the_blood_of_olympus_-_rick_riordan

colada here, back in the 1960s, I think.’
Nico pitched out of his chair, curled up on the floor and started snoring.
Coach Hedge belched. ‘Well, it looks like we’re staying for a while. If they haven’t invented any
new drinks since the sixties, they’re overdue. I’ll get to work!’
While Hedge rummaged behind the bar, Reyna whistled for Aurum and Argentum. After their fight
with the werewolves, the dogs looked a little worse for wear, but Reyna placed them on guard duty.
She checked the street entrance to the atrium. The decorative ironwork gates were locked. A sign in
Spanish and English announced that the restaurant was closed for a private party. That seemed odd,
since the place was deserted. At the bottom of the sign were embossed initials: HTK. These bothered
Reyna, though she wasn’t sure why.
She peered through the gates. Calle Fortaleza was unusually quiet. The blue cobblestone pavement
was free of traffic and pedestrians. The pastel-coloured shop fronts were closed and dark. Was it
Sunday? Or some sort of holiday? Reyna’s unease grew.
Behind her, Coach Hedge whistled happily as he set up a row of blenders. The parrots roosted on
the shoulders of the Athena Parthenos. Reyna wondered whether the Greeks would be offended if
their sacred statue arrived covered in tropical bird poop.
Of all the places Reyna could have ended up … San Juan.
Maybe it was a coincidence, but she feared not. Puerto Rico wasn’t really on the way from Europe
to New York. It was much too far south.
Besides, Reyna had been lending Nico her strength for days now. Perhaps she’d influenced him
subconsciously. He was drawn to painful thoughts, fear, darkness. And Reyna’s darkest, most painful
memory was San Juan. Her biggest fear? Coming back here.
Her dogs picked up on her agitation. They prowled the courtyard, snarling at shadows. Poor
Argentum turned in circles, trying to aim his sideways head so he could see out of his one ruby eye.
Reyna tried to concentrate on positive memories. She’d missed the sound of the little coquí frogs,
singing around the neighbourhood like a chorus of popping bottle caps. She’d missed the smell of the
ocean, the blossoming magnolias and citrus trees, the fresh-baked bread from the local panaderías.
Even the humidity felt comfortable and familiar – like the scented air from a dryer vent.
Part of her wanted to open the gates and explore the city. She wanted to visit the Plaza de Armas,
where the old men played dominos and the coffee kiosk sold espresso so strong it made your ears
pop. She wanted to stroll down her old street, Calle San Jose, counting and naming the stray cats,
making up a story for each one, the way she used to do with her sister. She wanted to break into
Barrachina’s kitchen and cook up some real mofongo with fried plantains and bacon and garlic – a
taste that would always remind her of Sunday afternoons, when she and Hylla could briefly escape
the house and, if they were lucky, eat here in the kitchen, where the staff knew them and took pity on
them.
On the other hand, Reyna wanted to leave immediately. She wanted to wake up Nico, no matter
how tired he was, and force him to shadow-travel out of here – anywhere but San Juan.
Being so close to her old house made Reyna feel ratcheted tight like a catapult winch.
She glanced at Nico. Despite the warm night, he shivered on the tile floor. She pulled a blanket out