thick green liquid — Greek fire, one of the most dangerous magical substances in

the world. Then he threw me another essential tool of demigod heroes — duct

tape.

 

"Slap that one on the console," he said. "I'll get the turbines."

 

We went to work. The room was hot and humid, and in no time we were drenched m

sweat.

 

The boat kept chugging along. Being the son of Poseidon and all, I have perfect

bearings at sea. Don't ask me how, but I could tell we were at 40.19° North,

71.90° West, making eighteen knots, which meant the ship would arrive in New

York Harbor by dawn. This would be our only chance to stop it.

 

I had just attached a second jar of Greek fire to the control panels when I

heard the pounding of feet on metal steps — so many creatures coming down the

stairwell I could hear them over the engines. Not a good sign.

 

I locked eyes with Beckendorf. "How much longer?"

 

"Too long." He tapped his watch, which was our remote control detonator. "I

still have to wire the receiver and prime the charges. Ten more minutes at

least."

 

Judging from the sound of the footsteps, we had about ten seconds.