"Hey." Annabeth slid next to me on the bench. "Happy birthday."

 

She was holding a huge misshapen cupcake with blue icing.

 

I stared at her. "What?"

 

"It's August 18th," she said. "Your birthday, right?"

 

I was stunned. It hadn't even occurred to me, but she was right. I had turned

sixteen this morning — the same morning I'd made the choice to give Luke the

knife. The prophecy had come true right on schedule, and I hadn't even thought

about the fact that it was my birthday.

 

"Make a wish," she said.

 

"Did you bake this yourself?" I asked.

 

"Tyson helped."

 

"That explains why it looks like a chocolate brick," I said. "With extra blue

cement."

 

Annabeth laughed.