The Demigods of Olympus: An Interactive Adventure (14 page)

“H-Hades?” My heart seemed to be the only thing that wasn’t frozen. It was racing at a million beats per second. “Isn’t he—?”

The god of the Underworld, yes. Get to New Orleans quickly or else…

The voice hesitated.

“Or else what?” I asked. “What am I getting into?”

The voice cleared its throat as if embarrassed. When it spoke again, it didn’t sound quite so majestic.

Oh, it’s nothing, really. Just…well…a small zombie apocalypse is looming, and you may be the only one who can stop it. Off you go!

With that, the rumble of the cars returned. Moonlight rippled on the river. Sam sprinted toward me.

“Did you get it?” he asked.

“I did,” I replied grimly. “And I got something else, too.”

“Is it food?” he guessed. “Because I like food.”

Despite all we’d been through, and all the danger we still had to face, I couldn’t help but smile.

“How do you like beignets?” I asked. “We’re going to the Big Easy.”

“It’s going to explode!”

Sam’s cry jolted me awake. I jumped up and banged my head on the luggage rack. “Ow!
What’s
going to explode?”

“My hair.” He ran his hands over his horns—he’s a satyr: half-man, half-goat, all-around best friend—and through his shaggy blond locks. “When we hit New Orleans—boom!—the humidity will turn it into one giant frizz ball.”

I sank back down. “Dude, you’ve got issues.”

“Tell me about it.” He rolled his sweatshirt into a pillow and closed his eyes. “Maybe I’ll get a new hat…” Two seconds later, he was snoring.

Sam and I had boarded the New Orleans-bound train in Austin, Texas, the day before. We took turns sleeping and keeping a lookout for danger. Now it was my turn to stand watch.

Here’s something you might not know: keeping watch is boring. Being a demigod, I’m wired for action, not for twiddling my thumbs on a train hour after hour. After ten minutes, I headed to the dining car for a snack. I figured Sam would be okay for a little while. The train wasn’t very full, and if anyone was going to attack us, it probably would’ve happened by now.

The train slowed as I made my way to the dining car. The conductor announced we were heading over the Huey P. Long Bridge, one of the longest railroad spans in the United States. I looked out the window, expecting to see sky, bridge supports, and the Mississippi River. Instead, I saw a weathered face with hollow eyes and a slack jaw pressed against the outside of the window, peering in at me.

“Yikes!” I jerked back and stumbled into the booth across the aisle.

“Whoa! You okay there, bud?” the dining car attendant called.

“There’s someone right outside—”

The man chuckled. “You saw your reflection, is all.”

“Do I look like a middle-aged guy with a buzz cut wearing overalls?” I shot back. “Because that’s what I saw!”

The attendant perked up. “Overalls…Hey, you must have seen one of the ghosts!”

“What?”

“This bridge is supposedly haunted by workmen who were killed during construction. Rumor has it that a few were buried alive in the concrete pilings.” He shook his head. “You’re lucky. I’ve never seen one.”

“Yeah. Real lucky.”
And you’re crazy to want to see…that,
I added silently. I bought a sandwich and returned to my seat next to Sam.

He looked troubled when I told him what had happened. “Do me a favor,” he said. “Until we know what we’re up against in New Orleans, don’t go anywhere without me. If you’re already attracting ghosts—”

“Let me guess,” I cut in. “It’ll be even worse when we get there.”

Sam nodded solemnly.

Of course it will. Story of my new life.

“What’d I tell you? Boom! Frizz ball!”

Outside the New Orleans train station, Sam tried in vain to flatten his hair (while I tried in vain to keep a straight face).

Suddenly, he froze, nostrils flaring. “Dude, we gotta go.
Now.
”

When you’re a demigod and your satyr protector tells you to go, you go. Hesitate, and a monster or three could jump you. (Don’t laugh. It’s happened. More than once.)

We zigzagged our way through the historic French Quarter to Bourbon Street, one of the city’s tourist hotspots. Rock, funk, and the sound New Orleans is famous for—jazz—rang out from open doorways. We passed souvenir shops and art galleries. The spicy smells of Cajun and Creole cooking wafted out of restaurants. We finally stopped at a bustling open-air eatery with green-and-white striped awnings.
CAFÉ DU MONDE
, the sign said.

I leaned forward, trying to catch my breath. “What was after us?”

Sam shot me a puzzled look. “Nothing was after us. I was after some beignets.”

