The Sea of Monsters

Pan! The satyrs come here thinking they’ve found Pan, and they get trapped and eaten by Polyphemus!”
    “Poly-who?”
    “The Cyclops!” Grover said, exasperated. “I almost got away. I made it all the way to St. Augustine.”
    “But he followed you,” I said, remembering my first dream. “And trapped you in a bridal boutique.”
    “That’s right,” Grover said. “My first empathy link must’ve worked then. Look, this bridal dress is the only thing keeping me alive. He thinks I smell good, but I told him it was just goat-scented perfume. Thank goodness he can’t see very well. His eye is still half blind from the last time somebody poked it out. But soon he’ll realize what I am. He’s only giving me two weeks to finish the bridal train, and he’s getting impatient!”
    “Wait a minute. This Cyclops thinks you’re—”
    “Yes!” Grover wailed. “He thinks I’m a lady Cyclops and he wants to marry me!”
    Under different circumstances, I might’ve busted out laughing, but Grover’s voice was deadly serious. He was shaking with fear.
    “I’ll come rescue you,” I promised. “Where are you?”
    “The Sea of Monsters, of course!”
    “The sea of what ?”
    “I told you! I don’t know exactly where! And look, Percy . . . um, I’m really sorry about this, but this empathy link . . . well, I had no choice. Our emotions are connected now. If I die . . .”
    “Don’t tell me, I’ll die too.”
    “Oh, well, perhaps not. You might live for years in a vegetative state. But, uh, it would be a lot better if you got me out of here.”
    “Honeypie!” the monster bellowed. “Dinnertime! Yummy yummy sheep meat!”
    Grover whimpered. “I have to go. Hurry!”
    “Wait! You said ‘it’ was here. What?”
    But Grover’s voice was already growing fainter. “Sweet dreams. Don’t let me die!”
    The dream faded and I woke with a start. It was early morning. Tyson was staring down at me, his one big brown eye full of concern.
    “Are you okay?” he asked.
    His voice sent a chill down my back, because he sounded almost exactly like the monster I’d heard in my dream.
    The morning of the race was hot and humid. Fog lay low on the ground like sauna steam. Millions of birds were roosting in the trees—fat gray-and-white pigeons, except they didn’t coo like regular pigeons. They made this annoying metallic screeching sound that reminded me of submarine radar.
    The racetrack had been built in a grassy field between the archery range and the woods. Hephaestus’s cabin had used the bronze bulls, which were completely tame since they’d had their heads smashed in, to plow an oval track in a matter of minutes.
    There were rows of stone steps for the spectators— Tantalus, the satyrs, a few dryads, and all of the campers who weren’t participating. Mr. D didn’t show. He never got up before ten o’clock.
    “Right!” Tantalus announced as the teams began to assemble. A naiad had brought him a big platter of pastries, and as Tantalus spoke, his right hand chased a chocolate éclair across the judge’s table. “You all know the rules. A quarter-mile track. Twice around to win. Two horses per chariot. Each team will consist of a driver and a fighter. Weapons are allowed. Dirty tricks are expected. But try not to kill anybody!” Tantalus smiled at us like we were all naughty children. “Any killing will result in harsh punishment. No s’mores at the campfire for a week! Now ready your chariots!”
    Beckendorf led the Hephaestus team onto the track. They had a sweet ride made of bronze and iron—even the horses, which were magical automatons like the Colchis bulls. I had no doubt that their chariot had all kinds of mechanical traps and more fancy options than a fully loaded Maserati.
    The Ares chariot was bloodred, and pulled by two grisly horse skeletons. Clarisse climbed aboard with a batch of javelins, spiked balls, caltrops, and a bunch of other nasty toys.
    Apollo’s chariot was trim and graceful and completely gold, pulled by two beautiful palominos. Their fighter was armed with a bow, though he had promised not to shoot regular pointed arrows at the opposing drivers.
    Hermes’s chariot was green and kind of old-looking, as if it hadn’t been out of the garage in years. It didn’t look like anything special, but it was manned by the Stoll brothers, and I shuddered to think what dirty tricks they’d schemed up.
    That left two chariots: one driven by Annabeth, and the other by