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Right. Focus.
I went back to imagining Hecate’s house. I broadcast mental pictures of hammers, nails, paint, and duct tape. Did they have duct tape in the seventeenth century? I imagined us all taking a stroll up to Gramercy Park for a fun evening of do-it-yourself home renovation.
Hecuba gave us another low growl—a sort of heads-up.
More shadowy forms were rising from the ground. Soon a crowd of ghosts surrounded us—dozens at least.
Grover reined in Nope, who really wanted to meet the smoke people. He must have gotten over his initial fright. His barking was joyous, like,YOU! SMELL! INTERESTING!The noise didn’t help me concentrate.
Gale chittered, probably reminding us that we were on the clock. How long had we been here? Minutes? Decades? The ghosts closed in, invading our personal space like we were the newest dead on the block and they needed to size us up. They didn’t touch us, though. So far, Gale’s goo seemed to be doing its job.
Why?the ghosts asked.
They didn’t like us. Their hostility tinged the air like sulfur. They knew Annabeth wasn’t Hecate—not a goddess to fear, just a teenager with borrowed torches.
They crowded around, swirling, sniffing us, held at bay only by Gale’s anti-ghoul salve and Annabeth’s willpower. Their presence drained the strength from my limbs. I didn’t know how Annabeth could stand it.
Their thoughts and memories washed over me. I saw New Amsterdam as a young colony—just a few buildings clustered around the southern tip of the island. Farmland stretched around us, alongside woods and streams. I felt bitterness. I saw frowning faces, heard insults being shouted in Dutch. Peter and his friends apparently hadn’t been well-liked. They had been buried here, in what was then the far northern edge of the settlement. They’d been slumbering in their graves for centuries as New York rose around them, burying almost every trace of their lives, eroding the names on their gravestones, making it impossible for them to sleep with all the traffic and construction. Now they were disoriented and angry.
I couldn’t blame them.Resting in peacewasn’t something that happened a lot in Manhattan.
I get it, I thought.But we need your help. Follow Annabeth. Work for her.
I wasn’t sure how helpful I was being. I was too distracted worrying about Annabeth, who must have been taking the brunt of the ghosts’ anger. The torches burned brighter, turning a deeper blue, almost violet. Annabeth’s arms trembled.
“You okay?” I asked.
“I—I’m good,” she managed.
I wanted to believe her, but the smoky forms kept multiplying. The whole graveyard seemed to have risen—hundreds of souls from unmarked graves, their names forgotten, their identities erased over the centuries. They thought in Dutch, English, French, and Algonquin—a chaotic chorus I couldn’t follow, but the emotions were clear enough. They wanted to tear us apart. They were just waiting for a sign from Peg-Leg Pete.
Annabeth straightened. She looked right into the sooty eyes of Peter Stuyvesant. “You will help us,” she commanded. “Follow me.”
Stuyvesant’s dust particles churned with resentment. But I felt something else now, too: curiosity, cold amusement, a cruel desire to see how long Annabeth could hold herself together before she broke. His response hissed in my mind.Go on, then, girl.
Annabeth turned and led us out of the graveyard.
One block.
That’s how far we made it.
Annabeth led us across 11th Street, then through Grover’s recommended shortcut—a pedestrian path between two apartment buildings. The mortals we passed gave us a wide berth. Through the Mist, I imagined we looked like a Halloween tour group.Please follow the torches for the Ghosts and Goblins Walk!
Hecuba and Nope went into border-collie mode. With their leashes dragging behind them, they raced around the spirits, making sure they all stayed in a tight herd. I guess that’s what hellhounds did down in the Underworld, because Nope took to it instinctively.
“Nope!” he barked every time a ghost strayed. “Nope! Nope!”
There would be no side trips for ice cream on this walking tour.
We had just emerged onto 12th Street when Annabeth stumbled.
I managed to catch her left arm and keep the torch from dropping. Grover did the same on her right. The ghosts surged toward us, then ebbed back when Annabeth regained her balance. I got the feeling they’d been about a half second away from feeding on our immortal souls.
“I made a mistake,” Annabeth said.
Her breathing was ragged. Her legs wobbled like she’d just climbed all the way to Olympus.
“What can we do?” I asked.
