The Sea of Monsters

again!” another said.
    Clarisse glared at me. “I accept the quest!” she repeated. “I, Clarisse, daughter of Ares, will save the camp!”
    The Ares campers cheered even louder. Annabeth protested, and the other Athena campers joined in. Everybody else started taking sides—shouting and arguing and throwing marshmallows. I thought it was going to turn into a full-fledged s’more war until Tantalus shouted, “Silence, you brats!”
    His tone stunned even me.
    “Sit down!” he ordered. “And I will tell you a ghost story.”
    I didn’t know what he was up to, but we all moved reluctantly back to our seats. The evil aura radiating from Tantalus was as strong as any monster I’d ever faced.
    “Once upon a time there was a mortal king who was beloved of the Gods!” Tantalus put his hand on his chest, and I got the feeling he was talking about himself.
    “This king,” he said, “was even allowed to feast on Mount Olympus. But when he tried to take some ambrosia and nectar back to earth to figure out the recipe—just one little doggie bag, mind you—the gods punished him. They banned him from their halls forever! His own people mocked him! His children scolded him! And, oh yes, campers, he had horrible children. Children—just—like— you!”
    He pointed a crooked finger at several people in the audience, including me.
    “Do you know what he did to his ungrateful children?” Tantalus asked softly. “Do you know how he paid back the gods for their cruel punishment? He invited the Olympians to a feast at his palace, just to show there were no hard feelings. No one noticed that his children were missing. And when he served the gods dinner, my dear campers, can you guess what was in the stew?”
    No one dared answer. The firelight glowed dark blue, reflecting evilly on Tantalus’s crooked face.
    “Oh, the gods punished him in the afterlife,” Tantalus croaked. “They did indeed. But he’d had his moment of satisfaction, hadn’t he? His children never again spoke back to him or questioned his authority. And do you know what? Rumor has it that the king’s spirit now dwells at this very camp, waiting for a chance to take revenge on ungrateful, rebellious children. And so . . . are there any more complaints, before we send Clarisse off on her quest?”
    Silence.
    Tantalus nodded at Clarisse. “The Oracle, my dear. Go on.”
    She shifted uncomfortably, like even she didn’t want glory at the price of being Tantalus’s pet. “Sir—”
    “Go!” he snarled.
    She bowed awkwardly and hurried off toward the Big House.
    “What about you, Percy Jackson?” Tantalus asked. “No comments from our dishwasher?”
    I didn’t say anything. I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of punishing me again.
    “Good,” Tantalus said. “And let me remind everyone— no one leaves this camp without my permission. Anyone who tries . . . well, if they survive the attempt, they will be expelled forever, but it won’t come to that. The harpies will be enforcing curfew from now on, and they are always hungry! Good night, my dear campers. Sleep well.”
    With a wave of Tantalus’s hand, the fire was extinguished, and the campers trailed off toward their cabins in the dark.
    I couldn’t explain things to Tyson. He knew I was sad. He knew I wanted to go on a trip and Tantalus wouldn’t let me.
    “You will go anyway?” he asked.
    “I don’t know,” I admitted. “It would be hard. Very hard.”
    “I will help.”
    “No. I—uh, I couldn’t ask you to do that, big guy. Too dangerous.”
    Tyson looked down at the pieces of metal he was assembling in his lap—springs and gears and tiny wires. Beckendorf had given him some tools and spare parts, and now Tyson spent every night tinkering, though I wasn’t sure how his huge hands could handle such delicate little pieces.
    “What are you building?” I asked.
    Tyson didn’t answer. Instead he made a whimpering sound in the back of his throat. “Annabeth doesn’t like Cyclopes. You . . . don’t want me along?”
    “Oh, that’s not it,” I said halfheartedly. “Annabeth likes you. Really.”
    He had tears in the corners of his eye.
    I remembered that Grover, like all satyrs, could read human emotions. I wondered if Cyclopes had the same ability.
    Tyson folded up his tinkering project in an oilcloth. He lay down on his bunk bed and hugged his bundle like a teddy bear. When he turned toward the wall, I could see the weird scars on his back, like