The Last Olympian

wolves and falcons, and I had a feeling the Lincoln Tunnel would be safe for now.
    “Thank the gods,” Annabeth said. “But if we don’t blockade the rivers from those boats, guarding the bridges and tunnels will be pointless.”
    “You’re right,” I said.
    I looked at the campers, all of them grim and determined. I tried not to feel like this was the last time I’d ever see them all together.
    “You’re the greatest heroes of this millennium,” I told them. “It doesn’t matter how many monsters come at you. Fight bravely, and we will win.” I raised Riptide and shouted, “FOR OLYMPUS!”
    They shouted in response, and our forty voices echoed off the buildings of Midtown. For a moment it sounded brave, but it died quickly in the silence of ten million sleeping New Yorkers.
    Annabeth and I would’ve had our pick of cars, but they were all wedged in bumper-to-bumper traffic. None of the engines were running, which was weird. It seemed the drivers had had time to turn off the ignition before they got too sleepy. Or maybe Morpheus had the power to put engines to sleep as well. Most of the drivers had apparently tried to pull to the curb when they felt themselves passing out, but still the streets were too clogged to navigate.
    Finally we found an unconscious courier leaning against a brick wall, still straddling his red Vespa. We dragged him off the scooter and laid him on the sidewalk.
    “Sorry, dude,” I said. With any luck, I’d be able to bring his scooter back. If I didn’t, it would hardly matter, because the city would be destroyed.
    I drove with Annabeth behind me, holding on to my waist. We zigzagged down Broadway with our engine buzzing through the eerie calm. The only sounds were occasional cell phones ringing—like they were calling out to each other, as if New York had turned into a giant electronic aviary.
    Our progress was slow. Every so often we’d come across pedestrians who’d fallen asleep right in front of a car, and we’d move them just to be safe. Once we stopped to extinguish a pretzel vendor’s cart that had caught on fire. A few minutes later we had to rescue a baby carriage that was rolling aimlessly down the street. It turned out there was no baby in it—just somebody’s sleeping poodle. Go figure. We parked it safely in a doorway and kept driving.
    We were passing Madison Square Park when Annabeth said, “Pull over.”
    I stopped in the middle of East 23rd. Annabeth jumped off and ran toward the park. By the time I caught up with her, she was staring at a bronze statue on a red marble pedestal. I’d probably passed it a million times but never really looked at it.
    The dude was sitting in a chair with his legs crossed. He wore an old-fashioned suit—Abraham Lincoln style—with a bow tie and long coattails and stuff. A bunch of bronze books were piled under his chair. He held a writing quill in one hand and a big metal sheet of parchment in the other.
    “Why do we care about . . .” I squinted at the name on the pedestal. “William H. Steward?”
    “Seward,” Annabeth corrected. “He was a New York governor. Minor demigod—son of Hebe, I think. But that’s not important. It’s the statue I care about.”
    She climbed on a park bench and examined the base of the statue.
    “Don’t tell me he’s an automaton,” I said.
    Annabeth smiled. “Turns out most of the statues in the city are automatons. Daedalus planted them here just in case he needed an army.”
    “To attack Olympus or defend it?”
    Annabeth shrugged. “Either one. That was plan twenty-three. He could activate one statue and it would start activating its brethren all over the city, until there was an army. It’s dangerous, though. You know how unpredictable automatons are.”
    “Uh-huh,” I said. We’d had our share of bad experiences with them. “You’re seriously thinking about activating it?”
    “I have Daedalus’s notes,” she said. “I think I can . . . Ah, here we go.”
    She pressed the tip of Seward’s boot and the statue stood up, its quill and paper ready.
    “What’s he going to do?” I muttered. “Take a memo?”
    “Shh,” Annabeth. “Hello, William.”
    “Bill,” I suggested.
    “Bill . . . Oh, shut up,” Annabeth told me. The statue tilted its head, looking at us with blank metal eyes.
    Annabeth cleared her throat. “Hello, er, Governor Seward. Command sequence: Daedalus Twenty-three. Defend Manhattan. Begin Activation.”
    Seward jumped off his