The Sea of Monsters

. . well . . .”
    “Poor Honeypie!” Polyphemus grinned. “Bad weaver. Ha-ha! Not to worry. That thread will solve problem.
    Finish wedding train by tomorrow!”
    “Isn’t that . . . thoughtful of you!”
    “Hehe.”
    “But—but, dear,” Grover gulped, “what if someone were to rescue—I mean attack this island?” Grover looked straight at me, and I knew he was asking for my benefit. “What would keep them from marching right up here to your cave?”
    “Wifey scared! So cute! Not to worry. Polyphemus has state-of-the-art security system. Have to get through my pets.”
    “Pets?”
    Grover looked across the island, but there was nothing to see except sheep grazing peacefully in the meadows.
    “And then,” Polyphemus growled, “they would have to get through me!”
    He pounded his fist against the nearest rock, which cracked and split in half. “Now, come!” he shouted. “Back to the cave.”
    Grover looked about ready to cry—so close to freedom, but so hopelessly far. Tears welled in his eyes as the boulder door rolled shut, sealing him once again in the stinky torch-lit dankness of the Cyclops’s cave.
    I woke to alarm bells ringing throughout the ship.
    The captain’s gravelly voice: “All hands on deck! Find Lady Clarisse! Where is that girl?”
    Then his ghostly face appeared above me. “Get up, Yankee. Your friends are already above. We are approaching the entrance.”
    “The entrance to what?”
    He gave me a skeletal smile. “The Sea of Monsters, of course.”
    I stuffed my few belongings that had survived the Hydra into a sailor’s canvas knapsack and slung it over my shoulder. I had a sneaking suspicion that one way or another I would not be spending another night aboard the CSS Birmingham .
    I was on my way upstairs when something made me freeze. A presence nearby—something familiar and unpleasant. For no particular reason, I felt like picking a fight. I wanted to punch a dead Confederate. The last time I’d felt like that kind of anger . . .
    Instead of going up, I crept to the edge of the ventilation grate and peered down into the boiler deck.
    Clarisse was standing right below me, talking to an image that shimmered in the steam from the boilers—a muscular man in black leather biker clothes, with a military haircut, red-tinted sunglasses, and a knife strapped to his side.
    My fists clenched. It was my least favorite Olympian: Ares, the god of war.
    “I don’t want excuses, little girl!” he growled.
    “Y-yes, father,” Clarisse mumbled.
    “You don’t want to see me mad, do you?”
    “No, father.”
    “ No, father ,” Ares mimicked. “You’re pathetic. I should’ve let one of my sons take this quest.”
    “I’ll succeed!” Clarisse promised, her voice trembling. “I’ll make you proud.”
    “You’d better,” he warned. “You asked me for this quest, girl. If you let that slimeball Jackson kid steal it from you—”
    “But the Oracle said—”
    “I DON’T CARE WHAT IT SAID!” Ares bellowed with such force that his image shimmered. “You will succeed. And if you don’t . . .”
    He raised his fist. Even though he was only a figure in the steam, Clarisse flinched.
    “Do we understand each other?” Ares growled.
    The alarm bells rang again. I heard voices coming toward me, officers yelling orders to ready the cannons.
    I crept back from the ventilation grate and made my way upstairs to join Annabeth and Tyson on the spar deck.
    “What’s wrong?” Annabeth asked me. “Another dream?”
    I nodded, but I didn’t say anything. I didn’t know what to think about what I’d seen downstairs. It bothered me almost as much as the dream about Grover.
    Clarisse came up the stairs right after me. I tried not to look at her.
    She grabbed a pair of binoculars from a zombie officer and peered toward the horizon. “At last. Captain, full steam ahead!”
    I looked in the same direction as she was, but I couldn’t see much. The sky was overcast. The air was hazy and humid, like steam from an iron. If I squinted real hard, I could just make out a couple of dark fuzzy splotches in the distance.
    My nautical senses told me we were somewhere off the coast of northern Florida, so we’d come a long way overnight, farther than any mortal ship should’ve been able to travel.
    The engine groaned as we increased speed.
    Tyson muttered nervously, “Too much strain on the pistons. Not meant for deep water.”
    I wasn’t sure how he knew that, but it made me