The Last Olympian

using abandoned ships as our targets. I knew how little time we would have. But I also knew this was our best chance to end Kronos’s invasion before it ever started.
    “Blackjack,” I said, “set us down on the lowest stern deck.”
    Gotcha, boss , he said. Man, I hate seeing that boat.
    Three years ago, Blackjack had been enslaved on the Princess Andromeda until he’d escaped with a little help from my friends and me. I figured he’d rather have his mane braided like My Little Pony than be back here again.
    “Don’t wait for us,” I told him.
    But, boss—
    “Trust me,” I said. “We’ll get out by ourselves.”
    Blackjack folded his wings and plummeted toward the boat like a black comet. The wind whistled in my ears. I saw monsters patrolling the upper decks of the ship— dracaenae snake-women, hellhounds, giants, and the humanoid seal-demons known as telkhines—but we zipped by so fast, none of them raised the alarm. We shot down the stern of the boat, and Blackjack spread his wings, lightly coming to a landing on the lowest deck. I climbed off, feeling queasy.
    Good luck, boss , Blackjack said. Don’t let ’em turn you into horse meat!
    With that, my old friend flew off into the night. I took my pen out of my pocket, uncapped it, and Riptide sprang to full size—three feet of deadly Celestial bronze glowing in the dusk.
    Beckendorf pulled a piece of paper of out his pocket. I thought it was a map or something. Then I realized it was a photograph. He stared at it in the dim light—the smiling face of Silena Beauregard, daughter of Aphrodite. They’d started going out last summer, after years of the rest of us saying, “Duh, you guys like each other!” Even with all the dangerous missions, Beckendorf had been happier this summer than I’d ever seen him.
    “We’ll make it back to camp,” I promised.
    For a second I saw worry in his eyes. Then he put on his old confident smile.
    “You bet,” he said. “Let’s go blow Kronos back into a million pieces.”
    Beckendorf led the way. We followed a narrow corridor to the service stairwell, just like we’d practiced, but we froze when we heard noises above us.
    “I don’t care what your nose says!” snarled a half-human, half-dog voice—a telkhine. “The last time you smelled half-blood, it turned out to be a meat loaf sandwich!”
    “Meat loaf sandwiches are good!” a second voice snarled. “But this is half-blood scent, I swear. They are on board!”
    “Bah, your brain isn’t on board!”
    They continued to argue, and Beckendorf pointed downstairs. We descended as quietly as we could. Two floors down, the voices of the telkhines started to fade.
    Finally we came to a metal hatch. Beckendorf mouthed the words engine room .
    It was locked, but Beckendorf pulled some chain cutters out of his bag and split the bolt like it was made of butter.
    Inside, a row of yellow turbines the size of grain silos churned and hummed. Pressure gauges and computer terminals lined the opposite wall. A telkhine was hunched over a console, but he was so involved with his work, he didn’t notice us. He was about five feet tall, with slick black seal fur and stubby little feet. He had the head of a Doberman, but his clawed hands were almost human. He growled and muttered as he tapped on his keyboard. Maybe he was messaging his friends on uglyface.com.
    I stepped forward, and he tensed, probably smelling something was wrong. He leaped sideways toward a big red alarm button, but I blocked his path. He hissed and lunged at me, but one slice of Riptide, and he exploded into dust.
    “One down,” Beckendorf said. “About five thousand to go.” He tossed me a jar of thick green liquid—Greek fire, one of the most dangerous magical substances in the world.
    Then he threw me another essential tool of demigod heroes—duct tape.
    “Slap that one on the console,” he said. “I’ll get the turbines.”
    We went to work. The room was hot and humid, and in no time we were drenched in sweat.
    The boat kept chugging along. Being the son of Poseidon and all, I have perfect bearings at sea. Don’t ask me how, but I could tell we were at 40.19° North, 71.90° West, making eighteen knots, which meant the ship would arrive in New York Harbor by dawn. This would be our only chance to stop it.
    I had just attached a second jar of Greek fire to the control panels when I heard the pounding of feet on metal steps—so many creatures coming down the stairwell I could