Percy Jackson and the Olympians: The Chalice of the Gods(56)

Naomi studied me with the same distrustful expression I was giving the food.

“So why did Grover . . . ?” Her voice trailed off as I showed her the chalice. “I see. You’re not supposed to have that.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I know.”

She scratched under her hairnet. “Are you a god, then?”

A line from an old movie flitted through my head: When someone asks you if you’re a god, you say yes!

I said, “No.”

“Right.” She hesitated. “This would explain why Ganymede is out there sweating Greek fire.”

“I can’t really comment,” I said. “But if you could signal him to come in here—”

“Oh, no.” Naomi folded her arms. She scowled at Annabeth’s Yankees cap in a way that made me think invisibility hats were rude in her kitchen and also ineffective. “I will pretend I don’t see you. Nobody will bother you in here. But if you want to get Ganymede’s attention, you’ll have to do it yourself. He’s right through there.” She pointed at the double doors. “Can’t miss him. He’s the one sweating—”

“Greek fire. Got it. I don’t suppose I could borrow a waiter’s outfit and maybe a fake mustache?”

Naomi grunted. “Friend of Maron. That’s hilarious.” She marched away to check on her soufflés.

I figured that was a no on the waiter’s costume. Since Annabeth’s invisibility cap wasn’t doing much more than making me look out of place and giving me a skin rash, I needed another plan.

I made my way over to the double doors. I waited for a dryad server to go through, then put my foot in between them, keeping them open just enough to peek through the crack.

I’d never seen Zeus’s private palace before. The few times I’d been to Olympus, I’d always made a beeline from the elevators to the gods’ council chamber, which is what you have to do when you’re delivering doomsday weapons or trying to keep the Titans from destroying the world.

Zeus’s dining room looked like an ancient Roman feast hall crossed with a Beverly Hills party pad. In the central conversation pit, gold-embroidered purple sofas surrounded a table laden with platters of fruit. The gold cutlery and dinnerware gleamed so brightly I thought my eyes would melt. Bordering the atrium were alabaster columns etched with gold lightning bolts, just in case you forgot whose palace you were in. I was surprised Zeus hadn’t monogrammed them . . . although maybe he had. If his monogram was just a Z, that was basically the same as a lightning bolt, right? Mind blown.

The view was suitably impressive—vast open balconies overlooking the other Olympian mansions where the lesser-schmuck gods were forced to live. But what really got me were the games. Lined up along the outer walls, every conceivable Zeus-themed arcade machine blinked and flashed—King of Olympus pinball, Mighty Zeus slots, even Lightning God 3000, which I remembered playing once on Coney Island. I wasn’t surprised that Zeus would collect his own memorabilia. That seemed very on-brand. But the fact that he would display it in his dining room was some god-level narcissism. Like, Why look at these amazing views when you can select my avatar in multiplayer mode and realize how much your powers suck compared to mine? I wondered if he sourced his machines from the same wholesaler as Hebe Jeebies.

I forced my ADHD brain to stop obsessing about the blinking lights and focus on the brunch guests instead. Plenty of old friends and frenemies lounged on the sofas. At the head of the table sat the big guy himself, the O.Z., chillaxing in a purple velour toga and gold sandals. Because obviously, if you are a god and you can look like anything you want, this is the look you would choose.

To his left was my buddy Hera, goddess of making Percy miserable. She looked regal in her sleeveless white dress and elegant braided hairdo, as if to make a point of how gross her husband was.

To Zeus’s right, with her back to me, was a woman I assumed was Rhea, queen of the Titans, aka Grandma Goddess. I’d expected her to look older than the gods, because she was probably pushing six thousand by now, but of course immortals don’t have to show their age. Brown-blond hair cascaded down her back in a waterfall of ringlets. She wore a tie-dyed caftan-style dress with silver bangles on each arm. Curled up asleep at her feet was a lion. Just another apex predator at the table.

Other celebrities in the brunch pit included Athena, Hermes, and Demeter . . . because of course the grain goddess would show up for a morning meal. There were a couple of other guests I didn’t recognize, either because they’d changed their appearance or because I hadn’t met them yet. And standing behind Zeus, trying to figure out what to do with his empty, chalice-free hands, was Ganymede.

He was literally sweating Greek fire. Every so often, a drop of glistening incendiary liquid would pop and smoke on the back of his neck. So far, no one else in the room seemed to be noticing, or maybe he always did that when he served at the boss’s table.

Zeus was holding forth about all the delicacies he had ordered for his mother’s special brunch day. Apparently, she hadn’t been to Olympus in a very long time, and nobody was allowed to start eating or drinking until Zeus finished his speech about how awesome she was. All their cups were empty.

Good. Now all I had to do was get the chalice into Ganymede’s hands without being noticed. It seemed so doable, and yet . . .

I stared at the cupbearer, willing him to look in my direction. Finally, as Zeus was extolling the virtues of phoenix eggs Benedict (they have a spicy kick!), Ganymede glanced at the kitchen doors. After a moment of hazy confusion, he saw me holding up the chalice.