The Sea of Monsters

Coach Nunley had been dutifully reading his magazine, but just my luck—he chose that moment to look up when Sloan said his name. "Eh? Yeah. Mm-hmm."

The other adults turned toward me. I knew they would never believe me, even if I could tell them the truth.

I grabbed Riptide out of my ruined jeans, told Tyson, "Come on!" and jumped through the gaping hole in the side of the building.

THREE

WE HAIL THE TAXI

OF ETERNAL TORMENT

A

"Where'd you find him?" she demanded, pointing at Tyson.

Now, under different circumstances, I would've been really happy to see her. We'd made our peace last summer, despite the fact that her mom was Athena and didn't get along with my dad. I'd missed A

But I'd just been attacked by ca

"He's my friend," I told her.

"Is he homeless?"

"What does that have to do with anything? He can hear you, you know. Why don't you ask him?"

She looked surprised. "He can talk?"

"I talk," Tyson admitted. "You are pretty."

"Ah! Gross!" A

I couldn't believe she was being so rude. I examined Tyson's hands, which I was sure must've been badly scorched by the flaming dodge balls, but they looked fine—grimy and scarred, with dirty fingernails the size of potato chips—but they always looked like that. "Tyson," I said in disbelief. "Your hands aren't even burned."

"Of course not," A

Tyson seemed fascinated by A

"A

"Laistrygonians. The monsters in the gym. They're a race of giant ca

"Laistry—I can't even say that. What would you call them in English?"

She thought about it for a moment. "Canadians," she decided. "Now come on, we have to get out of here."

"The police'll be after me."

"That's the least of our problems," she said. "Have you been having the dreams?"

"The dreams… about Grover?"

Her face turned pale. "Grover? No, what about Grover?"

I told her my dream. "Why? What were you dreaming about?"

Her eyes looked stormy, like her mind was racing a million miles an hour.

"Camp," she said at last. "Big trouble at camp."

"My mom was saying the same thing! But what kind of trouble?"

"I don't know exactly. Something's wrong. We have to get there right away. Monsters have been chasing me all the way from Virginia, trying to stop me. Have you had a lot of attacks?"

I shook my head. "None all year… until today."

"None? But how…" Her eyes drifted to Tyson. "Oh."

"What do you mean, 'oh'?"

Tyson raised his hand like he was still in class. "Canadians in the gym called Percy something… Son of the Sea God?"

A

I didn't know how I could explain, but I figured Tyson deserved the truth after almost getting killed.

"Big guy," I said, "you ever hear those old stories about the Greek gods? Like Zeus, Poseidon, Athena—"

"Yes," Tyson said.

"Well… those gods are still alive. They kind of follow Western Civilization around, living in the strongest countries, so like now they're in the U.S. And sometimes they have kids with mortals. Kids called half-bloods."

"Yes," Tyson said, like he was still waiting for me to get to the point.

"Uh, well, A

"Yes."

I stared at him. He didn't seem surprised or confused by what I was telling him, which surprised and confused me. "So… you believe me?"

Tyson nodded. "But you are… Son of the Sea God?"

"Yeah," I admitted. "My dad is Poseidon."

Tyson frowned. Now he looked confused. "But then…"

A siren wailed. A police car raced past our alley.

"We don't have time for this," A

"A taxi all the way to camp?" I said. "You know how much money—"

"Trust me."

I hesitated. "What about Tyson?"

I imagined escorting my giant friend into Camp Half-Blood. If he freaked out on a regular playground with regular bullies, how would he act at a training camp for demigods? On the other hand, the cops would be looking for us.

"We can't just leave him," I decided. "He'll be in trouble, too."*

"Yeah." A

I didn't like the way she said that, as if Tyson were a big disease we needed to get to the hospital, but I followed her down the alley. Together the three of us sneaked through the side streets of downtown while a huge column of smoke billowed up behind us from my school gymnasium.

"Here." A

She looked even worse than I'd realized at first. Her chin was cut. Twigs and grass were tangled in her ponytail, as if she'd slept several nights in the open. The slashes on the hems of her jeans looked suspiciously like claw marks.

"What are you looking for?" I asked.

All around us, sirens wailed. I figured it wouldn't be long before more cops cruised by, looking for juvenile delinquent gym-bombers. No doubt Matt Sloan had given them a statement by now. He'd probably twisted the story around so that Tyson and I were the bloodthirsty ca

"Found one. Thank the gods." A

"A

"Stêthi," she shouted in Ancient Greek. "Ô hárma diabolês!"

As usual, the moment she spoke in the language of Olympus, I somehow understood it. She'd said: Stop, Chariot of Damnation!

That didn't exactly make me feel real excited about whatever her plan was.

She threw her coin into the street, but instead of clattering on the asphalt, the drachma sank right through and disappeared.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then, just where the coin had fallen, the asphalt darkened. It melted into a rectangular pool about the size of a parking space—bubbling red liquid like blood. Then a car erupted from the ooze.

It was a taxi, all right, but unlike every other taxi in New York, it wasn't yellow. It was smoky gray. I mean it looked like it was woven out of smoke, like you could walk right through it. There were words printed on the door—something like GYAR SSIRES—but my dyslexia made it hard for me to decipher what it said.

The passenger window rolled down, and an old woman stuck her head out. She had a mop of grizzled hair covering her eyes, and she spoke in a weird mumbling way, like she'd just had a shot of Novocain. "Passage? Passage?"

"Three to Camp Half-Blood," A

"Ach!" the old woman screeched. "We don't take his kind!"

She pointed a bony finger at Tyson.