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I sat up, and a gossamer sheet floated away. I was on a bed made of silky woven kelp, in a room paneled with abalone shell. Glowing pearls the size of basketballs floated around the ceiling, providing light. I was under water.
Our beach is on the North Shore of Long Island, and it’s enchanted so most people can’t even see it. People don’t just appear on the beach unless they’re demigods or gods or really, really lost pizza delivery guys. (It’s happened—but that’s another story.)
My empathy link was really tingling for the first time in months, which either meant a whole lot of people had suddenly switched on the Nature Channel, or Grover was close.
“Please, man,” I said. “It would mean a lot. For old times’ sake?” He whimpered. “As I recall, in the old times we almost died a lot. But okay, here goes nothing.”
When she smelled the tunnel, she got excited and led the way down the steps. It was a pretty tight fit. I hoped she wouldn’t get stuck. I couldn’t imagine how much Drano we’d need to un-stick a hellhound wedged halfway down a tunnel to the Underworld.
He nodded sleepily. “With great power…comes great need to take a nap. Wake me up later.” “Whoa, zombie dude.” I caught him before he could pass out again.
If you’re heading downtown from Central Park, my advice is to take the subway. Flying pigs are faster, but way more dangerous.
“DUDE!” Another centaur yelled. “Talk later. WASTE MONSTERS NOW!” He locked and loaded a double-barrel paint gun and blasted an enemy hellhound bright pink. The paint must’ve been mixed with Celestial bronze dust or something, because as soon as it splattered the hellhound, the monster yelped and dissolved into a pink-and-black puddle. “PARTY PONIES!” a centaur yelled. “SOUTH FLORIDA CHAPTER!” Somewhere across the battlefield, a twangy voice yelled back, “HEART OF TEXAS CHAPTER!” “HAWAII OWNS YOUR FACES!” a third one shouted.
The monster bared its fangs to strike and got a mouthful of Celestial bronze javelins. “EEESSSSS!!!!!” it screamed, which is probably drakon for OWWWW!
Grover cradled his laurel sapling in his hands. “Well…sure good to be together again. Arguing. Almost dying. Abject terror. Oh, look. It’s our floor.”
I picked up Pandora’s jar. The spirit of Hope fluttered inside, trying to warm the cold container. “Hestia,” I said, “I give this to you as an offering.” The goddess tilted her head. “I am the least of the gods. Why would you trust me with this?” “You’re the last Olympian,” I said. “And the most important.” “And why is that, Percy Jackson?” “Because Hope survives best at the hearth,” I said. “Guard it for me, and I won’t be tempted to give up again.” The goddess smiled. She took the jar in her hands and it began to glow. The hearth fire burned a little brighter.
Very well! It shall be as you say. But my son, pray this works. “I am praying. I’m talking to you, right?” Oh…yes. Good point.
“I survive all those battles,” she growled, “and I get defeated by a stupid chunk of rock!” “It’s Hera,” Annabeth said in outrage. “She’s had it in for me all year. Her statue would’ve killed me if you hadn’t pushed us away.”
I thought poor Grover would pass out. He’s deathly afraid of Cyclopes. But he steeled his nerves and said, “Yes. Um…three cheers for Tyson!” “YAAARRRRR!” the Cyclopes roared. “Please don’t eat me,” Grover muttered, but I don’t think anyone heard him.
And you shall have a new…um…what kind of weapon would you like? A sword? An axe?” “Stick!” Tyson said, showing his broken club. “Very well,” Zeus said. “We will grant you a new, er, stick. The best stick that may be found.”
I turned, but before I could leave, Poseidon called, “Honor guard!” Immediately the Cyclopes came forward and made two lines from the thrones to the door—an aisle for me to walk through. They came to attention. “All hail, Perseus Jackson,” Tyson said. “Hero of Olympus…and my big brother!”
