Eels

Hecate’s smile warmed just a bit. “Right, then. Come on up! The eels won’t feed themselves!”

Yes, eels. In Hecate’s second-floor hallway, she kept a massive freestanding glass column of salt water filled with morays because, she told us, their toxic mucus was good for potions. That was more information than I needed to know. Four long yellow monsters glided through the tank, wriggling around coral and fixing me with their soulless blue eyes. Hecate showed us how to feed them from a nearby freezer full of dead fish, but she needn’t have bothered. The eels were telling me all about it telepathically. Their thoughts chiseled their way into my skull like ice picks. She feeds us six times a day, said the one who thought of himself as Larry. “Only feed them once a day,” Hecate said.

WotG ch.5

My knees were ready to buckle. If I went down under a mob of angry ghosts, I knew I wasn’t going to get up again. Then a different voice slipped into my brain. Hey, kid, tag us in.
I didn’t know how, but it was Janet the eel. I looked around. Of course there were no morays in the front yard. That was ridiculous. We’re still in our tank, Seaweed Brain, said Janet. You don’t get to call me that, I thought back. Okay, then, Alley Boy. Tag us in! What do you mean? You want to talk, or you want help? At the moment, help sounded better. Okay, sure, I thought. But how? The eels were all about show, don’t tell. From the manse’s entrance, four streaks of yellow shot out around Annabeth like streamers from a confetti cannon. Charge! thought Janet. For Hecate! Fortunato replied. For dead fish! Larry said. For more dead fish! said Bigwig. The most disturbing thing was that I could distinguish the voice of each eel. The door knockers cheered them on. “Go, my eels of doom!” “Go, my seventeen snakes of the apocalypse!” “KEY LIME PIE!” Each eel was encased in a sheath of water. They zipped through the air as easily as if they were in the open sea. Was this Poseidon’s doing? Hecate’s magic? Some unholy union of the two? I had no idea. I guessed moray eels could pick up all sorts of tricks from living in Hecate’s mansion and having their mucus scraped to make potions. They wove through the ghostly crowd, boring holes in the chests of Star Wars characters and Disney Princesses alike. They seemed to know better than to kill the mortals, but getting slammed in the face by a sixty-pound eel could put down even the hardiest New York taxi driver.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Annabeth on the porch, holding the spirit army at bay. She remained on one knee, her arms sinking lower and lower as she struggled to maintain the torches. I needed to help her, but Officer Pete was still in my face. “Little help here?” I called out. The eels flew in, wrapping themselves around Pete’s arms and neck, accessorizing his blue uniform with lovely yellow coils. Stuyvesant gurgled and struggled, trying to shake them.

WotG ch.35