The Lightning Thief

from now. Poseidon wants an apology for being called a thief by the same date. I hoped that diplomacy might prevail, that Hera or Demeter or Hestia would make the two brothers see sense. But your arrival has inflamed Zeus’s temper. Now neither god will back down. Unless someone intervenes, unless the master bolt is found and returned to Zeus before the solstice, there will be war. And do you know what a full-fledged war would look like, Percy?”
    “Bad?” I guessed.
    “Imagine the world in chaos. Nature at war with itself. Olympians forced to choose sides between Zeus and Poseidon. Destruction. Carnage. Millions dead. Western civilization turned into a battleground so big it will make the Trojan War look like a water-balloon fight.”
    “Bad,” I repeated.
    “And you, Percy Jackson, would be the first to feel Zeus’s wrath.”
    It started to rain. Volleyball players stopped their game and stared in stunned silence at the sky.
    I had brought this storm to Half-Blood Hill. Zeus was punishing the whole camp because of me. I was furious.
    “So I have to find the stupid bolt,” I said. “And return it to Zeus.”
    “What better peace offering,” Chiron said, “than to have the son of Poseidon return Zeus’s property?”
    “If Poseidon doesn’t have it, where is the thing?”
    “I believe I know.” Chiron’s expression was grim. “Part of a prophecy I had years ago . . . well, some of the lines make sense to me, now. But before I can say more, you must officially take up the quest. You must seek the counsel of the Oracle.”
    “Why can’t you tell me where the bolt is beforehand?”
    “Because if I did, you would be too afraid to accept the challenge.”
    I swallowed. “Good reason.”
    “You agree then?”
    I looked at Grover, who nodded encouragingly.
    Easy for him. I was the one Zeus wanted to kill.
    “All right,” I said. “It’s better than being turned into a dolphin.”
    “Then it’s time you consulted the Oracle,” Chiron said. “Go upstairs, Percy Jackson, to the attic. When you come back down, assuming you’re still sane, we will talk more.”
    Four flights up, the stairs ended under a green trapdoor.
    I pulled the cord. The door swung down, and a wooden ladder clattered into place.
    The warm air from above smelled like mildew and rotten wood and something else . . . a smell I remembered from biology class. Reptiles. The smell of snakes.
    I held my breath and climbed.
    The attic was filled with Greek hero junk: armor stands covered in cobwebs; once-bright shields pitted with rust; old leather steamer trunks plastered with stickers saying ITHAKA, CIRCE’S ISLE, and LAND OF THE AMAZONS. One long table was stacked with glass jars filled with pickled things —severed hairy claws, huge yellow eyes, various other parts of monsters. A dusty mounted trophy on the wall looked like a giant snake’s head, but with horns and a full set of shark’s teeth. The plaque read, HYDRA HEAD #1, WOODSTOCK, N.Y., 1969.
    By the window, sitting on a wooden tripod stool, was the most gruesome memento of all: a mummy. Not the wrapped-in-cloth kind, but a human female body shriveled to a husk. She wore a tie-dyed sundress, lots of beaded necklaces, and a headband over long black hair. The skin of her face was thin and leathery over her skull, and her eyes were glassy white slits, as if the real eyes had been replaced by marbles; she’d been dead a long, long time.
    Looking at her sent chills up my back. And that was before she sat up on her stool and opened her mouth. A green mist poured from the mummy’s mouth, coiling over the floor in thick tendrils, hissing like twenty thousand snakes. I stumbled over myself trying to get to the trapdoor, but it slammed shut. Inside my head, I heard a voice, slithering into one ear and coiling around my brain: I am the spirit of Delphi, speaker of the prophecies of Phoebus Apollo, slayer of the mighty Python. Approach, seeker, and ask.
    I wanted to say, No thanks, wrong door, just looking for the bath room. But I forced myself to take a deep breath.
    The mummy wasn’t alive. She was some kind of gruesome receptacle for something else, the power that was now swirling around me in the green mist. But its presence didn’t feel evil, like my demonic math teacher Mrs. Dodds or the Minotaur. It felt more like the Three Fates I’d seen knitting the yarn outside the highway fruit stand: ancient, powerful, and definitely not human. But not particularly interested in