The Last Olympian

ashes, frowning at Kronos with disapproval.
    Luke turned and collapsed, clutching his ruined hands. “Please, Percy . . .”
    I struggled to my feet. I moved toward him with the knife. I should kill him. That was the plan.
    Luke seemed to know what I was thinking. He moistened his lips. “You can’t . . . can’t do it yourself. He’ll break my control. He’ll defend himself. Only my hand. I know where. I can . . . can keep him controlled.”
    He was definitely glowing now, his skin starting to smoke.
    I raised the knife to strike. Then I looked at Annabeth, Grover cradling her in his arms, trying to shield her. And I finally understood what she’d been trying to tell me.
    You are not the hero , Rachel had said. It will affect what you do.
    “Please,” Luke groaned. “No time.”
    If Kronos evolved into his true form, there would be no stopping him. He would make Typhon look like a playground bully.
    The line from the great prophecy echoed in my head: A hero’s soul, cursed blade shall reap . My whole world tipped upside down, and I gave the knife to Luke.
    Grover yelped. “Percy? Are you . . . um . . .”
    Crazy. Insane. Off my rocker. Probably.
    But I watched as Luke grasped the hilt.
    I stood before him—defenseless.
    He unlatched the side straps of his armor, exposing a small bit of his skin just under his left arm, a place that would be very hard to hit. With difficulty, he stabbed himself.
    It wasn’t a deep cut, but Luke howled. His eyes glowed like lava. The throne room shook, throwing me off my feet. An aura of energy surrounded Luke, growing brighter and brighter. I shut my eyes and felt a force like a nuclear explosion blister my skin and crack my lips.
    It was silent for a long time.
    When I opened my eyes, I saw Luke sprawled at the hearth. On the floor around him was a blackened circle of ash. Kronos’s scythe had liquefied into molten metal and was trickling into the coals of the hearth, which now glowed like a blacksmith’s furnace.
    Luke’s left side was bloody. His eyes were open—blue eyes, the way they used to be. His breath was a deep rattle.
    “Good . . . blade,” he croaked.
    I knelt next to him. Annabeth limped over with Grover’s support. They both had tears in their eyes.
    Luke gazed at Annabeth. “You knew. I almost killed you, but you knew . . .”
    “Shhh.” Her voice trembled. “You were a hero at the end, Luke. You’ll go to Elysium.”
    He shook his head weakly. “Think . . . rebirth. Try for three times. Isles of the Blest.”
    Annabeth sniffled. “You always pushed yourself too hard.”
    He held up his charred hand. Annabeth touched his fingertips.
    “Did you . . .” Luke coughed and his lips glistened red. “Did you love me?”
    Annabeth wiped her tears away. “There was a time I thought . . . well, I thought . . .” She looked at me, like she was drinking in the fact that I was still here. And I realized I was doing the same thing. The world was collapsing, and the only thing that really mattered to me was that she was alive.
    “You were like a brother to me, Luke,” she said softly. “But I didn’t love you.”
    He nodded, as if he’d expected it. He winced in pain.
    “We can get ambrosia,” Grover said. “We can—”
    “Grover,” Luke gulped. “You’re the bravest satyr I ever knew. But no. There’s no healing. . . .” Another cough.
    He gripped my sleeve, and I could feel the heat of his skin like a fire. “Ethan. Me. All the unclaimed. Don’t let it . . . Don’t let it happen again.”
    His eyes were angry, but pleading too.
    “I won’t,” I said. “I promise.”
    Luke nodded, and his hand went slack.
    The gods arrived a few minutes later in their full war regalia, thundering into the throne room and expecting a battle.
    What they found were Annabeth, Grover, and me standing over the body of a broken half-blood, in the dim warm light of the hearth.
    “Percy,” my father called, awe in his voice. “What . . . what is this?”
    I turned and faced the Olympians.
    “We need a shroud,” I announced, my voice cracking. “A shroud for the son of Hermes.”

TWENTY

WE WIN FABULOUS PRIZES
    The Three Fates themselves took Luke’s body.
    I hadn’t seen the old ladies in years, since I’d witnessed them snip a life thread at a roadside fruit stand when I was twelve. They’d scared me then, and they scared me now—three ghoulish grandmothers with bags of knitting needles and yarn.
    One of them looked at me, and even though