“We ran all this way for a
snack
?”

“Not just any snack.”

“I should have left you in Austin,” I grumbled as we sat down.

Sam snorted. “Like you could survive without me.”

“Like you wouldn’t cry your eyes out if I wasn’t around.”

“Like you wouldn’t starve on your own.”

Sam flagged down a passing server. Within minutes she delivered two plates of warm deep-fried dough dusted liberally with powdered sugar. He took a huge bite, plate and all, and sighed blissfully. “Try one.”

I did (minus the plate)—and my heart stopped, but not because it was clogged by sugary fried goodness.

A man at a far table was staring at me. His eyes were pools of liquid darkness. His inky-black hair brushed the shoulders of his suit, which seemed to swirl with shadows. A little freaked out, I hunched over my plate and focused on my food.

A deep voice said, “Welcome to New Orleans.”

My head snapped up and my jaw dropped. The man was now sitting at our table.

“Psst.” Sam handed me a napkin. He shot a nervous look at our surprise guest, like I was embarrassing him in front of company. “You’re dripping ABC beignet.”

“ABC?” I repeated stupidly.

“Already Been Chewed,” the man supplied. His voice made me think of oil—slick, thick, and potentially dangerous. He crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. “Go ahead and finish. I’ll wait.”

I realized who he was. In Austin, someone had spoken inside my mind (not a form of communication I recommend, by the way) and told me that the god of the Underworld needed my help. I wiped my chin and swallowed.

“You’re H-Hades.”

The man inclined his head in acknowledgment. “Your parent informed me you’d arrive today.”

“My parent? You know who that is?”

“Naturally. And I’ll tell you…once you’ve completed your task.”

My task.
The voice in Austin had mentioned that, too. Something about—

“Zombies,” Hades said, “are infesting this town. Your task is to eradicate them.”

Sam gave a nervous bleat.

“Um, excuse me, Lord Hades,” I ventured. “But aren’t dead people
your
territory?”

“Zombies are
un
dead,” he said tightly. “Bodies who have lost their souls but still manage to roam around. Lost to my world unless destroyed by a demigod’s hand. Lost to your world unless the monster that created them is defeated.”

“Why do zombies bother you so much?” I had to ask.

Hades grimaced. “They’re walking corpses. They give death a bad name. The Underworld doesn’t need that kind of negative publicity.”

“I thought all publicity was good publicity,” Sam observed. Then he observed Hades’s narrowed eyes and zipped his lip.

“We had a gifted demigod, Marie, stationed here for a while, but she passed away recently, so…”

“Who?” I asked, wincing as Sam kicked me under the table.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Hades, obviously growing frustrated. “The point is that a particularly troublesome demon has taken up residence in the area and is creating a massive zombie army. We need a demigod to neutralize him, so the souls can return to their bodies.”

“Wait,” I said, glancing at Sam and moving my legs to the side. “If the souls return, does that mean the zombies turn back into people?”

Hades nodded. “Yes. Alternatively, you could kill all the zombies—that would make them fully dead.”

“That’s right,” said Sam, as if he knew
anything
about the walking dead.

“But that wouldn’t eliminate the
root
of the problem. You need to neutralize the monster. Now, about that,” Hades said, all business, clearly hoping to prevent any more questions, “he has proven to be, err, challenging. In fact, five previous demigods have failed.”

I frowned. “Hang on. I was your sixth choice?”

Sam coughed. “Shouldn’t you be more worried about the other demigods than about whether you were sixth in line?”

“Oh. Good point. About the others…”

“They’re zombies,” Hades said. “The Mormo bit them.”

“The what-who bit them?”

“The Mormo. A rogue spirit. He can summon lesser demons, raise the dead, and turn a human into a zombie with a single bite.”

I flashed back to the ghost outside the train. I asked Hades if the Mormo might have raised that guy from the dead.

The lord of the Underworld shrugged. “Even before the Mormo arrived, New Orleans had ghosts. Other creatures, too, like werewolves, or
loups-garoux
, as they’re known here.”

He stopped when he saw my expression. “But never fear. The Oracle has indicated that you will succeed.”

I wondered if this Oracle had “indicated” success for the other demigods, too. “What do we need to do to defeat the Mormo?”

“What do
you
need to do,” Hades corrected. “
You
are the hero. Sam is just a lowly satyr. ”

Sam flushed and hung his head.

