“Uh, Your Ladyship,” Ephialtes said nervously. “I would remind you that Gaea wishes the girl to be taken alive. You can torment her. Drive her insane. Whatever you wish, of course. But her blood must be spilt on the ancient stones.”

Her Ladyship hissed. “Others could be used for that purpose.”

“Y-yes,” Ephialtes said. “But this girl is preferred. And the boy—the son of Poseidon. You can see why those two would be most suited for the task.”

Percy wasn’t sure what that meant, but he wanted to crack the floor and send these stupid gold-shirted twins down to oblivion. He’d never let Gaea spill his blood for any task—and there was no way he’d let anyone hurt Annabeth.

“We will see,” Her Ladyship grumbled. “Leave me now. Tend to your own preparations. You will have your spectacle. And I…I will work in darkness.”

The dream dissolved, and Percy woke with a start.

Jason was knocking at his open doorway.

“We’ve set down in the water,” he said, looking utterly exhausted. “Your turn.”

Percy didn’t want to, but he woke Annabeth. He figured even Coach Hedge wouldn’t mind their talking after curfew if it meant giving her information that might save her life.

They stood on deck, alone except for Leo, who was still manning the helm. The guy must have been shattered, but he refused to go to sleep.

“I don’t want any more Shrimpzilla surprises,” he insisted.

They’d all tried to convince Leo that the skolopendra attack hadn’t been entirely his fault, but he wouldn’t listen. Percy knew how he felt. Not forgiving himself for mistakes was one of Percy’s biggest talents.

It was about four in the morning. The weather was miserable. The fog was so thick, Percy couldn’t see Festus at the end of the prow, and warm drizzle hung in the air like a bead curtain. As they sailed into twenty-foot swells, the sea heaving underneath them, Percy could hear poor Hazel down in her cabin…also heaving.

Despite all that, Percy was grateful to be back on the water. He preferred it to flying through storm clouds and being attacked by man-eating birds and enchilada-trampling pegasi.

He stood with Annabeth at the forward rail while he told her about his dream.

Percy wasn’t sure how she’d take the news. Her reaction was even more troubling than he anticipated: she didn’t seem surprised.

She peered into the fog. “Percy, you have to promise me something. Don’t tell the others about this dream.”

“Don’t what? Annabeth—”

“What you saw was about the Mark of Athena,” she said. “It won’t help the others to know. It’ll only make them worry, and it’ll make it harder for me to go off on my own.”

“Annabeth, you can’t be serious. That thing in the dark, the big chamber with the crumbling floor—”

“I know.” Her face looked unnaturally pale, and Percy suspected it wasn’t just the fog. “But I have to do this alone.”

Percy swallowed back his anger. He wasn’t sure if he was mad at Annabeth, or his dream, or the entire Greek/Roman world that had endured and shaped human history for five thousand years with one goal in mind: to make Percy Jackson’s life suck as much as possible.

“You know what’s in that cavern,” he guessed. “Does it have to do with spiders?”

“Yes,” she said in a small voice.

“Then how can you even…?” He made himself stop.

Once Annabeth had made up her mind, arguing with her wouldn’t do any good. He remembered the night three and a half years ago, when they’d saved Nico and Bianca di Angelo in Maine. Annabeth had been captured by the Titan Atlas. For a while, Percy wasn’t sure if she was alive or dead. He’d traveled across the country to save her from the Titan. It had been the hardest few days of his life—not just the monsters and the fighting, but the worry.

How could he intentionally let her go now, knowing she was heading into something even more dangerous?

Then it dawned on him: the way he had felt back then, for a few days, was probably how Annabeth had felt for the six months he had been missing with amnesia.

That made him feel guilty, and a little bit selfish, to be standing here arguing with her. She had to go on this quest. The fate of the world might depend on it. But part of him wanted to say: Forget the world. He didn’t want to be without her.

Percy stared into the fog. He couldn’t see anything around them, but he had perfect bearings at sea. He knew their exact latitude and longitude. He knew the depth of the ocean and which way the currents were flowing. He knew the ship’s speed, and could sense no rocks, sandbars, or other natural dangers in their path. Still, being blind was unsettling.

They hadn’t been attacked since they had touched the water, but the sea seemed different. Percy had been in the Atlantic, the Pacific, even the Gulf of Alaska, but this sea felt more ancient and powerful. Percy could sense its layers swirling below him. Every Greek or Roman hero had sailed these waters—from Hercules to Aeneas. Monsters still dwelt in the depths, so deeply wrapped in the Mist that they slept most of the time; but Percy could feel them stirring, responding to the Celestial bronze hull of a Greek trireme and the presence of demigod blood.

They are back, the monsters seemed to say. Finally, fresh blood.

“We’re not far from the Italian coast,” Percy said, mostly to break the silence. “Maybe a hundred nautical miles to the mouth of the Tiber.”

“Good,” Annabeth said. “By daybreak, we should—”

“Stop.” Percy’s skin felt washed with ice. “We have to stop.”

“Why?” Annabeth asked.

