Wrath of the Triple Goddess

by Rick Riordan

Also, I’d missed my entire junior year thanks to some business we won’t get into (Hera) on account of some meddling gods (Hera) for reasons of a cosmic apocalypse (Hera).

One of these days I was going to find that our athletic director had been replaced by a poison-breathing dragon…though on second thought, I’m not sure anyone would notice the difference.

You’re probably thinking, Percy, you’ve been dealing with the Greek gods for years. How could you not know her?

It’s never Hi, I’m Zeus. It’s always I am the Thunder-Maker, the Paranoid Patriarch, Heavenly Adulterer, Lightning Britches, King of Luxurious Beard Products.

Grover grinned from ear to ear, which made him look like he had extra AI-generated teeth.

Maybe that sounds self-centered, but the idea of anybody writing a book about me makes me super paranoid.

(Side effects can include panic attacks, mass hysteria, and psychological misdiagnoses. Ask your doctor if Iris-messages are right for you.)

I’m not sure if you’ve ever had this experience—when you see someone you know from a distance, and for a split second you don’t recognize them. Your brain just registers, Oh, that person looks amazing. Then you realize it’s someone you’ve known for years—your girlfriend, in fact—and that sends a tingle of happiness through your whole body.

“Now my arachnophobic girlfriend is talking about buying cobwebs. Who are you?”

I’d barely been able to master numbers and colors in Spanish, even with my friend Leo Valdez as a tutor.

“Gale?” Grover asked. (I seriously hoped he wasn’t translating the polecat’s flatulence.)

The polecat Gale was still perched on Hecate’s shoulder. She had a talent for waiting until I was directly behind her before ripping a stinker.

Annabeth often told me I would make a great dad, because I already had the right jokes—stupid, corny, and stupid.

I should have known better than to use her name so often. That tends to get a god’s attention. It’s the divine equivalent of a butt-dial.

“The Adventures of Mom, Chew Toy, and Alley Boy,” Annabeth mused. “We should pitch that to Hollywood.”

My sword was better at slashy-slashy than stabby-stabby, and I did not want to slashy-slashy Annabeth. That would make her mad.

“Good job, hero,” she said. “I’m not even going to ask why you have a bikini bottom wrapped around your ankle.”

She’d been a seller of potions and magical fragrances and had somehow gotten on Hecate’s bad side, possibly because she was a terrible spokesperson for magic, what with the constant farting and all. (Just a guess.)

He wiped a tear from his cheek. “It’s not your fault.” “Don’t do that,” I said, gently as I could. “Don’t brush it away.” “The tear?”

She looked incredible, but you don’t have to take my word for it. The costume person’s exact reaction was “You look incredible.” Then she turned to Grover and me and said, “Now, these two are a challenge.”

Otherwise, you will face the wrath of the Triple Goddess!”

“AWK!” screeched Owl-a-beth.

She puffed up her fur, then farted angrily.

Annabeth took our graduation plans seriously. Death was no excuse.

She didn’t need to reply. She was dead serious. (Ouch, bad choice of words.)