The Sea of Monsters

shook our hands as we stepped onto the dock. With the dazzling smile she gave us, you would’ve thought we’d just gotten off the Princess Andromeda rather than a banged-up rowboat.
    Then again, our rowboat wasn’t the weirdest ship in port. Along with a bunch of pleasure yachts, there was a U.S. Navy submarine, several dugout canoes, and an old-fashioned three-masted sailing ship. There was a helipad with a “Channel Five Fort Lauderdale” helicopter on it, and a short runway with a Learjet and a propeller plane that looked like a World War II fighter. Maybe they were replicas for tourists to look at or something.
    “Is this your first time with us?” the clipboard lady inquired. Annabeth and I exchanged looks. Annabeth said, “Umm . . .”
    “First—time—at—spa,” the lady said as she wrote on her clipboard. “Let’s see . . .”
    She looked us up and down critically. “Mmm. An herbal wrap to start for the young lady. And of course, a complete makeover for the young gentleman.”
    “A what?” I asked.
    She was too busy jotting down notes to answer.
    “Right!” She said with a breezy smile. “Well, I’m sure C.C. will want to speak with you personally before the luau. Come, please.”
    Now here’s the thing. Annabeth and I were used to traps, and usually those traps looked good at first. So I expected the clipboard lady to turn into a snake or a demon, or something, any minute. But on the other hand, we’d been floating in a rowboat for most of the day. I was hot, tired, and hungry, and when this lady mentioned a luau, my stomach sat up on its hind legs and begged like a dog.
    “I guess it couldn’t hurt,” Annabeth muttered.
    Of course it could, but we followed the lady anyway. I kept my hands in my pockets where I’d stashed my only magic defenses—Hermes’s multivitamins and Riptide— but the farther we wandered into the resort, the more I forgot about them.
    The place was amazing. There was white marble and blue water everywhere I looked. Terraces climbed up the side of the mountain, with swimming pools on every level, connected by waterslides and waterfalls and underwater tubes you could swim through. Fountains sprayed water into the air, forming impossible shapes, like flying eagles and galloping horses.
    Tyson loved horses, and I knew he’d love those fountains. I almost turned around to see the expression on his face before I remembered: Tyson was gone.
    “You okay?” Annabeth asked me. “You look pale.”
    “I’m okay,” I lied. “Just . . . let’s keep walking.”
    We passed all kinds of tame animals. A sea turtle napped in a stack of beach towels. A leopard stretched out asleep on the diving board. The resort guests—only young women, as far as I could see—lounged in deck chairs, drinking fruit smoothies or reading magazines while herbal gunk dried on their faces and manicurists in white uniforms did their nails.
    As we headed up a staircase toward what looked like the main building, I heard a woman singing. Her voice drifted through the air like a lullaby. Her words were in some language other than Ancient Greek, but just as old—Minoan, maybe, or something like that. I could understand what she sang about—moonlight in the olive groves, the colors of the sunrise. And magic. Something about magic. Her voice seemed to lift me off the steps and carry me toward her.
    We came into a big room where the whole front wall was windows. The back wall was covered in mirrors, so the room seemed to go on forever. There was a bunch of expensive-looking white furniture, and on a table in one corner was a large wire pet cage. The cage seemed out of place, but I didn’t think about it too much, because just then I saw the lady who’d been singing . . . and whoa.
    She sat at a loom the size of a big screen TV, her hands weaving colored thread back and forth with amazing skill.
    The tapestry shimmered like it was three dimensional—a waterfall scene so real I could see the water moving and clouds drifting across a fabric sky.
    Annabeth caught her breath. “It’s beautiful.”
    The woman turned. She was even prettier than her fabric. Her long dark hair was braided with threads of gold. She had piercing green eyes and she wore a silky black dress with shapes that seemed to move in the fabric: animal shadows, black upon black, like deer running through a forest at night.
    “You appreciate weaving, my dear?” the woman asked.
    “Oh, yes, ma’am!” Annabeth said. “My