The Battle of the Labyrinth

out—the lower half of a huge man in grubby gray pants and shoes even bigger than Tyson’s. One leg was in a metal brace.
    The spider scuttled straight under the car, and the sounds of banging stopped.
    “Well, well,” a deep voice boomed from under the Corolla. “What have we here?”
    The mechanic pushed out on a back trolley and sat up. I’d seen Hephaestus once before, briefly on Olympus, so I thought I was prepared, but his appearance made me gulp.
    I guess he’d cleaned up when I saw him on Olympus, or used magic to make his form seem a little less hideous. Here in his own workshop, he apparently didn’t care how he looked. He wore a jumpsuit smeared with oil and grime. Hephaestus , was embroidered over the chest pocket. His leg creaked and clicked in its metal brace as he stood, and his left shoulder was lower than his right, so he seemed to be leaning even when he was standing up straight. His head was misshapen and bulging. He wore a permanent scowl. His black beard smoked and hissed. Every once in a while a small wildfire would erupt in his whiskers then die out. His hands were the size of catcher’s mitts, but he handled the spider with amazing skill. He disassembled it in two seconds, then put it back together.
    “There,” he muttered to himself. “Much better.”
    The spider did a happy flip in his palm, shot a metallic web at the ceiling, and went swinging away.
    Hephaestus glowered up at us. “I didn’t make you, did I?”
    “Uh,” Annabeth said, “no, sir.”
    “Good,” the god grumbled. “Shoddy workmanship.”
    He studied Annabeth and me. “Half-bloods,” he grunted. “Could be automatons, of course, but probably not.”
    “We’ve met, sir,” I told him.
    “Have we?” the god asked absently. I got the feeling he didn’t care one way or the other. He was just trying to figure out how my jaw worked, whether it was a hinge or lever or what. “Well then, if I didn’t smash you to a pulp the first time we met, I suppose I won’t have to do it now.”
    He looked at Grover and frowned. “Satyr.” Then he looked at Tyson, and his eyes twinkled. “Well, a Cyclops. Good, good. What are you doing traveling with this lot?”
    “Uh . . .” said Tyson, staring in wonder at the god.
    “Yes, well said,” Hephaestus agreed. “So, there’d better be a good reason you’re disturbing me. The suspension on this Corolla is no small matter, you know.”
    “Sir,” Annabeth said hesitantly, “we’re looking for Daedalus. We thought—”
    “Daedalus?” the god roared. “You want that old scoundrel? You dare to seek him out!”
    His beard burst into flames and his black eyes glowed.
    “Uh, yes, sir, please,” Annabeth said.
    “Humph. You’re wasting your time.” He frowned at something on his worktable and limped over to it. He picked up a lump of springs and metal plates and tinkered with them. In a few seconds he was holding a bronze and silver falcon. It spread its metal wings, blinked its obsidian eyes, and flew around the room.
    Tyson laughed and clapped his hands. The bird landed on Tyson’s shoulder and nipped his ear affectionately.
    Hephaestus regarded him. The god’s scowl didn’t change, but I thought I saw a kinder twinkle in his eyes. “I sense you have something to tell me, Cyclops.”
    Tyson’s smile faded. “Y-yes, lord. We met a Hundred-Handed One.”
    Hephaestus nodded, looking unsurprised. “Briares?”
    “Yes. He—he was scared. He would not help us.”
    “And that bothered you.”
    “Yes!” Tyson’s voice wavered. “Briares should be strong! He is older and greater than Cyclopes. But he ran away.”
    Hephaestus grunted. “There was a time I admired the Hundred-Handed Ones. Back in the days of the first war. But people, monsters, even gods change, young Cyclops. You can’t trust ’em. Look at my loving mother, Hera. You met her, didn’t you? She’ll smile to your face and talk about how important family is, eh? Didn’t stop her from pitching me off Mount Olympus when she saw my ugly face.”
    “But I thought Zeus did that to you,” I said.
    Hephaestus cleared his throat and spat into a bronze spittoon. He snapped his fingers, and the robotic falcon flew back to the worktable.
    “Mother likes telling that version of the story,” he grumbled. “Makes her seem more likable, doesn’t it? Blaming it all on my dad. The truth is, my mother likes families, but she likes a certain kind of family. Perfect families. She took one look at