As we rose over the rooftops I caught my breath-well, if you can catch your breath underwater.
I couldn’t help thinking about my dream, with Annabeth crumpled and lifeless in Luke’s arms. Here I was rescuing baby monsters, but I couldn’t save my friend.
I guess it started in London, the night our dad blew up the British museum.
My name is Carter Kane. I’m fourteen and my home is a suitcase.
You want to know how Egyptians pulled the brains out of mummies. or built the pyramids, or cursed King Tut’s tomb? My dad’s your man.
I’d come to respect the bag.
He crossed the street toward the man in the trench coat, which left me with two choices: follow my dad and see what was going on, or do what I was told. I decided on the slightly less dangerous path. I went to retrieve my sister.
I hadn’t seen my dad get violent since the Great Spatula Incident, and I wasn’t anxious to see a repeat of that.
He looked like those paintings of baby angels – what do you call them, hubbubs? No cherubs. That’s it. He looked like a cherub who’d turned middle-aged in a trailer park.
The Friday before winter break, my mom packed me an overnight bag and a few deadly weapons and took me to a new boarding school.
I have moments like that alot, when my brain falls asleep or something, and the next thing I know I’ve missed something, as if a puzzle piece fell out of the universe and left me staring at the blank place behind it. – Percy Jackson.
I wasn’t sure whether I was supposed to kneel or buy stamps from him or what.
It’s like I was connected to the plumping system.
Fairness means everyone gets what they need. And the only way to get what you need is to make it happen yourself.
Lookin up at the huge baboons, I wondered if Khufu had some sort of secret baboon code that would get us in. But instead he barked at the statues and cowered heroically behind my legs.
I just love family meetings. Very cozy, with the Christmas garlands round the fireplace and a nice pot of tea and a detective from Scotland Yard ready to arrest you.
Our baboon was going completely sky goddess – which is to say, nuts.
What was I up to, you may ask? I certainly didn’t want to meet Monsieur Evil again or creepy old Lord Salamander.
Far, far below, red liquid bubbled. Blood? Lava? Evil ketchup? None of the posibilities were good.
You know how hard it is to feel like an extreme falcon-headed combat machine when somebody calls you “chicken man”?