The wind blowing through my ripped clothes was so cold that I felt like a Percysicle.

Oh no." I said panic rising in my chest. "No, no, no, Somebody get a can opener. I've got a god in my head!!

Hey Grover! Thorn's kidnapping us! He's a poisonous spike-throwing maniac! Help!

Paul patted Mrs. O'Leary's snout. The living room shook —BOOM, BOOM, BOOM—which either meant a SWAT team was breaking down the door or Mrs. O'Leary was wagging her tail. I couldn't help but smile.

Wonderful, Annabeth thought. Her own mother, the most levelheaded Olympian, was reduced to a raving, vicious scatterbrain in a subway station. And, of all the gods who might help them, the only ones not affected by the Greek-Roman schism seemed to be Aphrodite, Nemesis and Dionysus. Love, revenge, wine. Very helpful.

Yeah, well. I don’t try to be awesome. It just comes natural.

Who are you?" he asked. "I'm a shabti, of course!" The figurine rubbed his dented head. He still looked quite lumpish, only now he was a living lump. "Master calls me Doughboy, though I find the name insulting. You may call me Supreme-Force-Who-Crushes-His-Enemies!