Austin ran to the junction of the corridor and yelled, “Hey, idiots! You’re all gonna die!” Then he put his mouthpiece to his lips and blasted out “Pop Goes the Weasel.” Even without the insults, that particular song, when played by a child of Apollo, will cause a stampede 100 percent of the time. I pressed myself against the wall by the elevator as Austin dashed toward the library, pursued by fifty or sixty angry screaming party guests and Germani.
