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Mythologically speaking, if there's anything Percy hated worse than trios of old ladies, it's bulls. Last summer, he and Bronte fought the Minotaur on top of Half-Blood Hill. This time 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 the four kids 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 them on the side of the road, Annabeth with nothing but her backpack and knife, Tyson and Percy still in their burned-up tie-dyed gym clothes, and Bronte in her flower painted jeans, which now had eyeball juice all over them.
"Oh, man," said Annabeth, looking at the battle raging on the hill.
The bulls weren't the most worrying thing they saw. Or the ten heroes in full battle armor who were getting their bronze-plated booties whooped. It 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.
"That's Clarisse, " Bronte breathed. "Come on, we have to help her."
The daughter of Ares' 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 horsehair 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 shoulder.
Percy uncapped his ballpoint pen. It shimmered, growing longer and heavier until he held the bronze sword Anaklusmos in his hands. "Tyson, stay here. I don't want you taking any more chances."
"No!" Annabeth said. "We need him."
Percy stared at her. "He's mortal. He got lucky with the dodge balls but he can't–"
"Percy, do you know what those are up there? 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."
Bronte ignored the two arguing, turning the lightning bolt on her ring. Astrapí appeared in her hands, and the girl took off, charging up the hill.
"Look, I don't know what you're talking about, but I'm not going to let Tyson get fried."
