Percy Jackson and the Olympians: The Chalice of the Gods(10)

Grover brought us straight to Times Square—the noisiest, most crowded, most tourist-infested part of Manhattan. I tried to avoid Times Square as much as possible, which naturally meant I just kept getting sucked into it, usually to battle a monster, talk to a god, or hang from a billboard in my boxer shorts. (Long story.)

Grover stopped at a storefront I would have passed right by. For half a block, all the windows were covered in foil. Usually, that means the place is either out of business or super shady. Then I looked up at the enormous electronic sign above the entrance. I might have walked by it a dozen times before, but I’d never paid it any attention. In Times Square, all the flashy jumbo screens kind of blend together.

“No way,” I said.

Annabeth shook her head. “She really named her place Hebe Jeebies?”

“Afraid so,” Grover sighed.

“And how did you know about this place?” I asked.

His cheeks flushed. “They have great licorice ropes. You can’t pass by without smelling them!”

I couldn’t see anything through the windows. I definitely didn’t smell anything. Then again, I don’t have a satyr’s nose for licorice. It’s kind of like catnip for goat guys.

“It’s a candy store, then?” Annabeth asked.

“No, more like . . .” Grover tilted his head. “Actually, it’s easier to show you.”

I wasn’t sure traipsing into a goddess’s lair was the best idea, but Grover pushed through the doors and we followed. Because licorice, I guess.

Inside . . . well, imagine all the cheesiest entertainment centers from the 1990s got together and had a food baby. That was Hebe Jeebies.

Rows of Skee-Ball machines stood ready for action. A dozen Dance Dance Revolution platforms blinked and flashed, inviting us to boogie. Aisles with every arcade game I’d ever heard of, and dozens that I hadn’t, lined the vast, dimly lit warehouse, making the whole place a glowing labyrinth. (And labyrinth is a word I never use lightly.)

In the distance, I spotted a candy station with fill-your-own-bag dispensers and huge bins of colorful sweet stuff. On the other side of the warehouse were a cafeteria with picnic tables and a stage where robotic iguanas played musical instruments.

There was a ball pit the size of a house, a climbing structure that looked like a giant hamster habitat, a bumper-car course, and a ticket-exchange station with oversize stuffed animals for prizes.

The whole place smelled of pizza, pretzels, and industrial cleaner. And it was packed with families.

“I get it now,” said Annabeth, shivering. “This place does give me the heebie-jeebies.”

“I’ve been here a few times.” Grover’s expression was a combination of anxiety and hunger . . . which, come to think of it, was his usual expression. “I’ve never found the other end of the place.”

I looked at the happy kids running around obliviously and the parents who seemed just as thrilled to play games they probably remembered from their own childhoods.

“Okay,” I said, inching back toward the front door. “I’m getting strong Lotus Casino vibes in here . . . like low-rent Lotus Casino, but still . . .”

I didn’t have to explain what I meant. Years ago, we’d gotten stuck in a Vegas casino that offered a thousand reasons to never leave. We’d just barely escaped.

“It’s not a trap,” Grover said. “At least, I’ve never had any trouble leaving. These families . . . they come and go. They don’t seem to be stuck in time.”

He had a point. I didn’t spot anybody with bell-bottoms or 1950s haircuts, which was a good sign. A family walked by, their arms full of stuffed-animal prizes, and left the building with no problem.

“Then . . . what’s the catch?” Annabeth asked. “There’s always a catch.”

I nodded in agreement. I’d never walked into any establishment run by a Greek god, monster, or other immortal being that didn’t have a nasty downside. The more interesting the place looked, the more dangerous it was.

“I don’t know,” Grover admitted. “I usually just get licorice and leave. I keep a low profile.”

He frowned at me, as if worried I might do something high-profile like burn the place down. Honestly, that hurt. Just because I’ve been known to burn places down, blow things up, and unleash apocalyptic disasters wherever I go . . . that doesn’t mean I’m totally irresponsible.

“And you’re sure Hebe is here?” I asked.

“No, but . . .” Grover wriggled his shoulders. “You know that feeling you get when there’s a god around and you can’t see them, but you kind of feel like there’s a swarm of dung beetles on the back of your neck?”

“Not exactly . . .” I said.

“Also,” said Annabeth, “dung beetles is oddly specific.”

Grover brushed the metaphorical poop bugs off his neck. “Anyway, I’ve got that feeling now. We could ask the staff if Hebe’s around. If we can find someone.”

We moved into the arcade. I kept my hand at my side, ready to draw out Riptide, my pen-sword, though there didn’t seem to be much to fight except grade-school kids and video game bosses. I half expected the robot iguana band to charge us with banjo bayonets, but they just kept playing their programmed songs.

“Oh, my gods,” Annabeth said. “Stackers. I haven’t played that since . . .”