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If there was anything mythical Marlowe said she hated fighting, it was the Minotaur—the big stupid bull-man that wanted to kill her and Percy the first night they arrived at camp. Now, as she stepped out of the taxi and messed with the bracelet on her wrist, she stared at not one, but 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 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, Marlowe with her dying dignity, and 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 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 him 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.
"It's Clarisse," Marlowe said, already making her way towards the fight. She didn't even look back to see if anyone was following. "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.
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 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."
"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?"
