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."
"Well, well. Look. At. You." The being before her drawled, each word deliberate, each pause suffocating. "My epithet and title. Wasn't expecting that out of you, Miss Jackson."
He stepped closer, closing the last foot of space between them, until Sally felt completely trapped.
"I doubt Poseidon—" she gasped, hope flaring in her chest. Poseidon would be here any mome—
"Poseidon can't hear us." His interruption was cold, merciless. "I put a ward up."
The hope in her gut crashed back into the pit of her stomach.
"Anyway," he continued smoothly, "as I was saying—I doubt Poseidon told you my epithet. So, tell me. Where did you hear it? Hm?"
She could only stare at him, wide-eyed, panic etched across her face. But her silence betrayed her, because his grin only widened.
"You didn't hear it. You read it. Didn't you? You were preparing for me?" He laughed, low and amused, as if her terror entertained him.
Before she could blink, his arm slammed against the door beside her head, his mouth lowering until his lips brushed her ear.
"Tell me, darling…" His whisper coiled like smoke, "…do you feel prepared?"
Her knees buckled. "No," she breathed, turning her face away from his dreadful gaze.
A shiver tore through her when she felt his chuckle vibrate against her skin.
"Good."
His free hand lifted, fingers snapping—and the world shifted.
In an instant, Sally was no longer pinned at her front door, but sitting at her dining table. She wore a dress—silken, elegant, far too fine for her modest closet. He sat to her right, his overcoat and jacket gone, his crimson eyes fixed on her with disturbing amusement.
"So," he drawled, "tell me. What else did you read about me?"
Still dazed, still terrified, she only stared at him.
He scowled, rolling his eyes. Another snap of his fingers, and a glass of water appeared before her. Only then did she realize how parched her throat was—her tongue heavy, her lips dry.
"Drink it."
She hesitated… then obeyed. The water slid down, cooling her throat, easing the tremor in her chest. A fog of calm settled over her, far too sudden, far too heavy.
"Better?" he asked.
She nodded faintly.
"Good. Now—I want you to tell me everything you know about me. And don't worry about names. They won't hear a thing. No one will." His voice was oddly enchanting, tugging at her will, muffling the terror screaming in her mind.
Her lips parted against her will. Words spilled out.
"You are Perses Alastor, youngest son of Typhon and Echidna. At first, you were known as the Drakontauros by Hesiod—a half-dragon, half-bull beast, with the lower body of a bull and the upper body of a dragon. Three heads: two dragon, one bull. One dragon head spat fire, the other spat poison. The bull's head between them. But Apollodorus claimed differently—said you were bipedal, man-shaped, legs of a bull, head of a dragon, with bat wings on your back."
She tried to stop—but her tongue wouldn't obey.
"Your myth begins after Queen Niobe's children slaughter. She climbed Mount Sipylus, found you sleeping. She begged you for vengeance against Artemis and Apollo. You agreed, but turned her to stone with your gaze for waking you. You went after Apollo first, but when he heard you were coming, he hid in Helios' chariot. So you burned and poisoned his cities, sacked seven of his greatest temples. After him, you hunted Artemis. Caught her in her bath—or while she slept in the woods, disguising herself as a wolf. You… ended her maidenhood, and she bore seven children."
The words turned bitter on her tongue. She glared, but he only smirked.
"Then Lady Styx came to you. Commended your work. Declared you King of Monsters, for violating a goddess without being a god. Made you her Enforcer— like your brother Kerberos being Hades' Guardian. When oaths are broken, you send monsters to families of oathbreakers. You drag them to the Styx to suffer forever. That's how you earned the name Alastor: avenging spirit. Sometimes Perses Alastor—the avenging destroyer."
The torrent stopped. Sally gasped, horrified by what had just poured from her lips.
"Bravo!" Alastor clapped, a bright, sharp smile splitting his face, canines gleaming. "Though, what you know is a little outdated."
Something in Sally snapped. "What? You didn't rape Artemis? And what the fuck was that? Mind control? Was it the water? What the fuck did you do to me?"
He waved a hand, dismissive. "Eh. I did and I didn't. But that's not important. What I did to you is not important either—it was necessary."
Her fists clenched. "And forcing me to tell you everything I knew about you—how was that necessary?"
"Simple." His grin sharpened. "Because it lets me tell you this."
He leaned forward, his voice dropping.
"The myths were right. I was born a monster. But after I did what I did, and became Lady Styx's Enforcer… I also became something else. A daemon."
"A… Damon?" she asked, thrown.
"Daemon," he corrected. "A spirit. There are many of us. Nike, Eris—spirits who rose and became goddesses. Countless others with niches of their own. And I just so happen to be the Spirit of Vengeance."
Sally couldn't stop herself. "Like Ghost Rider?"
His deadpan stare almost made her laugh, despite everything.
"...Yes," he said flatly, "like Ghost Rider. Except unlike that fictional little rider, I do things differently."
He leaned closer, his gaze pinning her to her seat.
"I don't just punish the innocent for their family's broken promises. I don't just drag souls to Styx. I make deals. Deals that can save, protect—" he slowed, savoring the word, "—and guide people away from the Styx's river, even if they are bound by oathbreakers' sins."
His eyes flickered toward Percy's room. Sally paled.
When he turned back to her, his smile was pure malice.
"So, Sally Jackson…" His voice dropped to a silken whisper.
"Do you want to make a deal with the Devil?"
"I—" Sally hesitated, staring into his eyes. And in them, she saw the limp snake hanging from her son's small hands. The memory made her stomach twist. She realized then—this might be her only option.
"Yes," she finally whispered.
"Gre—" Alastor began, but she cut him off.
"But why?" Her voice shook. "Why make a deal with me? Why not just…" She swallowed hard, trying to steady her pounding heart. "…take him?"
