This Dark Night ― Percy Jackson & Annabeth Chase¹

―xi. for good luck

NAOMI, ANNABETH, AND PERCY HAD THEIR PICK OF CARS, but they were all wedged in bumper-to-bumper traffic. None of the engines were running, which was weird. It seemed the drivers had had time to turn off their ignitions before they got too sleepy. Or maybe Morpheus had the power to put engines to sleep as well. Most of the drivers had apparently tried to pull to the curb when they felt themselves passing out, but still the streets were too clogged to navigate.

Finally they found an unconscious courier leaning against a brick wall, still straddling his red Vespa. They dragged him off the scooter and laid him on the sidewalk.

"Sorry, dude," Percy said.

They zigzagged down Broadway with their engine buzzing through the eerie calm. The only sounds were occasional cell phones ringing—like they were calling out to each other, as if New York had turned into a giant electronic aviary.

Their progress was slow. Every so often they'd come across pedestrians who'd fallen asleep right in front of a car, and they'd move them just to be safe. Once they stopped to extinguish a pretzel vendor's cart that had caught fire. (Naomi's shadows snuffed it out with ease; unfortunately, she was pretty sure those weren't the infamous flames the Great Prophecy was talking about—she would be so lucky, after all).

A few minutes later they had to rescue a baby carriage that was rolling aimlessly down the street. It turned out there was no baby in it—just somebody's sleeping poodle. Go figure. They parked it safely in a doorway and kept riding.

They were passing Madison Square Park when Annabeth said: "Pull over."

They stopped in the middle of East Twenty-third. Naomi and Annabeth jumped off, the latter running toward the park. By the time they caught up to her, she was staring at a bronze statue on a red marble pedestal.

The dude was sitting in his chair with his legs crossed. He wore an old-fashioned suit—Abraham Lincoln style—with a bowtie and long coat-tails and stuff. A bunch of bronze books were piled under his chair. He held a writing quill in one hand and a big metal sheet of parchment in the other.

"Why do we care about..." Percy squinted at the name on the pedestal. "William H. Steward?"

"Seward," Annabeth corrected. "He was a New York governor. Minor demigod—son of Hebe, I think. But that's not important. It's the statue I care about."

She climbed on a park bench and examined the base of the statue.

"Don't tell me he's an automaton," Naomi said.

Annabeth smiled. "Turns out most of the statues in the city are automatons. Daedalus planted them here just in case he needed an army."

"To attack Olympus or defend it?" Percy asked

Annabeth shrugged. "Either one. That was plan twenty-three. He could activate one statue and it would start activating its brethren all over the city, until there was an army. It's dangerous, though. You know how unpredictable automatons are."

"Uh-huh," he said. They'd had their fair share of bad experiences with them. "You're seriously thinking about activating it?"

"I have Daedalus's notes," she said. "I think I can... Ah, here we go."

She pressed the tip of Seward's boot, and the statue stood up, its quill and paper ready.

"What's he going to do?" Percy muttered. "Take a memo?"

"Shh," Annabeth. "Hello, William."

"Bill," Percy suggested.

"Bill... Oh, shut up," Annabeth told him. The statue tilted its head, looking at the trio with blank metal eyes.