Rick Riordan
Percy Jackson and the Olympians
67
67
We sailed through the night.
Annabeth tried to help me keep lookout, but sailing didn't agree with her. After a few hours
rocking back and forth, her face turned the color of guacamole and she went below to lie in a
hammock.
I watched the horizon. More than once I spotted monsters. A plume of water as tall as a
skyscraper spewed into the moonlight. A row of green spines slithered across the waves—
something maybe a hundred feet long, reptilian. I didn't really want to know.
Once I saw Nereids, the glowing lady spirits of the sea. I tried to wave at them, but they
disappeared into the depths, leaving me unsure whether they'd seen me or not.
Sometime after midnight, Annabeth came up on deck. We were just passing a smoking
volcano island. The sea bubbled and steamed around the shore.
"One of the forges of Hephaestus," Annabeth said. "Where he makes his metal monsters."
"Like the bronze bulls?"
She nodded. "Go around. Far around."
I didn't need to be told twice. We steered clear of the island, and soon it was just a red patch
of haze behind us.
I looked at Annabeth. "The reason you hate Cyclopes so much ... the story about how Thalia
really died. What happened?"
It was hard to see her expression in the dark.
"I guess you deserve to know," she said finally. "The night Grover was escorting us to camp,
he got confused, took some wrong turns. You remember he told you that once?"
I nodded.
"Well, the worst wrong turn was into a Cyclops's lair in Brooklyn."
"They've got Cyclopes in Brooklyn?" I asked.
"You wouldn't believe how many, but that's not the point