"Stayin' Alive." A terrifying image flashed through my mind of Apollo in

bell-bottom pants and a slinky silk shirt.

 

I was glad when the elevator doors finally dinged open. In front of us, a path

of floating stones led through the clouds up to Mount Olympus, hovering six

thousand feet over Manhattan.

 

I'd seen Olympus several times, but it still took my breath away. The mansions

glittered gold and white against the sides of the mountain. Gardens bloomed on a

hundred terraces. Scented smoke rose from braziers that lined the winding

streets. And right at the top of the snow-capped crest rose the main palace of

the gods. It looked as majestic as ever, but something seemed wrong. Then I

realized the mountain was silent — no music, no voices, no laughter.

 

Annabeth studied me. "You look . . . different," she decided. "Where exactly did

you go?"

 

The elevator doors opened again, and the second group of half-bloods joined us.

 

"Tell you later," I said. "Come on."

 

We made our way across the sky bridge into the streets of Olympus. The shops

were closed. The parks were empty. A couple of Muses sat on a bench strumming

flaming lyres, but their hearts didn't seem to be in it. A lone Cyclops swept

the street with an uprooted oak tree. A minor godling spotted us from a balcony