzly downtown Portland.
Frank wiped the rain off his flat-top hair.
“So now we find a blind man in the rain,” Frank said.
“Yay. ”
XXVI Percy
IT WASN’T AS HARD AS THEY THOUGHT. The screaming and the weed whacker helped.
They’d brought lightweight Polartec jackets with their supplies, so they bundled up against the cold rain and walked for a few blocks through the mostly deserted streets. This time Percy was smart and brought most of his supplies from the boat. He even stuffed the macrobiotic jerky in his coat pocket, in case he needed to threaten any more killer whales.
They saw some bicycle traffic and a few homeless guy shuddled in doorways, but the majority of Portlanders seemed to be staying indoors.
As they made their way down Glisan Street, Percy looked longingly at the folks in the cafés enjoying coffee and pastries. He was about to suggest that they stop for breakfast when he heard a voice down the street yelling: “HA! TAKE THAT, STUPID CHICKENS!” followed by the revving of a small engine and a lot of squawking.
Percy glanced at his friends. “You think—?”
“Probably,” Frank agreed.
They ran toward the sounds.
The next block over, they found a big open parking lot with tree-lined sidewalks and rows of food trucks facing the streets on all four sides. Percy had seen food trucks before, but never so many in once place. Some were simple white metal boxes on wheels, with awnings and serving counters. Others were painted blue or purple or polka-dotted, with big banners out front and colorful menu boards and tables like do-it-yourself sidewalk cafés. One advertised Korean/Brazilian fusion tacos, which sounded like some kind of top-secret radioactive cuisine. Another offered sushi on a stick. A third was selling deep-fried ice cream sandwiches. The smell was amazing—dozens of different kitchens cooking at once.
Percy’s stomach rumbled. Most of the food carts were open for business, but there was hardly anyone around. They could get anything they wanted! Deep-fried ice cream sandwiches? Oh, man, that sounded way better than wheat germ.
Unfortunately, there was more happening than just cooking. In the center of the lot, behind all the food trucks, an old man in a bathrobe was running around with a weed whacker, screaming at a flock of bird-ladies who were trying to steal food off a picnic table.
“Harpies,” said Hazel. “Which means—”
“That’s Phineas,” Frank guessed.
They ran across the street and squeezed between the Korean/Brazilian truck and a Chinese egg roll burrito vendor.
The backs of the food trucks weren’t nearly as appetizing as the fronts. They were cluttered with stacks of plastic buckets, overflowing garbage cans, and makeshift clotheslines hung with wet aprons and towels. The parking lot itself was nothing but a square of cracked asphalt, marbled with weeds. In the middle was a picnic table piled high with food from all the different trucks.
The guy in the bathrobe was old and fat. He was mostly bald, with scars across his forehead and a rim of stringy white hair. His bathrobe was spattered with ketchup, and he kept stumbling around in fuzzy pink bunny slippers, swinging his gas-powered weed whacker at the half-dozen harpies who were hovering over his picnic table.