The Last Olympian

lone Cyclops swept the street with an uprooted oak tree. A minor godling spotted us from a balcony and ducked inside, closing his shutters.
    We passed under a big marble archway with statues of Zeus and Hera on either side. Annabeth made a face at the queen of the gods.
    “Hate her,” she muttered.
    “Has she been cursing you or something?” I asked. Last year Annabeth had gotten on Hera’s bad side, but Annabeth hadn’t really talked about it since.
    “Just little stuff so far,” she said. “Her sacred animal is the cow, right?”
    “Right.”
    “So she sends cows after me.”
    I tried not to smile. “Cows? In San Francisco?”
    “Oh, yeah. Usually I don’t see them, but the cows leave me little presents all over the place—in our backyard, on the sidewalk, in the school hallways. I have to be careful where I step.”
    “Look!” Pollux cried, pointing toward the horizon. “What is that ?”
    We all froze. Blue lights were streaking across the evening sky toward Olympus like tiny comets. They seemed to be coming from all over the city, heading straight toward the mountain. As they got close, they fizzled out. We watched them for several minutes and they didn’t seem to do any damage, but still it was strange.
    “Like infrared scopes,” Michael Yew muttered. “We’re being targeted.”
    “Let’s get to the palace,” I said.
    No one was guarding the hall of the gods. The gold-and-silver doors stood wide open. Our footsteps echoed as we walked into the throne room.
    Of course, “room” doesn’t really cover it. The place was the size of Madison Square Garden. High above, the blue ceiling glittered with constellations. Twelve giant empty thrones stood in a U around a hearth. In one corner, a house-size globe of water hovered in the air, and inside swam my old friend the Ophiotaurus, half-cow, half-serpent.
    “Moooo!” he said happily, turning in a circle.
    Despite all the serious stuff going on, I had to smile.
    Two years ago we’d spent a lot of time trying to save the Ophiotaurus from the Titans, and I’d gotten kind of fond of him. He seemed to like me too, even though I’d originally thought he was a girl and named him Bessie.
    “Hey, man,” I said. “They treating you okay?”
    “Mooo,” Bessie agreed.
    We walked toward the thrones, and a woman’s voice said, “Hello again, Percy Jackson. You and your friends are welcome.”
    Hestia stood by the hearth, poking the flames with a stick. She wore the same kind of simple brown dress as she had done before, but she was a grown woman now.
    I bowed. “Lady Hestia.”
    My friends followed my example.
    Hestia regarded me with her red glowing eyes. “I see you went through with your plan. You bear the curse of Achilles.”
    The other campers started muttering among themselves: What did she say? What about Achilles?
    “You must be careful,” Hestia warned me. “You gained much on your journey. But you are still blind to the most important truth. Perhaps a glimpse is in order.”
    Annabeth nudged me. “Um . . . what is she talking about?”
    I stared into Hestia’s eyes, and an image rushed into my mind: I saw a dark alley between red brick warehouses. A sign above one of the doors read RICHMOND IRON WORKS.
    Two half-bloods crouched in the shadows—a boy about fourteen and a girl about twelve. I realized with a start that the boy was Luke. The girl was Thalia, daughter of Zeus. I was seeing a scene from back in the days when they were on the run, before Grover found them.
    Luke carried a bronze knife. Thalia had her spear and shield of terror, Aegis. Luke and Thalia both looked hungry and lean, with wild animal eyes, like they were used to being attacked.
    “Are you sure?” Thalia asked.
    Luke nodded. “Something down here. I sense it.”
    A rumble echoed from the alley, like someone had banged on a sheet of metal. The half-bloods crept forward.
    Old crates were stacked on a loading dock. Thalia and Luke approached with their weapons ready. A curtain of corrugated tin quivered as if something were behind it.
    Thalia glanced at Luke. He counted silently: One, two, three! He ripped away the tin, and a little girl flew at him with a hammer.
    “Whoa!” Luke said.
    The girl had tangled blond hair and was wearing flannel pajamas. She couldn’t have been more than seven, but she would’ve brained Luke if he hadn’t been so fast.
    He grabbed her wrist, and the hammer skittered across the cement.
    The little girl fought and