The Lightning Thief

yelled.
    “Center him just right,” I said.
    The ropes readjusted themselves at my command. Crusty’s whole head stuck out the top. His feet stuck out the bottom.
    “No!” he said. “Wait! This is just a demo.”
    I uncapped Riptide. “A few simple adjustments . . .”
    I had no qualms about what I was about to do. If Crusty were human, I couldn’t hurt him anyway. If he was a monster, he deserved to turn into dust for a while.
    “You drive a hard bargain,” he told me. “I’ll give you thirty percent off on selected floor models!”
    “I think I’ll start with the top.” I raised my sword.
    “No money down! No interest for six months!”
    I swung the sword. Crusty stopped making offers.
    I cut the ropes on the other beds. Annabeth and Grover got to their feet, groaning and wincing and cursing me a lot.
    “You look taller,” I said.
    “Very funny,” Annabeth said. “Be faster next time.”
    I looked at the bulletin board behind Crusty’s sales desk. There was an advertisement for Hermes Delivery Service, and another for the All-New Compendium of L.A. Area Monsters—“The only Monstrous Yellow Pages you’ll ever need!” Under that, a bright orange flier for DOA Recording Studios, offering commissions for heroes’ souls. “We are always looking for new talent!” DOA’s address was right underneath with a map.
    “Come on,” I told my friends.
    “Give us a minute,” Grover complained. “We were almost stretched to death!”
    “Then you’re ready for the Underworld,” I said. “It’s only a block from here.”

ANNABETH DOES OBEDIENCE SCHOOL
    W e stood in the shadows of Valencia Boulevard, looking up at gold letters etched in black marble: DOA RECORDING STUDIOS.
    Underneath, stenciled on the glass doors: NO SOLICITORS. NO LOITERING. NO LIVING.
    It was almost midnight, but the lobby was brightly lit and full of people. Behind the security desk sat a tough-looking guard with sunglasses and an earpiece.
    I turned to my friends. “Okay. You remember the plan.”
    “The plan,” Grover gulped. “Yeah. I love the plan.”
    Annabeth said, “What happens if the plan doesn’t work?”
    “Don’t think negative.”
    “Right,” she said. “We’re entering the Land of the Dead, and I shouldn’t think negative.”
    I took the pearls out of my pocket, the three milky spheres the Nereid had given me in Santa Monica. They didn’t seem like much of a backup in case something went wrong.
    Annabeth put her hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Percy. You’re right, we’ll make it. It’ll be fine.”
    She gave Grover a nudge.
    “Oh, right!” he chimed in. “We got this far. We’ll find the master bolt and save your mom. No problem.”
    I looked at them both, and felt really grateful. Only a few minutes before, I’d almost gotten them stretched to death on deluxe water beds, and now they were trying to be brave for my sake, trying to make me feel better.
    I slipped the pearls back in my pocket. “Let’s whup some Underworld butt.”
    We walked inside the DOA lobby.
    Muzak played softly on hidden speakers. The carpet and walls were steel gray. Pencil cactuses grew in the corners like skeleton hands. The furniture was black leather, and every seat was taken. There were people sitting on couches, people standing up, people staring out the windows or waiting for the elevator. Nobody moved, or talked, or did much of anything. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see them all just fine, but if I focused on any one of them in particular, they started looking . . . transparent. I could see right through their bodies.
    The security guard’s desk was a raised podium, so we had to look up at him.
    He was tall and elegant, with chocolate-colored skin and bleached-blond hair shaved military style. He wore tortoiseshell shades and a silk Italian suit that matched his hair. A black rose was pinned to his lapel under a silver name tag.
    I read the name tag, then looked at him in bewilderment. “Your name is Chiron?”
    He leaned across the desk. I couldn’t see anything in his glasses except my own reflection, but his smile was sweet and cold, like a python’s, right before it eats you.
    “What a precious young lad.” He had a strange accent—British, maybe, but also as if he had learned English as a second language. “Tell me, mate, do I look like a centaur?”
    “N-no.”
    “Sir,” he added smoothly.
    “Sir,” I said.
    He pinched the name tag and ran his finger under the letters.