La Vie en Rose // Percy Jackson

iii. my ankle betrays me

Mythologically speaking, if there's anything I'm sure Percy hates worse than trios of old ladies, it's bulls. He's complained multiple times.

Last summer, he fought the Minotaur on top of Half-Blood Hill. This time what we saw up there was even worse: two bulls. And not just regular bulls—bronze ones the size of elephants. And even that wasn't bad enough. Naturally they had to breathe fire, too.

As soon as we exited the taxi, the Gray Sisters peeled out, heading back to New York, where life was safer. They didn't even wait for their extra three-drachma payment. They just left us on the side of the road, Annabeth and me with nothing but her backpack and knife and my backpack and sword, Tyson and Percy still in their burned-up tie-dyed gym clothes.

"Oh, man," said Annabeth, looking at the battle raging on the hill.

What worried me and Percy most weren't the bulls themselves. Or the ten heroes in full battle armor who were getting their bronze-plated booties whooped. What worried me was that the bulls were ranging all over the hill, even around the back side of the pine tree. That shouldn't have been possible. The camp's magic boundaries didn't allow monsters to cross past Thalia's tree.

But the metal bulls were doing it anyway.
One of the heroes shouted, "Border patrol, to me!" A girl's voice—gruff and familiar.

Percy's expression morphered to a frown, almost like he was confused about border patrol?

"It's Clarisse," Annabeth said. "Come on, we have to help her."

Normally, rushing to Clarisse's aid would not have been high on Percy's "to do" list. She was one of the biggest bullies at camp. The first time they'd met she tried to introduce his head to a toilet. She was also a daughter of Ares, and Percy had had a very serious disagreement with her father last summer, so now the god of war and all his children basically hated his guts.

Still, she was in trouble. Her fellow warriors were scattering, running in panic as the bulls charged. The grass was burning in huge swathes around the pine tree. One hero screamed and waved his arms as he ran in circles, the horse-hair plume on his helmet blazing like a fiery Mohawk. Clarisse's own armor was charred. She was fighting with a broken spear shaft, the other end embedded uselessly in the metal joint of one bull's shoulders.

Percy uncapped his ballpoint pen. It shimmered, growing longer and heavier until Percy held the bronze sword Anaklusmos in his hand. "Tyson, stay here. I don't want you taking any more chances."

"No!" Annabeth and I said. "We need him."

Percy stared at us. "He's mortal. He got lucky with the dodge balls but he can't—"

"Percy, do you know what those are up there?" I said in probably a sharper tone than I should have. "The Colchis bulls, made by Hephaestus himself. We can't fight them without Medea's Sunscreen SPF 50,000. We'll get burned to a crisp."

"Medea's what?"

Annabeth rummaged through her backpack and cursed. "I had a jar of tropical coconut scent sitting on my night-stand at home. Why didn't I bring it?"

Percy and I'd learned a long time ago not to question Annabeth too much. It just made him especially more confused. "Look, I don't know what you two are talking about, but I'm not going to let Tyson get fried."

"Percy—"

"Tyson, stay back." Percy raised his sword. "I'm going in."

Tyson tried to protest, but Percy was already running up the hill toward Clarisse, who was yelling at her patrol, trying to get them into phalanx formation. It was a good idea. The few who were listening lined up shoulder-to-shoulder, locking their shields to form an ox-hide—and-bronze wall, their spears bristling over the top like porcupine quills.