The Lightning Thief

school cafeteria delicacy—enchiladas.
    “What is it?” I asked.
    “I don’t know,” he said tensely. “Maybe it’s nothing.”
    But I could tell it wasn’t nothing. I started looking over my shoulder, too.
    I was relieved when we finally got on board and found seats together in the back of the bus. We stowed our backpacks. Annabeth kept slapping her Yankees cap nervously against her thigh.
    As the last passengers got on, Annabeth clamped her hand onto my knee. “Percy.”
    An old lady had just boarded the bus. She wore a crumpled velvet dress, lace gloves, and a shapeless orange-knit hat that shadowed her face, and she carried a big paisley purse. When she tilted her head up, her black eyes glittered, and my heart skipped a beat.
    It was Mrs. Dodds. Older, more withered, but definitely the same evil face.
    I scrunched down in my seat.
    Behind her came two more old ladies: one in a green hat, one in a purple hat. Otherwise they looked exactly like Mrs. Dodds—same gnarled hands, paisley handbags, wrinkled velvet dresses. Triplet demon grandmothers.
    They sat in the front row, right behind the driver. The two on the aisle crossed their legs over the walkway, making an X. It was casual enough, but it sent a clear message: nobody leaves.
    The bus pulled out of the station, and we headed through the slick streets of Manhattan. “She didn’t stay dead long,” I said, trying to keep my voice from quivering. “I thought you said they could be dispelled for a lifetime.”
    “I said if you’re lucky ,” Annabeth said. “You’re obviously not.”
    “All three of them,” Grover whimpered. “Di immortales!”
    “It’s okay,” Annabeth said, obviously thinking hard. “The Furies. The three worst monsters from the Underworld. No problem. No problem. We’ll just slip out the windows.”
    “They don’t open,” Grover moaned.
    “A back exit?” she suggested.
    There wasn’t one. Even if there had been, it wouldn’t have helped. By that time, we were on Ninth Avenue, heading for the Lincoln Tunnel.
    “They won’t attack us with witnesses around,” I said. “Will they?”
    “Mortals don’t have good eyes,” Annabeth reminded me. “Their brains can only process what they see through the Mist.”
    “They’ll see three old ladies killing us, won’t they?”
    She thought about it. “Hard to say. But we can’t count on mortals for help. Maybe an emergency exit in the roof . . . ?”
    We hit the Lincoln Tunnel, and the bus went dark except for the running lights down the aisle. It was eerily quiet without the sound of the rain.
    Mrs. Dodds got up. In a flat voice, as if she’d rehearsed it, she announced to the whole bus: “I need to use the rest-room.”
    “So do I,” said the second sister.
    “So do I,” said the third sister.
    They all started coming down the aisle.
    “I’ve got it,” Annabeth said. “Percy, take my hat.”
    “What?”
    “You’re the one they want. Turn invisible and go up the aisle. Let them pass you. Maybe you can get to the front and get away.”
    “But you guys—”
    “There’s an outside chance they might not notice us,” Annabeth said. “You’re a son of one of the Big Three. Your smell might be overpowering.”
    “I can’t just leave you.”
    “Don’t worry about us,” Grover said. “Go!”
    My hands trembled. I felt like a coward, but I took the Yankees cap and put it on.
    When I looked down, my body wasn’t there anymore.
    I started creeping up the aisle. I managed to get up ten rows, then duck into an empty seat just as the Furies walked past.
    Mrs. Dodds stopped, sniffing, and looked straight at me. My heart was pounding.
    Apparently she didn’t see anything. She and her sisters kept going.
    I was free. I made it to the front of the bus. We were almost through the Lincoln Tunnel now. I was about to press the emergency stop button when I heard hideous wailing from the back row.
    The old ladies were not old ladies anymore. Their faces were still the same—I guess those couldn’t get any uglier— but their bodies had shriveled into leathery brown hag bodies with bat’s wings and hands and feet like gargoyle claws. Their handbags had turned into fiery whips.
    The Furies surrounded Grover and Annabeth, lashing their whips, hissing: “Where is it? Where?”
    The other people on the bus were screaming, cowering in their seats. They saw something , all right.
    “He’s not here!” Annabeth yelled. “He’s gone!”
    The Furies raised