ANNABETH THOUGHT SHE KNEW PAIN. She had fallen off the lava wall at Camp Half-Blood. She’d been stabbed in the arm with a poison blade on the Williamsburg Bridge. She had even held the weight of the sky on her shoulders.
But that was nothing compared to landing hard on her ankle.
She immediately knew she’d broken it. Pain like a hot steel wire jabbed its way up her leg and into her hip. The world narrowed to just her, her ankle, and the agony.
She almost blacked out. Her head spun. Her breath became short and rapid.
No, she told herself. You can’t go into shock.
She tried to breathe more slowly. She lay as still as possible until the pain subsided from absolute torture to just horrible throbbing.
Part of her wanted to howl at the world for being so unfair. All this way, just to be stopped by something as common as a broken ankle?
She forced her emotions back down. At camp, she’d been trained to survive in all sorts of bad situations, including injuries like this.
She looked around her. Her dagger had skittered a few feet away. In its dim light she could make out the features of the room. She was lying on a cold floor of sandstone blocks. The ceiling was two stories tall. The doorway through which she’d fallen was ten feet off the ground, now completely blocked with debris that had cascaded into the room, making a rockslide. Scattered around her were old pieces of lumber—some cracked and desiccated, others broken into kindling.
Stupid, she scolded herself. She’d lunged through that doorway, assuming there would be a level corridor or another room. It had never occurred to her that she’d be tumbling into space. The lumber had probably once been a staircase, long ago collapsed.
She inspected her ankle. Her foot didn’t appear too strangely bent. She could feel her toes. She didn’t see any blood. That was all good.
She reached out for a piece of lumber. Even that small bit of movement made her yelp.
The board crumbled in her hand. The wood might be centuries old, or even millennia. She had no way of knowing if this room was older than the shrine of Mithras, or if—like the labyrinth—the rooms were a hodgepodge from many eras thrown randomly together.
“Okay,” she said aloud, just to hear her voice. “Think, Annabeth. Prioritize.”
She remembered a silly wilderness survival course Grover had taught her back at camp. At least it had seemed silly at the time. First step: Scan your surroundings for immediate threats.
This room didn’t seem to be in danger of collapsing. The rockslide had stopped. The walls were solid blocks of stone with no major cracks that she could see. The ceiling was not sagging. Good.
The only exit was on the far wall—an arched doorway that led into darkness. Between her and the doorway, a small brickwork trench cut across the floor, letting water flow through the room from left to right. Maybe plumbing from the Roman days? If the water was drinkable, that was good too.
Piled in one corner were some broken ceramic vases, spilling out shriveled brown clumps that might once have been fruit. Yuck. In another corner were some wooden crates that looked more intact, and some wicker boxes bound with leather straps.
“So, no immediate danger,” she said to herself. “Unless something comes barreling out of that dark tunnel.”
She glared at the doorway, almost daring her luck to get worse. Nothing happened.
“Okay,” she said. “Next step: Take inventory.”
What could she use? She had her water bottle, and more water in that trench if she could reach it. She had her knife. Her backpack was full of colorful string (whee), her laptop, the bronze map, some matches, and some ambrosia for emergencies.
Ah…yeah. This qualified as an emergency. She dug the godly food out of her pack and wolfed it down. As usual, it tasted like comforting memories. This time it was buttered popcorn—movie night
with her dad at his place in San Francisco, no stepmom, no stepbrothers, just Annabeth and her father curled up on the sofa watching sappy old romantic comedies.
The ambrosia warmed her whole body. The pain in her leg became a dull throb. Annabeth knew she was still in major trouble. Even ambrosia couldn’t heal broken bones right away. It might speed up the process, but best-case scenario, she wouldn’t be able to put any weight on her foot for a day or more.
She tried to reach her knife, but it was too far away. She scooted in that direction. Pain flared again, like nails were piercing her foot. Her face beaded with sweat, but after one more scoot, she managed to reach the dagger.
She felt better holding it—not just for light and protection, but also because it was so familiar.
What next? Grover’s survival class had mentioned something about staying put and waiting for rescue, but that wasn’t going to happen. Even if Percy somehow managed to trace her steps, the cavern of Mithras had collapsed.
She could try contacting someone with Daedalus’s laptop, but she doubted she could get a signal down here. Besides, who would she call? She couldn’t text anyone who was close enough to help. Demigods never carried cell phones, because their signals attracted too much monstrous attention, and none of her friends would be sitting around checking their e-mail.
An Iris-message? She had water, but she doubted that she could make enough light for a rainbow. The only coin she had was her silver Athenian drachma, which didn’t make a great tribute.
There was another problem with calling for help: this was supposed to be a solo quest. If Annabeth did get rescued, she’d be admitting defeat. Something told her that the Mark of Athena would no longer guide her. She could wander down here forever, and she’d never find the Athena Parthenos.
So…no good staying put and waiting for help. Which meant she had to find a way to keep going on her own.
She opened her water bottle and drank. She hadn’t realized how thirsty she was. When the bottle was empty, she crawled to the gutter and refilled it.
The water was cold and moving swiftly—good signs that it might be safe to drink. She filled her bottle, then cupped some water in her hands and splashed her face. Immediately she felt more alert. She washed off and cleaned her scrapes as best she could.
Annabeth sat up and glared at her ankle.
“You had to break,” she scolded it.
The ankle did not reply.
She’d have to immobilize it in some sort of cast. That was the only way she’d be able to move.
Hmm…
She raised her dagger and inspected the room again in its bronze light. Now that she was closer to the open doorway, she liked it even less. It led into a dark silent corridor. The air wafting out smelled sickly sweet and somehow evil. Unfortunately, Annabeth didn’t see any other way she could go.
With a lot of gasping and blinking back tears, she crawled over to the wreckage of the stairs. She found two planks that were in fairly good shape and long enough for a splint. Then she scooted over to the wicker boxes and used her knife to cut off the leather straps.
While she was psyching herself up to immobilize her ankle, she noticed some faded words on one of the wooden crates: HERMES EXPRESS.
Annabeth scooted excitedly toward the box.
She had no idea what it was doing here, but Hermes delivered all sorts of useful stuff to gods, spirits, and even demigods. Maybe he’d dropped this care package here years ago to help demigods like her with this quest.
She pried it open and pulled out several sheets of Bubble Wrap, but whatever had been inside was gone.
“Hermes!” she protested.
She stared glumly at the Bubble Wrap. Then her mind kicked into gear, and she realized the wrapping was a gift. “Oh…that’s perfect!”
Annabeth covered her broken ankle in a Bubble Wrap cast. She set it with the lumber splints and tied it all together with the leather straps.
Once before, in first aid practice, she’d splinted a fake broken leg for another camper, but she never imagined she’d have to make a splint for herself.
It was hard, painful work, but finally it was done. She searched the wreckage of the stairs until she found part of the railing—a narrow board about four feet long that could serve as a crutch. She put her back against the wall, got her good leg ready, and hauled herself up.
“Whoa.” Black spots danced in her eyes, but she stayed upright.
“Next time,” she muttered to the dark room, “just let me fight a monster. Much easier.”
Above the open doorway, the Mark of Athena blazed to life against the arch.
The fiery owl seemed to be watching her expectantly, as if to say: About time. Oh, you want monsters? Right this way!
Annabeth wondered if that burning mark was based on a real sacred owl. If so, when she survived, she was going to find that owl and punch it in the face.
That thought lifted her spirits. She made it across the trench and hobbled slowly into the corridor.
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