going out last summer, after years of the rest of us saying, "Duh, you guys like

each other!" Even with all the dangerous missions, Beckendorf had been happier

this summer than I'd ever seen him.

 

"We'll make it back to camp," I promised.

 

For a second I saw worry in his eyes. Then he put on his old confident smile.

 

"You bet," he said. "Let's go blow Kronos back into a million pieces."

 

Beckendorf led the way. We followed a narrow corridor to the service stairwell,

just like we'd practiced, but we froze when we heard noises above us.

 

"I don't care what your nose says!" snarled a half-human, half-dog voice — a

telkhine. "The last time you smelled half-blood, it turned out to be a meat loaf

sandwich!"

 

"Meat loaf sandwiches are good!" a second voice snarled. "But this is half-blood

scent, I swear. They are on board!"

 

"Bah, your brain isn't on board!"

 

They continued to argue, and Beckendorf pointed downstairs. We descended as

quietly as we could.