The Last Olympian (Percy Jackson and the Olympians #5)(13)

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The senior counselors had gathered around the Ping-Pong table. Don't ask me why, but the rec room had become the camp's informal headquarters for war councils. When Annabeth, Chiron, and I came in, though, it looked more like a shouting match.

Clarisse was still in full battle gear. Her electric spear was strapped to her back. (Actually, her second electric spear, since I'd broken the first one. She called the spear "Maimer." Behind her back, everybody else called it "Lamer.") She had her boar-shaped helmet under one arm and a knife at her belt.

She was in the midst of yelling at Michael Yew, the new head counselor for Apollo, which looked kind of funny since Clarisse was a foot taller. Michael had taken over the Apollo cabin after Lee Fletcher died in battle last summer. Michael stood four feet six, with another two feet of attitude. He reminded me of a ferret, with a pointy nose and scrunched-up features—either because he scowled so much or because he spent too much time looking down the shaft of an arrow.

"It's our loot!" he yelled, standing on his tiptoes so he could get in Clarisse's face. "If you don't like it, you can kiss my quiver!"

Around the table, people were trying not to laugh—the Stoll brothers, Pollux from the Dionysus cabin, Katie Gardner from Demeter. Even Jake Mason, the hastily appointed new counselor from Hephaestus, managed a faint smile. Only Silena Beauregard didn't pay any attention. She sat beside Clarisse and stared vacantly at the Ping-Pong net. Her eyes were red and puffy. A cup of hot chocolate sat untouched in front of her. It seemed unfair that she had to be here. I couldn't believe Clarisse and Michael standing over her, arguing about something as stupid as loot, when she'd just lost Beckendorf.

"STOP IT!" I yelled. "What are you guys doing?"

Clarisse glowered at me. "Tell Michael not to be a selfish jerk."

"Oh, that's perfect, coming from you," Michael said.

"The only reason I'm here is to support Silena!" Clarisse shouted. "Otherwise I'd be back in my cabin."

"What are you talking about?" I demanded.

Pollux cleared his throat. "Clarisse has refused to speak to any of us, until her, um, issue is resolved. She hasn't spoken for three days."

"It's been wonderful," Travis Stoll said wistfully.

"What issue?" I asked.

Clarisse turned to Chiron. "You're in charge, right? Does my cabin get what we want or not?"

Chiron shuffled his hooves. "My dear, as I've already explained, Michael is correct. Apollo's cabin has the best claim. Besides, we have more important matters—"

"Sure," Clarisse snapped. "Always more important matters than what Ares needs. We're just supposed to show up and light when you need us, and not complain!"

"That would be nice," Connor Stoll muttered.

Clarisse gripped her knife. "Maybe I should ask Mr. D—"

"As you know," Chiron interrupted, his tone slightly angry now, "our director, Dionysus, is busy with the war. He can't be bothered with this."

"I see," Clarisse said. "And the senior counselors? Are any of you going to side with me?"

Nobody was smiling now. None of them met Clarisse's eyes.

"Fine." Clarisse turned to Silena. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get into this when you've just lost . . . Anyway, I apologize. To you. Nobody else."

Silena didn't seem to register her words.

Clarisse threw her knife on the Ping-Pong table. "All of you can fight this war without Ares. Until I get satisfaction, no one in my cabin is lifting a finger to help. Have fun dying."

The counselors were all too stunned to say anything as Clarisse stormed out of the room.

Finally Michael Yew said, "Good riddance."

"Are you kidding?" Katie Gardner protested. "This is a disaster!"

"She can't be serious," Travis said. "Can she?"

Chiron sighed. "Her pride has been wounded. She'll calm down eventually." But he didn't sound convinced.

I wanted to ask what the heck Clarisse was so mad about, but I looked at Annabeth and she mouthed the words I'll tell you later.

"Now," Chiron continued, "if you please, counselors. Percy has brought something I think you should hear. Percy—the Great Prophecy."

Annabeth handed me the parchment. It felt dry and old, and my fingers fumbled with the string. I uncurled the paper, trying not to rip it, and began to read:

"A half-blood of the eldest dogs . . ."

"Er, Percy?" Annabeth interrupted. "That's gods. Not dogs."

"Oh, right," I said. Being dyslexic is one mark of a demigod, but sometimes I really hate it. The more nervous I am, the worse my reading gets. "A half~blood of the eldest gods . . . shall reach sixteen against all odds . . ."

I hesitated, staring at the next lines. A cold feeling started in my fingers as if the paper was freezing.

"And see the world in endless sleep,

The hero's soul, cursed blade shall reap."

Suddenly Riptide seemed heavier in my pocket. A cursed blade? Chiron once told me Riptide had brought many people sorrow. Was it possible my own sword could get me killed? And how could the world fall into endless sleep, unless that meant death?