“Leo, stop!” he yelled.

Too late. The other boat appeared out of the fog and rammed them head-on. In that split second, Percy registered random details: another trireme; black sails painted with a gorgon’s head; hulking warriors, not quite human, crowded at the front of the boat in Greek armor, swords and spears ready; and a bronze ram at water level, slamming against the hull of the Argo II.

Annabeth and Percy were almost thrown overboard.

Festus blew fire, sending a dozen very surprised warriors screaming and diving into the sea, but more swarmed aboard the Argo II. Grappling lines wrapped around the rails and the mast, digging iron claws into the hull’s planks.

By the time Percy had recovered his wits, the enemy was everywhere. He couldn’t see well through the fog and the dark, but the invaders seemed to be humanlike dolphins, or dolphinlike humans. Some had gray snouts. Others held their swords in stunted flippers. Some waddled on legs partially fused together, while others had flippers for feet, which reminded Percy of clown shoes.

Leo sounded the alarm bell. He made a dash for the nearest ballista but went down under a pile of chattering dolphin warriors.

Annabeth and Percy stood back-to-back, as they’d done many times before, their weapons drawn. Percy tried to summon the waves, hoping he could push the ships apart or even capsize the enemy vessel, but nothing happened. It almost felt like something was pushing against his will, wresting the sea from his control.

He raised Riptide, ready to fight, but they were hopelessly outnumbered. Several dozen warriors lowered their spears and made a ring around them, wisely keeping out of striking distance of Percy’s sword. The dolphin-men opened their snouts and made whistling, popping noises. Percy had never considered just how vicious dolphin teeth looked.

He tried to think. Maybe he could break out of the circle and destroy a few invaders, but not without the others skewering him and Annabeth.

At least the warriors didn’t seem interested in killing them immediately. They kept Percy and Annabeth contained while more of their comrades flooded belowdecks and secured the hull. Percy could hear them breaking down the cabin doors, scuffling with his friends. Even if the other demigods hadn’t been fast asleep, they wouldn’t have stood a chance against so many.

Leo was dragged across the deck, half-conscious and groaning, and dumped on a pile of ropes. Below, the sounds of fighting tapered off. Either the others had been subdued or…or Percy refused to think about it.

On one side of the ring of spears, the dolphin warriors parted to let someone through. He appeared to be fully human, but from the way the dolphins fell back before him, he was clearly the leader. He was dressed in Greek combat armor—sandals, kilt, and greaves, a breastplate decorated with elaborate sea monster designs—and everything he wore was gold. Even his sword, a Greek blade like Riptide, was gold instead of bronze.

The golden boy, Percy thought, remembering his dream. They’ll have to get past the golden boy.

What really made Percy nervous was the guy’s helmet. His visor was a full face mask fashioned like a gorgon’s head—curved tusks, horrible features pinched into a snarl, and golden snake hair curling around the face. Percy had met gorgons before. The likeness was good—a little too good for his taste.

Annabeth turned so she was shoulder to shoulder with Percy. He wanted to put his arm around her protectively, but he doubted she’d appreciate the gesture, and he didn’t want to give this golden guy any indication that Annabeth was his girlfriend. No sense giving the enemy more leverage than they already had.

“Who are you?” Percy demanded. “What do you want?”

The golden warrior chuckled. With a flick of his blade, faster than Percy could follow, he smacked Riptide out of Percy’s hand and sent it flying into the sea.

He might as well have thrown Percy’s lungs into the sea, because suddenly Percy couldn’t breathe. He’d never been disarmed so easily.

“Hello, brother.” The golden warrior’s voice was rich and velvety, with an exotic accent—Middle Eastern, maybe—that seemed vaguely familiar. “Always happy to rob a fellow son of Poseidon. I am Chrysaor, the Golden Sword. As for what I want…” He turned his metal mask toward Annabeth. “Well, that’s easy. I want everything you have.”

Chapter 30

Percy’s heart did jumping jacks while Chrysaor walked back and forth, inspecting them like prized cattle. A dozen of his dolphin-man warriors stayed in a ring around them, spears leveled at Percy’s chest, while dozens more ransacked the ship, banging and crashing around belowdecks. One carried a box of ambrosia up the stairs. Another carried an armful of ballista bolts and a crate of Greek fire.

“Careful with that!” Annabeth warned. “It’ll blow up both our ships.”

“Ha!” Chrysaor said. “We know all about Greek fire, girl. Don’t worry. We’ve been looting and pillaging ships on the Mare Nostrum for eons.”

“Your accent sounds familiar,” Percy said. “Have we met?”

“I haven’t had the pleasure.” Chrysaor’s golden gorgon mask snarled at him, though it was impossible to tell what his real expression might be underneath. “But I’ve heard all about you, Percy Jackson. Oh, yes, the young man who saved Olympus. And his faithful sidekick, Annabeth Chase.”

“I’m nobody’s sidekick,” Annabeth growled. “And, Percy, his accent sounds familiar because he sounds like his mother. We killed her in New Jersey.”