{BOOK 3} Percy Jackson's Sister

The Ghost is Dying for Revenge

    I sat on the floor of the arena, sweaty and tired. I had decided to do some sword fighting before dinner but when I walked in Quintus was already in there, stabbing away at a practice dummy. He challenged me to a duel, saying that live practice was better than an immobile opponent.

    At first I thought I could take an old man, no problem. I was gravely mistaken.

    Quintus swung his sword so gracefully, you could tell he had been doing this for years. He knew every move I was going to make and blocked it with ease. Eventually, I started to get frustrated.

    "Don't let the anger control you," he stabbed at my side. "You'll never win if you're guided by rage."

     I took a deep breath and concentrated on my own sword instead of his. As soon as he lunged, I stuck the flat of my blade with his and twisted as hard as I could. His weapon clattered to the floor, I aimed my sword at his chest.

     "Not bad," he smiled.

     Now it was Percy's turn to get his ass kicked. While I regained strength on the floor, I watched them duel.

    "Good try," Quintus told Percy. "But your guard is too low."

    Percy talked a lot while fighting.

    "Have you always been a swordsman?" he asked.

    Quintus parried his overhead cut. "I've been many things."

    He jabbed and Percy sidestepped.

    "What's on your neck?" Percy asked.

     His shoulder strap slipped down, making the mark more visible. I couldn't see it clearly from here, but I knew it had to be something important because the question made Quintus lose his rhythm.

     Percy hit his sword hilt and knocked the blade out of his hand.

   Quintus didn't even seem fazed he had just been unarmed. He quickly shifted his armor in order to cover the mark, he seamed uneasy now.

   "A reminder." He picked up his sword and forced a smile. "Now, shall we go again?"

    Quintus fought back with even more strength, not allowing Percy to ask any more questions. His full focus had to be in battle, if not he'd get skewered.

    It was kind of hard to stay focused when a dog the size of a dinosaur and a Cyclops were wrestling for a beonze shield. Tyson was having the time of his life playing with the "little doggie" and Mrs. O'Leary seemed to like Tyson just as much.

   It felt good to have a normal day in camp for once. Until dinner came.

     All the campers lined up by cabin and marched into the dining pavilion. Most of them ignored the sealed fissure in the marble floor at the entrance—a ten-foot-long jagged scar that hadn't been there last summer— but I was careful to step over it.

    "Big crack," Tyson said when we were at our table. "Earthquake, maybe?"

    Under any other circumstances I would've laughed at someone saying "big crack," but the fissure on the floor was a terrible reminder.

    "No," Percy said. "Not an earthquake."

     "I think we should tell him," I told Percy. After all, Tyson was our brother, he deserved to know.

     "Nico di Angelo," Percy said, lowering his voice. "He's this half-blood kid we brought to camp last winter. He, uh...he asked me to guard his sister on a quest, and I failed. She died. Now he blames me."