Forgotten memories

Olympic games

The metal door was almost completely hidden behind a massive laundry bin overflowing with dirty hotel towels. At first glance, it looked totally ordinary—just another old service door—but Rachel motioned for me to come closer and pointed to a spot near the top. That's when I saw it: a faint, almost glowing blue symbol etched into the metal.

"It hasn't been opened in a really long time," Christine said, leaning in with a skeptical look.

"I know," Rachel replied. "I actually tried once—just out of curiosity. Thing's rusted completely shut."

"No," Annabeth said firmly, stepping forward like she owned the place. "It's not rusted. It just needs the touch of a half-blood."

Sure enough, as soon as Annabeth pressed her palm against the mark, the symbol flared bright blue. There was this low click like a vault unlocking, and then the metal door groaned open, hinges creaking as if waking up from a thousand-year nap. Beyond it was nothing but a dark staircase spiraling down.

"Wow," Rachel breathed. She looked calm, but I wasn't sure if she was faking it. She had changed out of her gold statue outfit into a worn-out Museum of Modern Art T-shirt and those jeans that looked like someone had attacked them with a box of markers. Her plastic blue hairbrush stuck out of her back pocket, and her red hair—tied up now—still had tiny flecks of gold paint and glitter clinging to it. She stared into the darkness and said, "So... after you?"

"You're the guide," Annabeth said sweetly, and by sweetly I mean in that way that makes you want to punch her. "Lead on."

The stairs led us into a huge brick tunnel that smelled like damp stone and old dust. It was pitch-black—like, can't-see-your-own-hands black—but luckily we'd all stocked up on flashlights. The second we switched them on, Rachel let out a yelp.

Hanging in front of us was... well, let's just say it wasn't the welcome sign I was hoping for. A massive skeleton grinned down at us, strung up and chained by its wrists and ankles in a giant X across the tunnel. And it wasn't human. Not even close. For one thing, it was at least ten feet tall. For another, it had only one eye socket, right in the center of its skull.

"A Cyclops," Annabeth said quietly. "It's very old. It's not... anyone we know."

I knew what she meant: not Tyson. Still didn't make me feel better. If something down here could kill a full-grown Cyclops, I really didn't want to bump into it.

Rachel swallowed hard. "You... have a friend who's a Cyclops?"

"Tyson," Percy said. "My half-brother."

"Hopefully we'll find him down here," I added. "And Grover. He's a satyr."

"Oh." Her voice was small now. "Well, then I guess we'd better keep moving."

She ducked under the Cyclops's left arm and kept walking like that was a totally normal thing to do. Christine and I exchanged a look. Christine just shrugged and followed, so we went after them.

The tunnel twisted and sloped downward, the air getting colder and heavier with every step. After about fifty feet, we reached a crossroads. Straight ahead, the brick tunnel kept going. To the right, the walls shifted to these ancient marble slabs—like something out of a museum. To the left, the tunnel was nothing but packed dirt and thick tree roots curling out like creepy fingers.

"That looks like the path Tyson and Grover took," Percy said, pointing left.

Annabeth frowned. "Maybe, but the architecture to the right—that's definitely older. That could lead us toward Daedalus's workshop."

"No," Rachel said suddenly. "We need to go straight."

All of us turned to look at her.

"That's the least likely path," Annabeth said flatly.