“Discreet is what we do,” said Grover, who had once blindly dive-bombed Medusa in a pair of flying shoes while screaming at the top of his lungs.
Ganymede sat up a little straighter. “How much do you know about my responsibilities on Mount Olympus?”
“You’re the cupbearer of the gods,” Annabeth said.
“Must be a sweet job,” Grover said dreamily. “Immortality, godly power, and you just have to serve drinks?”
Ganymede scowled. “It’s a horrible job.”
“Yeah, must be horrible.” Grover nodded. “All that . . . drink-pouring.”
“When it was just at feasts,” Ganymede said, “that was one thing. But now ninety percent of my orders are deliveries. Ares wants his nectar delivered on the battlefield. Aphrodite wants her usual with extra crushed ice and two maraschino cherries delivered to a sauna in Helsinki in fifteen minutes or less. Hephaestus . . . Don’t get me started on Hephaestus. This gig economy is killing me.”
“Okay,” I said. “How can we help?”
I was afraid he’d subcontract his delivery business to me, and I’d end up bearing cups all over the world.
“My most important symbol of office . . .” Ganymede said. “Can you guess what it is?”
I figured this must be a trick question. “Since you’re cupbearer of the gods, I’m going to guess . . . a cup?”
“Not just any cup!” Ganymede cried. “The chalice of the gods! The goblet of ultimate flavor! The only cup worthy of Zeus himself! And now . . .”
“Oh,” Annabeth said. “It’s missing, isn’t it?”
“Not missing,” said Ganymede miserably. “My cup has been stolen.”
Ganymede put his face in his hands and started to weep.
I looked at Annabeth and Grover, who both seemed as unsure as I was about how to comfort a crying god. I patted his shoulder. “There, there.”
That did not seem to help.
One of the Himbo Juice employees came over, his smile crumbling around the edges. “Is the smoothie not okay, sir? I can make you something else.”
“No.” Ganymede sniffled. “It’s just . . .” He gestured weakly at our juice drinks. “I can’t stand seeing so many cups. It’s too soon. Too soon.”
The employee flexed his pecs nervously, then made a hasty retreat.
“You know,” Grover said, “the kids at Camp Half-Blood make some great arts-and-crafts projects. They could probably fashion you a new goblet.”
The god shook his head. “It wouldn’t be the same.”
“Or you could look into single-serving cups made from recyclable material.”
“Grover,” Annabeth chided. “He wants his special cup.”
“I’m just saying, single servings might be more hygienic. All those gods sipping from the same goblet—？”
“You said it was stolen,” I interrupted. “Do you know who took it?”
Ganymede scowled. For the first time, I saw godly anger glowing in his eyes—a sign that this guy had more to him than just good looks and bling.
“I have some ideas,” he said. “But first, you have to promise that this remains confidential. The goblet makes drinks taste good to the gods. But if a mortal got hold of it . . . one sip from it would grant them immortality.”
Suddenly my Salty Sailor didn’t taste so special. My first thought was about all the random people who might find that cup, take a drink, and become immortal. The evil-eyed lady who served fish sticks at the AHS cafeteria. The dude who screamed at me to buy ice cream every time I passed his Mr. Happy Treat on First Avenue. The Wall Street broker who always cut in line at the coffee shop and assumed every order was his.
Based on my past experience, the last thing this world needed was more gods.
My second thought was: Why do the gods keep losing their magic items? It was like a job requirement for them: 1） become a god, 2） get a cool magic thing, 3） lose it, 4） ask a demigod to find it. Maybe they just enjoyed doing it, the way cats like knocking things off tables.
My next thought: “If it’s so powerful, why would you trust us to get it back?”
Ganymede stared at me. “I couldn’t trust anyone else! You’ve already turned down immortality once, Percy Jackson.”
He said this as if I had done something completely inexplicable, like ordering blueberries on a pizza. （Although come to think of it . . . that could work.）
And, I mean, yes, I did turn down immortality once. Zeus had offered me a minor godship after I saved Mount Olympus from the Titans a few years ago （certain rules and restrictions may apply）。 But I’d chosen systemic change instead. I’d asked the gods to stop ignoring their demigod kids.