The Hidden Oracle (The Trials of Apollo, #1)

by Rick Riordan

I HAD NOT BEEN STOMPED so badly since my guitar contest against Chuck Berry in 1957.

Zeus did not answer. He was probably too busy recording my humiliation to share on Snapchat.

(And FYI, the Black Death was not my fault. I took one century off to lie around the beach in Cabo, and came back and found that the nosoi had gotten loose and a third of the continent was dead. Gods, I was so irritated.)

“Understood.” Will looked at Nico. “Will you be my buddy?” “You are a dork,” Nico announced. The two of them strolled off bickering.

Not all monsters were three-ton reptiles with poisonous breath. Many wore human faces.

I didn’t understand the purpose of the seeds, but it was comforting to know that in a dire emergency I could hit people with my ukulele while Meg planted geraniums.

His chin was so weak, I was tempted to create a GoFundMe campaign to buy him a better jaw.

A third oak was giving its neighbor an infomercial sales pitch about a food processor. “And you won’t believe what it does with pasta!” “Wow!” said the other tree. “It makes pasta, too?” “Fresh linguine in minutes!” the sales oak enthused. I did not understand why an oak tree would want linguine, but I kept moving. I was afraid that if I listened too long, I would order the food processor for three easy installments of $39.99, and my sanity would be lost forever.

“Didn’t the sun chariot almost destroy the world once?” “Well, twice,” I said. “Three times, if you count the day I let Thalia Grace drive, but—”

I try to avoid weapons that talk. I find them rude and distracting. Once, Artemis had a bow that could cuss like a Phoenician sailor. Another time, in a Stockholm tavern, I met

this god who was smoking hot, except his talking sword just would not shut up.

I SHALT ASSIST, promised the Arrow of Dodona. STARTEST THOU: “PLAGUEY, PLAGUEY, PLAGUEY.”