Anger rose inside of me. I didn’t care how powerful Hades was—
nobody
dissed my friend like that. “Lowly? Sam’s the bravest guy I know. I wouldn’t be here if not for him! So tell
us
, what do
we
need to do to defeat the Mormo?”

Purple flames of fury flared in Hades’s eyes, then subsided. “You capture him inside a magical
pithos.
”

“A
pithos
?”

“A large Greek storage jar with a lid. Once the Mormo is inside, seal it so he cannot escape,” Hades said. “There’s just one catch: he must enter it willingly. You should also know that the Mormo has summoned the
daimones keramikoi.
”

“That’s two catches.”

Hades pinched the bridge of his nose as if warding off a headache, so I turned to Sam. “What are the ‘demons karaoke’?”

“The
daimones keramikoi
are five evil spirits—the Shatterer, the Smasher, the Charrer, the Destroyer, and the Crudebake. In ancient times, they destroyed kilns and pottery.”

I put two and two together. “That means the Mormo knows about the pithos. He must have summoned the pottery demons to smash it.”

“Most likely,” Hades affirmed. “I don’t know where the Mormo is hiding or why he has targeted New Orleans. But I do know this: fail, and the infestation of undead will spread far beyond this city.” He examined his fingernails. “A zombie apocalypse would
not
be good for my reputation. Prevent it from happening.”

I closed my eyes, chilled by the image of the undead taking over the world. When I opened them, Hades had vanished, but he’d left behind an envelope. I thought it might contain further instructions, but inside I found a gold coin and a note that said:
8:00 P.M. SHOW—PRESERVATION HALL
.

“I guess the god of the dead is into jazz. Who knew?” I said to Sam as I pocketed the coin and note.

Sam was toying with the remains of my napkin, which was weird. Usually he ate stuff like that. “Sam? Did you hear me?”

“Yeah.” He finally looked up. “Thanks for sticking up for me.”

“Hey, you’d do the same for me.”

“Still, it was Hades and all. The guy whose favorite pastime is inventing eternal tortures for sinners. In my book, he’s the scariest of all the gods.” He got to his hooves. “You really have become a hero, you know.”

“Well,” I replied, both pleased and embarrassed, “if I’m all that, then how come I don’t know where to look for this Mormo dude?”

“A demon that deals in death? Three guesses.”

I groaned. “A cemetery.”

“Got it in one, hero.”

New Orleans was built on a swamp. Know what happens when you bury something in a swamp? It doesn’t stay buried for long. For that reason, the Crescent City’s deceased were entombed above ground in mausoleums laid out in rows, like streets. According to the tourist brochure we snagged at an information kiosk, the greater New Orleans area had forty-two of these “Cities of the Dead.”

“The Mormo could be in any of them,” Sam lamented. “Where do we start?”

“By asking him.” I pointed to a mule-drawn carriage, one of many for hire in the French Quarter. The mule wore a straw hat decorated with pink flowers and regarded Sam and me balefully. “You speak mule, right?”

“Of course! I’m a satyr of many talents. I can dance.” He krumped some moves. “I can sing.” He belted out a few bars of “When the Saints Go Marching In.”

“Stop behaving like a donkey and go talk to that mule.”

I couldn’t hear the conversation, but when Sam returned, he looked grim. And he had the mule’s hat.

“Mike says weird stuff has been happening at night in Saint Louis Cemetery Number One. Strange sounds, triple the number of ghost sightings, fresh footprints…”

“That’s got to be where the Mormo is. I say we check out the cemetery now, while it’s still light, and then go back tonight to do some ghost wrestling. In between, maybe we can take in some jazz. And Sam?” I gestured to the hat in his hand. “What’s that for?”

“Duh. To cover my frizz. Look: nub holes.” He poked his fingers into the two slits cut for the mule’s ears and then jammed the hat on his head.

I cracked up. “Honey, those flowers are so
you.
”

Sam preened. “Pink
is
my color.”

I knocked him lightly with my shoulder. “You’re satyr-rific, Sam.”

He tipped the hat over one eye. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

Saint Louis Cemetery Number One was within easy walking distance of Café du Monde. It was a popular historical attraction, and we arrived just as a tour group was setting out. We trailed behind them to a white tomb with a gently peaked roof. Candle stubs, wilted flowers, strings of colorful beads, and other random objects littered the ground around it. Trios of hand-drawn X’s marked the sides and front.