The gravel crunched under my feet. The Cookie Monster mochi churned in my stomach. When I reached the edge of the playground, I realized how tranquil everything had become. No cars passed on the street. The breeze had died. The tree canopies spread motionless overhead like sheets of green ice.
The nectar bubble drifted toward the play structure. It floated up the climbing chains to the top of the miniature fort, then burst into flames.
Yeah . . . that was probably normal.
I glanced back at my friends.
Grover had stopped next to a big elm tree. His ear was pressed against the trunk as if he were listening for voices. His nectar droplet had vanished.
About fifty yards to his left, Annabeth stood at the first chess table, watching a game. The two old guys were hunched over their board, glowering at the pieces, but neither of them moved a muscle. Annabeth’s glowing nectar bubble had also disappeared.
Something was wrong.
I wanted to call out to her, to break whatever weird trance she was in, but my voice wouldn’t cooperate. The tense silence made me afraid to yell or attract attention.
I felt like something was rewiring my brain, changing the way I perceived time. The last time I’d had this sensation . . . I’d been twelve years old, standing on a beach in Santa Monica, when I first witnessed the power of Kronos.
“It is similar, yes,” said a voice behind me.
I turned, reaching for my pen-sword, but I felt like I was moving through gelatin. Standing on the play structure was an old man . . . or rather, what an old man might look like if he was born old and lived another thousand years.
He was as small as a first grader, his back curved in the shape of a fishing hook. His skin hung off his bones in sagging brown folds like moth-eaten curtains. He wore nothing but a loincloth, leaving me a great view of his bent stick legs, gnarled feet, and concave belly. His head reminded me of a boiled egg that had been allowed to sit and rot for a week. And his face . . .
The man’s fleshy nose was webbed with red capillaries . . . the most vibrant color in his whole body. His eyes were milky from cataracts. His mouth looked as if someone had punched in all his teeth with a metal pipe.
“Take a picture,” the old man grumbled. “It’ll last longer.”
I tried to speak. The gelatin air seemed to coat my lungs, making it hard to breathe. I took the tissue plugs out of my nose so I wouldn’t suffocate.
“What do you mean?” I croaked.
The old dude rolled his eyes. “I mean pictures last longer than—”
“Not that. What did you mean by It is similar?”
“My power,” he said. “It’s similar to the way Kronos stretches time.”
“How did you—”
“Know what you were thinking? Sonny boyo, when you get to be my age, nothing surprises. Besides, I know who you are, Percy Jackson. I’ve been watching you.”
The hairs rose on the nape of my neck. An old guy in a diaper had been watching me. That wasn’t creepy at all.
“I’m guessing you’re Gary?”
“Or Geras, if you prefer.” He raised a withered hand to stop my follow-up questions. “And, yes, I’m a god. I’ll give you a hint what I’m the god of. From my name, you get the word geriatric.”
My mind raced with all kinds of hideous possibilities. I was facing the god of adult incontinency products, bingo parlors, denture cream, fiber supplements . . . or maybe just yelling at crazy kids to get off your lawn. Then my rattled brain managed to put all those things together into one larger category.
“Oh,” I said. “God of old age?”
“Ding, ding.” Gary showed off his toothless gums. “Now perhaps you understand why I stole Ganymede’s little sippy cup.”
He held out his hand. In a flash of light, a ceramic vessel appeared floating above his palm, but it looked more like a flying saucer than a drinking cup. The bowl was wide and shallow with two oversize handles. I was pretty sure my mom had a salad bowl like that.
The exterior gleamed with black-and-gold scenes of the gods at a feast, their silhouettes outlined in threads of Celestial bronze. It was a fancy piece of pottery, but I wasn’t sure how anyone could pour nectar out of it.
“The chalice of the gods,” I guessed.
I wanted to add that of course I understood why Gary had stolen it. Unfortunately, I didn’t.
“So . . . since you’re already immortal, would the cup make you younger?” I asked. “Or has it been your lifelong dream to serve drinks?”
“Oh, that’s disappointing. . . .” Gary closed his fist and the chalice disappeared. “Perhaps I should have started with Annabeth Chase. I understand she’s smart.”