We came in for a low pass, and I saw the Apollo campers retreating. They would

hide behind cars and snipe at the approaching army, setting off explosive arrows

and dropping caltrops in the road, building fiery barricades wherever they

could, dragging sleeping drivers out of their cars to get them out of harm's

way. But the enemy kept advancing. An entire phalanx of dracaenae marched in the

lead, their shields locked together, spear tips bristling over the top. An

occasional arrow would connect with their snaky trunks, or a neck, or a chink in

their armor, and the unlucky snake woman would disintegrate, but most of the

Apollo arrows glanced harmlessly off their shield wall. About a hundred more

monsters marched behind them.

 

Hellhounds leaped ahead of the line from time to time. Most were destroyed with

arrows, but one got hold of an Apollo camper and dragged him away. I didn't see

what happened to him next. I didn't want to know.

 

"There!" Annabeth called from the back of her pegasus.

 

Sure enough, in the middle of the invading legion was Old Beefhead himself.

 

The last time I'd seen the Minotaur, he'd been wearing nothing but his tighty

whities. I don't know why. Maybe he'd been shaken out of bed to chase me. This

time, he was prepared for battle.

 

From the waist down, he wore standard Greek battle gear — a kiltlike apron of

leather and metal flaps, bronze greaves covering his legs, and tightly wrapped