The Lightning Thief

real answer. There was something else going on, something even more dangerous.
    The problem was: we were hurtling toward the Underworld at ninety-five miles an hour, betting that Hades had the master bolt. If we got there and found out we were wrong, we wouldn’t have time to correct ourselves. The solstice deadline would pass and war would begin.
    “The answer is in the Underworld,” Annabeth assured me. “You saw spirits of the dead, Percy. There’s only one place that could be. We’re doing the right thing.”
    She tried to boost our morale by suggesting clever strategies for getting into the Land of the Dead, but my heart wasn’t in it. There were just too many unknown factors. It was like cramming for a test without knowing the subject. And believe me, I’d done that enough times.
    The cab sped west. Every gust of wind through Death Valley sounded like a spirit of the dead. Every time the brakes hissed on an eighteen-wheeler, it reminded me of Echidna’s reptilian voice.
    At sunset, the taxi dropped us at the beach in Santa Monica. It looked exactly the way L.A. beaches do in the movies, only it smelled worse. There were carnival rides lining the Pier, palm trees lining the sidewalks, homeless guys sleeping in the sand dunes, and surfer dudes waiting for the perfect wave.
    Grover, Annabeth, and I walked down to the edge of the surf.
    “What now?” Annabeth asked.
    The Pacific was turning gold in the setting sun. I thought about how long it had been since I’d stood on the beach at Montauk, on the opposite side of the country, looking out at a different sea.
    How could there be a god who could control all that? What did my science teacher used to say—two-thirds of the earth’s surface was covered in water? How could I be the son of someone that powerful?
    I stepped into the surf.
    “Percy?” Annabeth said. “What are you doing?”
    I kept walking, up to my waist, then my chest.
    She called after me, “You know how polluted that water is? There’re all kinds of toxic—”
    That’s when my head went under.
    I held my breath at first. It’s difficult to intentionally inhale water. Finally I couldn’t stand it anymore. I gasped. Sure enough, I could breathe normally.
    I walked down into the shoals. I shouldn’t have been able to see through the murk, but somehow I could tell where everything was. I could sense the rolling texture of the bottom. I could make out sand-dollar colonies dotting the sandbars. I could even see the currents, warm and cold streams swirling together.
    I felt something rub against my leg. I looked down and almost shot out of the water like a ballistic missile. Sliding along beside me was a five-foot-long mako shark.
    But the thing wasn’t attacking. It was nuzzling me. Heeling like a dog. Tentatively, I touched its dorsal fin. It bucked a little, as if inviting me to hold tighter. I grabbed the fin with both hands. It took off, pulling me along. The shark carried me down into the darkness. It deposited me at the edge of the ocean proper, where the sand bank dropped off into a huge chasm. It was like standing on the rim of the Grand Canyon at midnight, not being able to see much, but knowing the void was right there.
    The surface shimmered maybe a hundred and fifty feet above. I knew I should’ve been crushed by the pressure. Then again, I shouldn’t have been able to breathe. I wondered if there was a limit to how deep I could go, if I could sink straight to the bottom of the Pacific.
    Then I saw something glimmering in the darkness below, growing bigger and brighter as it rose toward me. A woman’s voice, like my mother’s, called: “Percy Jackson.”
    As she got closer, her shape became clearer. She had flowing black hair, a dress made of green silk. Light flickered around her, and her eyes were so distractingly beautiful I hardly noticed the stallion-sized sea horse she was riding.
    She dismounted. The sea horse and the mako shark whisked off and started playing something that looked like tag. The underwater lady smiled at me. “You’ve come far, Percy Jackson. Well done.”
    I wasn’t quite sure what to do, so I bowed. “You’re the woman who spoke to me in the Mississippi River.”
    “Yes, child. I am a Nereid, a spirit of the sea. It was not easy to appear so far upriver, but the naiads, my freshwater cousins, helped sustain my life force. They honor Lord Poseidon, though they do not serve in his court.”
    “And . . . you serve in Poseidon’s