Number eight, the silver one, belongs to Artemis. She vowed to be a maiden forever. So of course, no kids. The cabin is, you know, honorary. If she didn't have one, she'd be mad.

She'd secretly had a crush on him since they were twelve years old. Last summer, she'd fallen for him hard.

Once I got over the fact that my Latin teacher was a horse, we had a nice tour, though I was careful not to walk behind him. I'd done pooper-scooper patrol in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade a few times, and, I'm sorry, I did not trust Chiron's back the the way I trusted his front.

Lots of death, huh? Personally, I'm trying to avoid lots of death, but you guys have fun!

I turned and faced the Olympians. "We need a shroud," I announced, my voice cracking. "A shroud for the son of Hermes.

If you're heading downtown from Centeral Park, my advice is to take the subway. Flying pigs are faster but way more dangerous

Tell the sun and stars hello for me.