The Last Olympian

.”
    Annabeth ran in right behind him, and I’ll admit my heart did a little relay race in my chest when I saw her. It’s not that she tried to look good. We’d been doing so many combat missions lately, she hardly brushed her curly blond hair anymore, and she didn’t care what clothes she was wearing—usually the same old orange camp T-shirt and jeans, and once in a while her bronze armor. Her eyes were stormy gray. Most of the time we couldn’t get through a conversation without trying to strangle each other. Still, just seeing her made me feel fuzzy in the head. Last summer, before Luke had turned into Kronos and everything went sour, there had been a few times when I thought maybe . . . well, we might get past the strangle-each-other phase.
    “What happened?” She grabbed my arm. “Is Luke—”
    “The ship blew up,” I said. “He wasn’t destroyed. I don’t know where—”
    Silena Beauregard pushed through the crowd. Her hair wasn’t combed and she wasn’t even wearing makeup, which wasn’t like her.
    “Where’s Charlie?” she demanded, looking around like he might be hiding.
    I glanced at Chiron helplessly.
    The old centaur cleared his throat. “Silena, my dear, let’s talk about this at the Big House—”
    “No,” she muttered. “No. No .”
    She started to cry, and the rest of us stood around, too stunned to speak. We’d already lost so many people over the summer, but this was the worst. With Beckendorf gone, it felt like someone had stolen the anchor for the entire camp.
    Finally Clarisse from the Ares cabin came forward. She put her arm around Silena. They had one of the strangest friendships ever—a daughter of the war god and a daughter of the love goddess—but ever since Silena had given Clarisse advice last summer about her first boyfriend, Clarisse had decided she was Silena’s personal bodyguard.
    Clarisse was dressed in her bloodred combat armor, her brown hair tucked into a bandana. She was as big and beefy as a rugby player, with a permanent scowl on her face, but she spoke gently to Silena.
    “Come on, girl,” she said. “Let’s get to the Big House. I’ll make you some hot chocolate.”
    Everyone turned and wandered off in twos and threes, heading back to the cabins. Nobody was excited to see me now. Nobody wanted to hear about the blown-up ship.
    Only Annabeth and Chiron stayed behind.
    Annabeth wiped a tear from her cheek. “I’m glad you’re not dead, Seaweed Brain.”
    “Thanks,” I said. “Me too.”
    Chiron put a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sure you did everything you could, Percy. Will you tell us what happened?”
    I didn’t want to go through it again, but I told them the story, including the dream of the Titans. I left out the detail about Nico. Nico had made me promise not to tell anybody about his plan until I made up my mind, and the plan was so scary I didn’t mind keeping it a secret.
    Chiron gazed down at the valley. “We must call a war council immediately, to discuss this spy, and other matters.”
    “Poseidon mentioned another threat,” I said. “Something even bigger than the Princess Andromeda . I thought it might be that challenge the Titan had mentioned in my dream.”
    Chiron and Annabeth exchanged looks, like they knew something I didn’t. I hated when they did that.
    “We will discuss that also,” Chiron promised.
    “One more thing.” I took a deep breath. “When I talked to my father, he said to tell you it’s time. I need to know the full prophecy.”
    Chiron’s shoulders sagged, but he didn’t look surprised. “I’ve dreaded this day. Very well. Annabeth, we will show Percy the truth—all of it. Let’s go to the attic.”
     
    * * *
     
    I’d been to the Big House attic three times before, which was three times more than I wanted to.
    A ladder led up from the top of the staircase. I wondered how Chiron was going to get up there, being half horse and all, but he didn’t try.
    “You know where it is,” he told Annabeth. “Bring it down, please.”
    Annabeth nodded. “Come on, Percy.”
    The sun was setting outside, so the attic was even darker and creepier than usual. Old hero trophies were stacked everywhere—dented shields, pickled heads in jars from various monsters, a pair of fuzzy dice on a bronze plaque that read: STOLEN FROM CHRYSAOR’S HONDA CIVIC, BY GUS, SON OF HERMES, 1988.
    I picked up a curved bronze sword so badly bent it looked like the letter M . I could still see green stains on