The Son of Neptune

XXIII
Frank

FRANK MISSED HIS BOW.

He wanted to stand on the porch and shoot the snakesfrom a distance. A few well-placed exploding arrows, a few craters in the hillside – problem solved.

Unfortunately, a quiver full of arrows wouldn’t do Frank much good if he couldn’t shoot them. Besides, he had no idea where the basilisks were. They’d stopped blowing fire as soon as he came outside.

He stepped off the porch and levelled his golden spear. He didn’t like fighting up close. He was too slow and bulky. He’d done okay during the war games, but this was real. There were no giant eagles ready to snatch him up and take him to the medics if he made a mistake.

You can be anything. His mother’s voice echoed in his mind.

Great, he thought. I want to be good with a spear. And immune to poison – and fire.

Something told Frank his wish had not been granted. The spear felt just as awkward in his hands.

Patches of flame still smouldered on the hillside. The acrid smoke burned in Frank’s nose. The withered grass crunched under his feet.

He thought about those stories his mother used to tell -generations of heroes who had battled Hercules, fought dragons and sailed monster-infested seas. Frank didn’t understand how he could have evolved from a line like that, or how his family had migrated from Greece through the Roman Empire all the way to China, but some unsettling ideas were starting to form. For the first time, he started to wonder about this Prince of Pylos, and his great-grandfather Shen Lun’s disgrace at Camp Jupiter, and what the family powers might be.

The gift has never kept our family safe, Grandmother had warned.

A reassuring thought as Frank hunted poisonous fire-breathing devil snakes.

The night was quiet except for the crackle of brush fires. Every time a breeze made the grass rustle, Frank thought about the grain spirits who’d captured Hazel. Hopefully they’d gone south with the giant Polybotes. Frank didn’t need any more problems right now.

He crept downhill, his eyes stinging from the smoke. Then, about twenty feet ahead, he saw a burst of flame.

He considered throwing his spear. Stupid idea. Then he’d be without a weapon. Instead he advanced towards the fire.

He wished he had the gorgon’s blood vials, but they were back at the boat. He wondered if gorgon blood could cure basilisk poison . . . But even if he had the vials and managed to choose the right one, he doubted he’d have time to take it before he crumbled to dust like his bow.

He emerged in a clearing of burnt grass and found himself face to face with a basilisk.

The snake rose up on its tail. It hissed, and expanded the collar of white spikes round its neck. Little crown, Frank remembered. That’s what ‘basilisk’ meant. He had thought basilisks were huge dragonlike monsters that could petrify you with their eyes. Somehow the real basilisk was even more terrible. As tiny as it was, this extra-small package of fire, poison and evil would be much harder to kill than a large, bulky lizard. Frank had seen how fast it could move.

The monster fixed its pale yellow eyes on Frank.

Why wasn’t it attacking?

Frank’s golden spear felt cold and heavy. The dragontooth point dipped towards the ground all on its own – like a dowsing rod searching for water.

‘Stop that.’ Frank struggled to lift the spear. He’d have enough trouble jabbing the monster without his spear fighting against him. Then he heard the grass rustle on either side of him. The other two basilisks slithered into the clearing.

Frank had walked straight into an ambush.