The Last Olympian

friends in such bad shape, but that sow was the biggest threat. It would destroy everything: buildings, trees, sleeping mortals. It had to be stopped.
    “Retreat if you need to,” I said. “Just slow them down. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
    Before I could change my mind, I swung the grappling hook like a lasso. When the sow came down for its next pass, I threw with all my strength. The hook wrapped around the base of the pig’s wing. It squealed in rage and veered off, yanking the rope and me into the sky.
    If you’re heading downtown from Central Park, my advice is to take the subway. Flying pigs are faster, but way more dangerous.
    The sow soared past the Plaza Hotel, straight into the canyon of Fifth Avenue. My brilliant plan was to climb the rope and get on the pig’s back. Unfortunately I was too busy swinging around dodging streetlamps and the sides of buildings.
    Another thing I learned: it’s one thing to climb a rope in gym glass. It’s a completely different thing to climb a rope attached to a moving pig’s wing while you’re flying at a hundred miles an hour.
    We zigzagged along several blocks and continued south on Park Avenue.
    Boss! Hey, boss! Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Blackjack speeding along next to us, darting back and forth to avoid the pig’s wings.
    “Watch out!” I told him.
    Hop on! Blackjack whinnied. I can catch you . . . probably.
    That wasn’t very reassuring. Grand Central Terminal lay dead ahead. Above the main entrance stood the giant statue of Hermes, which I guess hadn’t been activated because it was so high up. I was flying right toward him at the speed of demigod-smashing.
    “Stay alert!” I told Blackjack. “I’ve got an idea.”
    Oh, I hate your ideas.
    I swung outward with all my might. Instead of smashing into the Hermes statue, I whipped around it, circling the rope under its arms. I thought this would tether the pig, but I’d underestimated the momentum of a thirty-ton sow in flight. Just as the pig wrenched the statue loose from its pedestal, I let go. Hermes went for a ride, taking my place as the pig’s passenger, and I free-fell toward the street.
    In that split second I thought about the days when my mom used to work at the Grand Central Terminal candy shop. I thought how bad it would be if I ended up as a grease spot on the pavement.
    Then a shadow swooped under me, and thump —I was on Blackjack’s back. It wasn’t the most comfortable landing. In fact, when I yelled “OW!” my voice was an octave higher than usual.
    Sorry, boss, Blackjack murmured.
    “No problem,” I squeaked. “Follow that pig!”
    The porker had taken a right at East 42nd and was flying back toward Fifth Avenue. When it flew above the rooftops, I could see fires here and there around the city. It looked like my friends were having a rough time. Kronos was attacking on several fronts. But at the moment, I had my own problems.
    The Hermes statue was still on its leash. It kept bonking into buildings and spinning around. The pig swooped over an office building, and Hermes plowed into a water tower on the roof, blasting water and wood everywhere.
    Then something occurred to me.
    “Get closer,” I told Blackjack.
    He whinnied in protest.
    “Just within shouting distance,” I said. “I need to talk to the statue.”
    Now I’m sure you’ve lost it, boss , Blackjack said, but he did what I asked. When I was close enough to see the statue’s face clearly, I yelled, “Hello, Hermes! Command sequence: Daedalus Twenty-three. Kill Flying Pigs! Begin Activation!”
    Immediately the statue moved its legs. It seemed confused to find that it was no longer on top of Grand Central Terminal. It was, instead, being given a sky-ride on the end of a rope by a large winged sow. It smashed through the side of a brick building, which I think made it a little mad. It shook its head and began to climb the rope.
    I glanced down at the street. We were coming up on the main public library, with the big marble lions flanking the steps. Suddenly I had a weird thought: Could stone statues be automatons too? It seemed like a long shot, but . . .
    “Faster!” I told Blackjack. “Get in front of the pig. Taunt him!”
    Um, boss—
    “Trust me,” I said. “I can do this . . . probably.”
    Oh, sure. Mock the horse.
    Blackjack burst through the air. He could fly pretty darned fast when we wanted to. He got in front of the pig, which now had a metal Hermes on its back.
    Blackjack