The Lightning Thief

court?”
    She nodded. “It has been many years since a child of the Sea God has been born. We have watched you with great interest.”
    Suddenly I remembered faces in the waves off Montauk Beach when I was a little boy, reflections of smiling women. Like so many of the weird things in my life, I’d never given it much thought before.
    “If my father is so interested in me,” I said, “why isn’t he here? Why doesn’t he speak to me?”
    A cold current rose out of the depths.
    “Do not judge the Lord of the Sea too harshly,” the Nereid told me. “He stands at the brink of an unwanted war. He has much to occupy his time. Besides, he is forbidden to help you directly. The gods may not show such favoritism.”
    “Even to their own children?”
    “Especially to them. The gods can work by indirect influence only. That is why I give you a warning, and a gift.”
    She held out her hand. Three white pearls flashed in her palm.
    “I know you journey to Hades’s realm,” she said. “Few mortals have ever done this and survived: Orpheus, who had great music skill; Hercules, who had great strength; Houdini, who could escape even the depths of Tartarus. Do you have these talents?”
    “Um . . . no, ma’am.”
    “Ah, but you have something else, Percy. You have gifts you have only begun to know. The oracles have foretold a great and terrible future for you, should you survive to manhood. Poseidon would not have you die before your time. Therefore take these, and when you are in need, smash a pearl at your feet.”
    “What will happen?”
    “That,” she said, “depends on the need. But remember: what belongs to the sea will always return to the sea.”
    “What about the warning?”
    Her eyes flickered with green light. “Go with what your heart tells you, or you will lose all. Hades feeds on doubt and hopelessness. He will trick you if he can, make you mistrust your own judgment. Once you are in his realm, he will never willingly let you leave. Keep faith. Good luck, Percy Jackson.”
    She summoned her sea horse and rode toward the void.
    “Wait!” I called. “At the river, you said not to trust the gifts. What gifts?”
    “Good-bye, young hero,” she called back, her voice fading into the depths. “You must listen to your heart.” She became a speck of glowing green, and then she was gone.
    I wanted to follow her down into the darkness. I wanted to see the court of Poseidon. But I looked up at the sunset darkening on the surface. My friends were waiting. We had so little time. . . .
    I kicked upward toward the shore.
    When I reached the beach, my clothes dried instantly. I told Grover and Annabeth what had happened, and showed them the pearls.
    Annabeth grimaced. “No gift comes without a price.”
    “They were free.”
    “No.” She shook her head. “‘There is no such thing as a free lunch.’ That’s an ancient Greek saying that translated pretty well into American. There will be a price. You wait.”
    On that happy thought, we turned our backs on the sea.
    With some spare change from Ares’s backpack, we took the bus into West Hollywood. I showed the driver the Underworld address slip I’d taken from Aunty Em’s Garden Gnome Emporium, but he’d never heard of DOA Recording Studios.
    “You remind me of somebody I saw on TV,” he told me. “You a child actor or something?”
    “Uh . . . I’m a stunt double . . . for a lot of child actors.”
    “Oh! That explains it.”
    We thanked him and got off quickly at the next stop.
    We wandered for miles on foot, looking for DOA. Nobody seemed to know where it was. It didn’t appear in the phone book.
    Twice, we ducked into alleys to avoid cop cars.
    I froze in front of an appliance-store window because a television was playing an interview with somebody who looked very familiar—my stepdad, Smelly Gabe. He was talking to Barbara Walters—I mean, as if he were some kind of huge celebrity. She was interviewing him in our apartment, in the middle of a poker game, and there was a young blond lady sitting next to him, patting his hand.
    A fake tear glistened on his cheek. He was saying, “Honest, Ms. Walters, if it wasn’t for Sugar here, my grief counselor, I’d be a wreck. My stepson took everything I cared about. My wife . . . my Camaro . . . I—I’m sorry. I have trouble talking about it.”
    “There you have it, America.” Barbara Walters turned to the camera. “A man torn apart. An adolescent boy with serious issues. Let me