Alastor tilted his head. The grin melted from his face, replaced with cold stoicism. Narrowing his crimson eyes, he leaned back.
"Do you want me to take him?" His voice was sharp as broken glass. "Free you of the burden of being the mother of a demigod?"
"No!" The word ripped from her throat, frantic. Out of reflex, she grabbed his hand where it rested on the table. "Don't. Please. It was just a question."
Alastor didn't look at her. Instead, his gaze fell to their joined hands. Following his eyes, Sally saw where her trembling fingers clung to him. She jerked away as if burned.
Only then did he lift his gaze back to hers. The silence stretched, heavy, suffocating. Finally, he spoke.
"Your son plays a role. An important one. His decisions may change the course of history. And so—" his grin returned, but tighter now, almost forced, "—he must be prepared. I'm willing to see that he is, when the time comes."
Her throat constricted. "And how do you know it's him? Why not Zeus's daughter? Or his son? Poseidon mentioned them. So why Percy? Why my baby?"
The words tore from her, hoarse with grief. It was selfish, she knew—shoving the burden onto other children. But they weren't her Percy.
Something flickered across Alastor's face. A shadow of emotion. A sad smile, there and gone in a heartbeat. If she hadn't been staring at him, she would have missed it. For that instant, she didn't feel fear. She saw someone who understood her completely—someone who had once stood where she stood now.
Then it was gone. He bared his teeth. "That's for me to know, and for you to dot dot dot." His eyes gleamed with malicious amusement, and she knew he was playing up his theatrics now that she had glimpsed something real.
"Besides," he drawled, "a deal with me is far better than the alternatives. I could drag your little boy from his bed and drown him in the river of hate—oh, the way he'd scream." His voice slithered as shadows shifted. "Or perhaps I'd give you a husband. A monster of a man. Foul, rotting, cruel. He'd bleed you dry, sell your car, strip you of this lovely apartment, ripping you away from the last for what belonged to your parents and uncle, goodbye East Village," He exclaimed as he waved mockingly at her, " And when he grew drunk, he'd turn abusive. To both of you."
Suddenly he wasn't beside her—he was behind her, his mouth at her ear. She froze as his whisper coiled through her.
"Is that what you want? Or would you rather... make a deal with me? Ensure your son lives?"
She trembled, her soul twisting under his words. Every path seemed poisoned, but for Percy—for her baby—she would gamble. She inhaled deeply, closed her eyes, and when she opened them, she met his gaze with all the courage she had left.
"What do you want?" she asked plainly.
The shadows writhed, twisting tighter. For a heartbeat she swore two serpentine heads rose over his shoulders, grinning sharp like his own.
She just prayed the deal she made didn't doom her baby.
Later Alastor stood atop the roof of a nearby building, watching through the apartment window as Sally Jackson slept curled protectively around her son. For the briefest of moments, he hated himself—for how small and useless he'd made her feel, for how much fear he'd left in her heart. But that small voice was quickly silenced. He reminded himself of what he was now, and what he had to do.
"Father."
The voice behind him was deep, gruff, steady. Alastor turned to see a tall figure emerge from the shadows: a broad-shouldered man in a cloak that seemed woven from night itself, tiny stars glittering and shifting across its fabric. His hood framed a clean-shaven, tanned face, and his silver eyes gleamed with translucent light.
" I do not understand," the man said. "Why mute your conversation with the mortal? What is so special about her and her child that you would ask me to cloak it from the divine world?"
Alastor smirked instead of answering. "Did your mother notice you weren't by her side?"
The younger man's lips tightened. "Of course she didn't. You know she didn't. So why deflect?"
"Why so curious?" Alastor countered smoothly, grin widening when his son growled in irritation. He strolled up and patted his cheek like he was still a boy.
"Listen, Nick. Trust your daddy, will you? Everything I do—plans, choices, actions—is for the family. And you, as my eldest, your role is to learn, observe, and to—"
"Shield our family," Nick finished, his tone flat. He'd heard it a thousand times.
"See? You already know." Alastor winked. "Now, go back to your mother. My you isn't over just yet."
Nick groaned audibly, glaring at him. "Really, Father? That joke again?"
Alastor chuckled, delighted at his son's annoyance. "What? I think it's clever."
Nick muttered something under his breath, but said nothing more.
"Good boy." Alastor's grin turned sharp again. "Now, I'm off to check on your's and your siblings' grandkids. Want me to tell them anything while I'm there?"
Nick sighed. "Yes. Tell Henry his son got sloppy. They found a bloodless body on the docks in New Orleans. The Hunters have been tipped."
Alastor grimaced. Neither Henry nor his son would enjoy the punishment that news carried. Still, he shrugged. "Oh well. At least I get some entertainment from the fallout. Anyway, bye-bye for now. And Nick—" he added with a wink, "love the new look. Reminds me of your mother."
And with that, he vanished in a flash.
Nick stayed still for a moment, his silver eyes narrowing as he turned to glance once more at the Jacksons' apartment. Then he dissolved into black smoke and reappeared within a silver chariot, knowledge of what a duplicate of himself was doing entered his mind.
"What is it, Nyxios?" asked the rider beside him, their long red hair flowing in the wind. Their own silver eyes narrowed suspiciously as he suddenly stopped talking in the middle of his sentence.
Nyxios paused, then shook his head. "Nothing. Father was simply sharing his… opinion of my current form."
The red-haired figure smirked viciously, as Nyxios tugged back their hood so their hair, red as the person's hair next to him, streamed free. "Did he hate that you no longer look like him?"
"No." Nyxios allowed himself the faintest smile. "He said he loves being reminded of you."
His mother's smirk fell instantly into a scowl.
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What Alastor Looks Like