The Last Olympian

head.
    “Everyone thinks I’m Demeter!” she complained. “I’m Pompona, the Roman Goddess of Plenty, but why should you care? Nobody cares about the minor gods. If you cared about the minor gods, you wouldn’t be losing this war! Three cheers for Morpheus and Hecate, I say!”
    “Watch the bike,” I told her.
    Pompona cursed in Latin and threw more fruit as Will and I ran toward the hotel.
    I’d never actually been inside the Plaza. The lobby was impressive with the crystal chandeliers and the passed-out rich people, but I didn’t pay much attention. A couple of Hunters gave us directions to the elevators, and we rode up to the penthouse suites.
    Demigods had completely taken over the top floors. Campers and Hunters were crashed out on sofas, washing up in the bathrooms, ripping silk draperies to bandage their wounds, and helping themselves to snacks and sodas from the minibars. A couple of timber wolves were drinking out of the toilets. I was relieved to see that so many of my friends had made it through the night alive, but everybody looked beat up.
    “Percy!” Jake Mason clapped me on the shoulder. “We’re getting reports—”
    “Later,” I said. “Where’s Annabeth?”
    “The terrace. She’s alive, man, but . . .”
    I pushed past him.
    Under different circumstances I would’ve loved the view from the terrace. It looked straight down onto Central Park. The morning was clear and bright—perfect for a picnic or a hike, or pretty much anything except fighting monsters.
    Annabeth lay on a lounge chair. Her face was pale and beaded with sweat. Even though she was covered in blankets, she shivered. Silena Beauregard was wiping her forehead with a cool cloth.
    Will and I pushed through a crowd of Athena kids. Will unwrapped Annabeth’s bandages to examine the wound, and I wanted to faint. The bleeding had stopped but the gash looked deep. The skin around the cut was a horrible shade of green.
    “Annabeth . . .” I choked up. She’d taken that knife for me. How could I have let that happen?
    “Poison on the dagger,” she mumbled. “Pretty stupid of me, huh?”
    Will Solace exhaled with relief. “It’s not so bad, Annabeth. A few more minutes and we would’ve been in trouble, but the venom hasn’t gotten past the shoulder yet. Just lie still. Somebody hand me some nectar.”
    I grabbed a canteen. Will cleaned out the wound with the godly drink while I held Annabeth’s hand.
    “Ow,” she said. “Ow, ow!” She gripped my fingers so tight they turned purple, but she stayed still, like Will asked. Silena muttered words of encouragement. Will put some silver paste over the wound and hummed words in Ancient Greek—a hymn to Apollo. Then he applied fresh bandages and stood up shakily.
    The healing must’ve taken a lot of his energy. He looked almost as pale as Annabeth.
    “That should do it,” he said. “But we’re going to need some mortal supplies.”
    He grabbed a piece of hotel stationery, jotted down some notes, and handed it to one of the Athena guys. “There’s a Duane Reade on Fifth. Normally I would never steal—”
    “I would,” Travis volunteered.
    Will glared at him. “Leave cash or drachmas to pay, whatever you’ve got, but this is an emergency. I’ve got a feeling we’re going to have a lot more people to treat.”
    Nobody disagreed. There was hardly a single demigod who hadn’t already been wounded . . . except me.
    “Come on, guys,” Travis Stoll said. “Let’s give Annabeth some space. We’ve got a drugstore to raid . . . I mean, visit.”
    The demigods shuffled back inside. Jake Mason grabbed my shoulder as he was leaving. “We’ll talk later, but it’s under control. I’m using Annabeth’s shield to keep an eye on things. The enemy withdrew at sunrise; not sure why. We’ve got a lookout at each bridge and tunnel.”
    “Thanks, man,” I said.
    He nodded. “Just take your time.”
    He closed the terrace doors behind him, leaving Silena, Annabeth, and me alone.
    Silena pressed a cool cloth to Annabeth’s forehead. “This is all my fault.”
    “No,” Annabeth said weakly. “Silena, how is it your fault?”
    “I’ve never been any good at camp,” she murmured. “Not like you or Percy. If I was a better fighter . . .”
    Her mouth trembled. Ever since Beckendorf died she’d been getting worse, and every time I looked at her, it made me angry about his death all over again. Her expression reminded me of glass—like she might break any