Sally Jackson sometimes cursed herself for being stubborn—and so, so naive. What had she been thinking, believing that she, a regular mortal, could keep her baby safe from the monsters that would inevitably hunt him down? For three years, she had lived on edge, constantly moving, constantly watching. The first two years were the worst: she barely let Percy out of her sight, quitting or being fired from job after job because she insisted on sneaking him into work just to keep him close.
But after Percy turned three, her vigilance dulled. She was tired—bone-tired. Thin, pale, with dark circles etched beneath her eyes, she was a shadow of herself. When nothing happened for so long, she convinced herself maybe Poseidon had been full of it. Maybe she and Percy were safe. After all, Poseidon's last demigod child had been born before World War II.
At the time, Sally decided she wouldn't let fear strangle the rest of her life. She enrolled Percy in preschool, took a steady job at a candy store called Sweet on America in Grand Central, and clung to her old dream of putting herself through NYU to become a writer. For a little while, she let herself believe in normalcy.
The Fates clearly had other plans.
When she picked up her toddler that afternoon, there he was—smiling wide, cooing proudly—while dangling a monstrous-looking snake, limp and lifeless, from his tiny hands.
Looking back, maybe she overreacted. Maybe she shouldn't have screamed, scooped Percy up, and sprinted for the car as if Cerberus himself were snapping at her heels. But in her defense, she was a mother, and mothers weren't exactly known for calm, rational reactions when their baby's safety was at stake. Percy was fine. More than fine, in fact—he had somehow strangled the snake himself. Still, her heart pounded long after she buckled him in and drove home.
By the time they reached their apartment, Sally was narrating the whole ordeal in her head—the way she always did when she needed to cope. After all, she wanted to be a writer one day. What better practice than turning trauma into stories?
With Percy perched on her hip, she closed and locked the door. Leaning against it, she sighed, bumping her head softly against the wood.
"Mama, everything good?" Percy asked, tugging her shirt.
She forced a smile. "Yeah, everything's good. Mommy was just… surprised."
Her son squinted up at her, unconvinced. "Then why did you scream? You were so loud. Like, AH!" He shrieked right in her ear.
She winced and set him down, which only sent him into a fit of giggles.
"Oh? So now you're making fun of me?" she teased.
"Heh. Yeah."
"Well, I guess that means you don't want to go back to school then, huh?" she said sweetly.
Percy froze. "No, Mama, no! I do want to go! I made friends and, and we drew pictures together and—" He launched into a breathless retelling of his day, proudly tugging artwork from his tiny turtle backpack and explaining each one in painstaking toddler detail.
Later, over dinner, he asked about her day. When she told him about the candy store, he nodded seriously.
"You should stay at that one, Mama."
"What do you mean, baby?"
"Your job. You should stay. So you can bring me candy, too." He grinned mischievously, and she couldn't help but laugh.
"You're so silly," she said, pressing a kiss to his hair as he giggled again.
Not long after, he fell asleep curled on her chest while a cartoon played in the background. She eased herself off the couch, carried him to his bed, tucked him in, and kissed his forehead before retreating to her own room.
But once she lay down, the image of the limp snake returned. Tears burned her eyes as the reality settled back over her: Percy wasn't safe. He never had been. Curling up, she sobbed into her pillow.
"What am I going to do?" she whispered. Exhaustion eventually pulled her under.
Until three loud knocks snapped her awake.
At first, she thought it was a dream. Then the pounding came again—deliberate, heavy. Heart racing, she grabbed the baseball bat from behind her door and crept to the living room. The knocks rattled the wood.
Slowly, she peered through the peephole. Nothing. The hall was empty.
"Nice place you've got here."
The voice came from inside.
She spun, swinging the bat at the sound—but it never connected. A hand caught the end mid-swing, stopping it cold.
Her breath caught as her eyes met the man holding it. A man she knew. A man who should not have been here.
The bat clattered to the floor as her hands went limp.
"Poe?" she whispered.
The man chuckled, raising a hand. With a snap of his fingers, every light in the apartment flared on. Sally blinked furiously against the sudden brightness. When her vision cleared, her stomach dropped.
Because it wasn't Poseidon.
The resemblance was uncanny, but the differences were too glaring to ignore. He wore a sleek black suit beneath a long black overcoat—something Poseidon would never touch, for fear of looking like his younger brother and inflating Zeus' ego. His skin was ashen, his long black hair hung in untidy strands past his shoulders, framing his face like a dark halo. And his eyes—gods, his eyes—were the worst. Not Poseidon's sea-green warmth, but bright crimson irises set in black sclera, glowing with something predatory. Something demonic.
Sally stumbled back until she hit the door. "Who… who are you?" she demanded, though her voice trembled. She thought about grabbing the bat, but what good would it do against this?
He didn't answer at first. He just studied her with a predator's calm, gaze trailing up and down before finally locking with hers. When he spoke, his voice was smooth, sharp—British, of all things.
"I'm quite certain the sea god told you about me. Or, more specifically, about his oath."
Her blood ran cold. Her mind pieced it together, and dread filled her chest until her knees nearly buckled. Tears welled in her eyes as fear mixed with hopelessness—and the faintest flicker of grim acceptance.
"The River's Enforcer," she whispered.
His lips curled into a smirk, his crimson eyes gleaming. "Aw, come on. Say it. Say my name." He bared unnervingly white canines in a grin.
She hesitated, half-hoping he wasn't serious. But the expectant tilt of his brow told her otherwise.
So she straightened her spine, praying to Poseidon with every fiber of her being to come save her and their son. Then, with shaky bravado, she spoke the name.
"Perses Alastor. King of Monsters."