Forgotten memories

Stars Reborn

We saw the battle long before we reached it—before we could even make out individual fighters. The George Washington Bridge was a war zone. It was well after midnight now, but the place blazed like it was midday. Flames licked the sky. Cars burned in chaotic piles. Arcs of fire streaked through the air—flaming arrows, spears, and gods knew what else—lighting up the night in flashes of orange and gold.

As we got closer, the sounds hit us: the clang of metal, the roar of monsters, the distant shouts of campers holding their ground. Then the smell—burned rubber, gasoline, and blood. My stomach knotted.

The Apollo kids were in full retreat, but they weren't going quietly. They darted from car to car, loosing arrows, setting up fiery barricades, tossing caltrops to slow the enemy. They even dragged sleeping mortals from their cars, hauling them to safety before setting the vehicles ablaze for cover. They were doing everything they could to buy time—but the enemy kept coming.

A solid phalanx of dracaenae led the charge. Their shields locked together like an iron wall, spear tips bristling over the top. Every so often, an Apollo arrow slipped through—caught a neck or sank into a scaly trunk—and the unlucky snake-woman dissolved into dust. But most arrows bounced off their shields like pebbles on stone. And behind that phalanx? At least a hundred more monsters marching in tight formation.

Hellhounds prowled ahead, black shapes darting through the chaos. Most were taken out by well-placed arrows, but one made it through—latched onto an Apollo camper and dragged him screaming into the dark. I didn't see what happened next. I didn't want to.

Then, like a breath of relief in the middle of the nightmare, I glanced up—and there they were. Percy and Annabeth, riding Blackjack like the cavalry in some old movie. My shoulders unclenched for half a second.

That's when I saw it.

The Minotaur.

And gods, he was worse than I imagined.

From the waist down, he wore full Greek battle gear—a kilt-like apron of leather and metal strips, bronze greaves, and sandals laced up tight. Everything above the waist? Pure nightmare. Hide and muscle rippled under a coat of coarse hair, leading up to a head so massive he should've toppled forward under the weight of his horns. He looked even bigger than I'd imagined—easily three meters tall. A double-bladed axe was strapped across his back, but he didn't bother with it.

The second he spotted Percy and Annabeth circling above—or maybe he smelled me—he let out a bellow that rattled my bones. Then, with a grin like a death sentence, he hefted a white limousine.

They were thirty meters up, easy, but the Minotaur hurled that limo like it was a baseball. It spun through the air, fender over fender, a two-ton boomerang of death. Blackjack swerved left so hard my stomach lurched just watching. Annabeth ducked low, gripping Percy like her life depended on it—which it did. The limo screamed past, missing them by maybe five centimeters, then sailed over the suspension lines and plummeted toward the East River with a splash that sent waves crashing against the pylons.

The monsters roared in triumph. The Minotaur grabbed another car like it was nothing.

Blackjack swooped low behind an overturned school bus where a couple of campers were holed up. Percy and Annabeth bailed out the second his hooves hit pavement, and then Blackjack and Porkpie launched back into the sky.

Michael Yew came sprinting over. I swear, he was the shortest commando I'd ever seen, and he looked like he'd been through Tartarus and back. A bandage wrapped one arm, soot streaked his face, and his quiver was nearly empty. But the guy was grinning like he was having the time of his life.