Percy Jackson: An Endless of All

Finding the person who took Orpheus's head was proving far more complicated than expected. However, the search was narrowing down to a single country. France.

Nimbus and I traveled across the English Channel to get to France. Once we set foot on French land, we started our search. Through the French countryside we traveled, trailing wisps of dreams and a scent that nimbus picked up. Through quaint villages and grimy city streets, we went. The deeper into France we go, the more echoes of revolution scream through the Dreaming—gunfire, guillotines, chants for liberty—all of it like thunder rolling behind our steps. Everything is in a cluster fuck, when was and people dying were involved in any situation, really.

Eventually, Nimbus led me to a man—a smuggler, a petty gangster. He looked like your average mortal man, who looked shabby, shaddy, and had a criminal record a mile long. A mortal cog in the machine of the criminal underground. He was young, cocky, and thought himself untouchable. His memories, however, were veiled in a thick fog—divine interference. A god or goddess didn't want me peeking inside.

Still, mortals are fragile things.

And sometimes all it takes is a talk, or a good old-fashioned bad cop persuasion. A winged bloodhound clamping down on one's shin can inspire honesty and one to talk, while crying out like a toddler.

Between his yelps and cries, we got what we needed: he'd picked up a mysterious "package" from a hidden location, under orders from someone he never saw. Then, he left it in a godsforsaken corner of Paris, near the Champ de Mars—now just an open, desolate field, one day destined to house the towering iron bones of the Eiffel Tower. But, not till 1887 to 1889.

Once, we reached the drop-off site. It reeked. Even before we arrived, I felt it and smelled it from afar.

The place was fetid with rot, animal dung, refuse—yet worse than all of that was the residual presence of Orpheus's immortal head being left here, like forgotten luggage.

Nimbus growled lowly. "Woof. He shouldn't have been dumped like this."

"No," I whispered. "He shouldn't," I said with anger. 

I kneeled near the spot, brushing aside garbage with my fingers, feeling the Dreaming ripple beneath the earth. There, beneath the stench and filth, was an echo of his presence being here once before, but the song left in the air by his essence felt like a haunting note that still clung to the ground like a lullaby cut short.

Then Nimbus's nose twitched.

"Woof! Got a new scent, Master. Different from the last guy."

"Can you track it?"

"Woof, I can."

"Then lead the way, oh mighty Good Boy." I gave his brown, fluffy head a rub, and his tail wagged wildly in happiness.

The new trail led us into the very heart of Paris, twisting through alleys, winding behind revolutionaries sharpening blades and nobles praying in silence. There, in a crumbling tenement on the outskirts of the Bastille's long shadow, we found the second mortal—barefoot, love-drunk, and vacant-eyed. His aura shimmered with the faintest traces of being charmed by another.

He had no idea what he'd done. Clueless and used.

No idea why he had tears in his eyes and the whisper of a song stuck in his mind.

I didn't need to dig deep to find the truth.

He had been compelled. Enchanted. A demigod had touched his heart—wrapped it in velvet and honey—and turned him into a courier of tragedy. One of the many gifts the children of the goddess of love gain.

But more than that... I recognized the power.

Aphrodite. Only one of her children could enchant others to do their bidding. Through their use of charm speak.

It wasn't Aphrodite herself making moves. Not her directly, no. The scent was weaker, less potent—a child of love, perhaps two. It could be possible. Thinking of this is forming a theory in my mind. Which can only confirm my theory is true.

Someone had charmed their way past the wards of Naxos. Someone with divine aid had cloaked themselves from my gaze and manipulated mortals like chess pieces. The first demigod must've wormed their way into the Potter family's trust, and the island. Probably, a family who brought the demigod as a guest to an event the potter's had. The second picked up the head in France. It was clever. Surgical.

I might've been impressed.

If they hadn't stolen my son's immortal head and disrespected his legacy by dropping it among trash.

Nimbus sniffed again. He picked up a new scent from the second mortal and the abandoned building.

His wings flared.

"Woof. There's more, Master. A third scent. Not mortal."

"Divine or demigod?"

He nodded.

"Woof, Demigod, master," said Nimbus.

"Not hidden at all this time. They want us to find them."

I sighed through my teeth. "Of course they do."

The trail they left was bold. Brazen. Filled with divine ego.

It led away from the quiet alleys and into the storm of battle. Into the roaring blood-rush of war drums and echoing cries of dying men. Even the Dreaming trembled at the intensity.

And there is only one god I know whose domain thrives on blood, war, and fury.

"Ares," I murmured.

Nimbus looked up at me, ears flat. "Woof… I was hoping it wasn't him."

"If it's him, then this was no mere theft. This is a provocation."

I stood, the Dreaming coiling behind my shoulders like a storm cloud.

"We're going to the battlefield."

And in the distance, thunder cracked—not in the sky, but in the souls of men as gunpowder dreams exploded into the waking world.