“This is all my fault.” “No,” Annabeth said weakly. “Silena, how is it your fault?” “I’ve never been any good at camp,” she murmured. “Not like you or Percy. If I was a better fighter…” Her mouth trembled. Ever since Beckendorf died she’d been getting worse, and every time I looked at her, it made me angry about his death all over again. Her expression reminded me of glass—like she might break any minute. I swore to myself that if I ever found the spy who’d cost her boyfriend his life, I would give him to Mrs. O’Leary as a chew toy.
