The Mark of Athena (The Heroes of Olympus #3)(134)

“Piper!” Jason cried. He ran toward her, completely forgetting about Otis, who aimed his spear at Jason’s back.

“Look out!” Percy yelled.

Jason had fast reflexes. As Otis threw, Jason rolled. The point sailed over him and Jason flicked his hand, summoning a gust of wind that changed the spear’s direction. It flew across the room and skewered Ephialtes through his side just as he was getting to his feet.

“Otis!” Ephialtes stumbled away from his control board, clutching the spear as he began to crumble into monster dust. “Will you please stop killing me!”

“Not my fault!”

Otis had barely finished speaking when Percy’s missile-launching contraption spit out one last sphere of Roman candle fire. The fiery pink ball of death (naturally it had to be pink) hit the ceiling above Otis and exploded in a beautiful shower of light. Colorful sparks pirouetted gracefully around the giant. Then a ten-foot section of roof collapsed and crushed him flat.

Jason ran to Piper’s side. She yelped when he touched her arm. Her shoulder looked unnaturally bent, but she muttered, “Fine. I’m fine.” Next to her, Nico sat up, looking around him in bewilderment as if just realizing he’d missed a battle.

Sadly, the giants weren’t finished. Ephialtes was already re-forming, his head and shoulders rising from the mound of dust. He tugged his arms free and glowered at Percy.

Across the room, the pile of rubble shifted, and Otis busted out. His head was slightly caved in. All the firecrackers in his hair had popped, and his braids were smoking. His leotard was in tatters, which was just about the only way it could’ve looked less attractive on him.

“Percy!” Jason shouted. “The controls!”

Percy unfroze. He found Riptide in his pocket again, uncapped his sword, and lunged for the switchboard. He slashed his blade across the top, decapitating the controls in a shower of bronze sparks.

“No!” Ephialtes wailed. “You’ve ruined the spectacle!”

Percy turned too slowly. Ephialtes swung his spear like a bat and smacked him across the chest. He fell to his knees, the pain turning his stomach to lava.

Jason ran to his side, but Otis lumbered after him. Percy managed to rise and found himself shoulder to shoulder with Jason. Over by the dais, Piper was still on the floor, unable to get up. Nico was barely conscious.

The giants were healing, getting stronger by the minute. Percy was not.

Ephialtes smiled apologetically. “Tired, Percy Jackson? As I said, you cannot kill us. So I guess we’re at an impasse. Oh, wait…no we’re not! Because we can kill you!”

“That,” Otis grumbled, picking up his fallen spear, “is the first thing sensible thing you’ve said all day, brother.”

The giants pointed their weapons, ready to turn Percy and Jason into a demigod-kabob.

“We won’t give up,” Jason growled. “We’ll cut you into pieces like Jupiter did to Saturn.”

“That’s right,” Percy said. “You’re both dead. I don’t care if we have a god on our side or not.”

“Well, that’s a shame,” said a new voice.

To his right, another platform lowered from the ceiling. Leaning casually on a pinecone-topped staff was a man in a purple camp shirt, khaki shorts, and sandals with white socks. He raised his broad-brimmed hat, and purple fire flickered in his eyes. “I’d hate to think I made a special trip for nothing.”

Chapter 47

Percy had never thought of Mr. D as a calming influence, but suddenly everything got quiet. The machines ground to a halt. The wild animals stopped growling.

The two leopards paced over—still licking their lips from Piper’s pot roast—and butted their heads affectionately against the god’s legs. Mr. D scratched their ears.

“Really, Ephialtes,” he chided. “Killing demigods is one thing. But using leopards for your spectacle? That’s over the line.”

The giant made a squeaking sound. “This—this is impossible. D-D—”

“It’s Bacchus, actually, my old friend,” said the god. “And of course it’s possible. Someone told me there was a party going on.”

He looked the same as he had in Kansas, but Percy still couldn’t get over the differences between Bacchus and his old not-so-much-of-a-friend Mr. D.

Bacchus was meaner and leaner, with less of a potbelly. He had longer hair, more spring in his step, and a lot more anger in his eyes. He even managed to make a pinecone on a stick look intimidating.

Ephialtes’s spear quivered. “You—you gods are doomed! Be gone, in the name of Gaea!”

“Hmm.” Bacchus sounded unimpressed. He strolled through the ruined props, platforms, and special effects.

“Tacky.” He waved his hand at a painted wooden gladiator, then turned to a machine that looked like an oversized rolling pin studded with knives. “Cheap. Boring. And this…” He inspected the rocket-launching contraption, which was still smoking. “Tacky, cheap, and boring. Honestly, Ephialtes. You have no sense of style.”

“STYLE?” The giant’s face flushed. “I have mountains of style. I define style. I—I—”

“My brother oozes style,” Otis suggested.

“Thank you!” Ephialtes cried.

Bacchus stepped forward, and the giants stumbled back. “Have you two gotten shorter?” asked the god.