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The hull of the ship slices through the waves, a hot knife cutting through the tempered folds of rage.
Inside, the pirates talk. Murmur things. Secrets and falsities coat their tongues in liquid silver. Along with them, their precious cargo rattles. Among the many treasures collected with them, one stands out.
The chest appears simple enough, and Neptune grins wide when he senses its worth. And oh, are its contents delicious. He can still taste the blood spilled into his waves, his waters. All for this. He relishes in the iron tang that swirls in his depths and lingers on the reefs that shatter against his lips.
Pluto would balk at the very thought of these riches far away from the Underworld’s touch. But he would not appreciate them as Neptune does, no. For the gold that once sailed inside L’urca De Lima is his for the taking.
The men aboard the ship had grown weaker with malaria as he urged their vessel to collide along a rocky shore so very far from Cuba. Spain would not see its galleon near the lands they claim as theirs. And this gold? Well, let it be known that humans sometimes surprise him with their ingenuity. Those who had discovered the wreck had taken the gold and made it something far better.
The treasure is Spanish gold converted into something more manageable to carry—the pearls from his ocean. The gold itself lay in the storehouses of a man he knew would squander it and who had offered his pearls in exchange.
Men always seem to underestimate the value of a pearl. But a woman has no such reservations, for she sees what is most beautiful, most rare. That woman from the whorehouse had noticed it most of all, for only those who know what they are in danger of losing can see the truest path to gain.
The one called Flint leans forward, his cerulean eyes glistening with something that makes the trenches along Neptune’s spine shiver. His Greek form clangs on the bars that Neptune has suppressed him with. Poseidon howls for freedom.
“I’ve noticed you’ve locked it,” says Flint. “Do you mind me asking who has the key?”
Flint’s voice is gentler than Neptune is used to, though still tinged with an edge. Something has happened to him. Something has changed him. Poseidon scratches into his periphery.
The other one—Rackham—sighs. “Neptune,” he replies.
Poseidon recedes as quickly as he came. Neptune rumbles with triumph and the winds sing into the ship’s sails.
He has the key. And it shakes within his hold. The waters crest along its ridges.
For months he holds the key.
He holds it even as the pirates bury it in a clandestine place only a handful know of, including Neptune himself. The sea claims its sacrifice.
He holds it even as a war against civilization slashes through the New World. Nassau burns.
He holds it as Blackbeard skims his surface, scrapes along the underside of a British man-of-war, and pieces of his flesh drift off into the deep as his face loses its humanity. His teeth are exposed, and his lips are shaved away.
Neptune simmers with delight as Blackbeard is keelhauled. Up, around, and through. The rope snaps within the currents of his veins. Skin floats off Blackbeard’s back like the scales from the decomposing body of a slaughtered fish.
Finally, when the sea takes Blackbeard, Neptune knows he has a prize on his hands. An infamous pirate who knows the seas.
Neptune returns Blackbeard to a semblance of life. He returns him his crew, a ship full of dead men who perished at sea. They will be a ghost ship scoping the mist within the Sea of Monsters, men who will do his bidding in the hidden world if he asks.
Centuries pass and still Neptune holds the key.
A captain aboard a steam ship who he recognizes as one of his sons halts his course off the coast of California. Night arrives and stars sprinkle Diana’s sky.
“Father,” he says.
“What is it that you want, child?”
“The mortals still speak of Captain Flint’s lost treasure,” he explains. His hands tighten on the wheel. “I know you have its key. The creatures of the deep do not keep secrets from your offspring.”
Neptune scoffs. The surface of the ocean trembles and the boat rocks. On the shore, the residents of California shout warnings. “Earthquake!” someone yells.
“Do not deign to covet such a thing,” growls Neptune. “Only someone more worthy than you can take it.”
His child frowns. “Am I not worthy?”
Neptune raises his trident, and his son returns to the seas. The bubbles rise from his throat, and he chokes on the water, denied his innate ability to breathe in it in his final moments.
In a blink of Neptune’s hundreds of eyes, time passes again.
Something has shattered him, something he cannot understand. The feeling rises along the Atlantic, crashing on the beaches of Long Island. Montauk is suddenly a place he regrets, a place he avoids. He does not know the look of its sands nor the call of its lighthouse anymore. He cannot fathom why.
The sky burns gray with thunderstorms. Jupiter’s wrath beats on his domain.
It is not safe.
It is not safe for the boy—
What?
Poseidon wrenches for control.
“At long last,” says Poseidon. The hurricane forming in the Gulf of Mexico dissipates. “I have the key.”
He latches onto Flint’s treasure, buried deep in the sands and forgotten by men. He yanks the chest toward him. The key clicks into the lock. The rust falls away.
When he opens the chest, his skin is mottled with the light of glowing pearls frozen in time. He cups four in his hands and imbues them with power.
“I know who is worthy of this treasure,” he whispers.
He drops the pearls into a nereid’s pocket. He turns to the sunrise painting the horizon line.
“You must deliver these to my son, Percy Jackson.”