He stepped off the porch and leveled his golden spear. He didn’t like fighting up close. He was too slow and bulky. He’d done okay during the war games, but this was real. There were no giant eagles ready to snatch him up and take him to the medics if he made a mistake.
You can be anything. His mother’s voice echoed in his mind.
Great, he thought. I want to be good with a spear. And immune to poison—and fire.
Something told Frank his wish had not been granted. The spear felt just as awkward in his hands.
Patches of flame still smoldered on the hillside. The acrid smoke burned in Frank’s nose. The withered grass crunched under his feet.
He thought about those stories his mother used to tell—generations of heroes who had battled Hercules, fought dragons, and sailed monster-infested seas. Frank didn’t understand how he could have evolved from a line like that, or how his family had migrated from Greece through the Roman Empire all the way to China, but some unsettling ideas were starting to form. For the first time, he started to wonder about this Prince of Pylos, and his great-grandfather Shen Lun’s disgrace at Camp Jupiter, and what the family powers might be.
The gift has never kept our family safe, Grandmother had warned.
A reassuring thought as Frank hunted poisonous fire-breathing devil snakes.
The night was quiet except for the crackle of brush fires. Every time a breeze made the grass rustle, Frank thought about the grain spirits who’d captured Hazel. Hopefully they’d gone south with the giant Polybotes. Frank didn’t need any more problems right now.
He crept downhill, his eyes stinging from the smoke. Then, about twenty feet ahead, he saw a burst of flame.
He considered throwing his spear. Stupid idea. Then he’d be without a weapon. Instead he advanced toward the fire.
He wished he had the gorgon’s blood vials, but they were back at the boat. He wondered if gorgon blood could cure basilisk poison.…But even if he had the vials and managed to choose the right one, he doubted he’d have time to take it before he crumbled to dust like his bow.
He emerged in a clearing of burned grass and found himself face-to-face with a basilisk.
The snake rose up on its tail. It hissed, and expanded the collar of white spikes around its neck. Little crown, Frank remembered. That’s what “basilisk” meant. He had thought basilisks were huge dragon like monsters that could petrify you with their eyes. Somehow the real basilisk was even more terrible. As tiny as it was, this extra-small package of fire, poison, and evil would be much harder to kill than a large, bulky lizard. Frank had seen how fast it could move.
The monster fixed its pale yellow eyes on Frank.
Why wasn’t it attacking?
Frank’s golden spear felt cold and heavy. The dragon-tooth point dipped toward the ground all on its own—like a dowsing rod searching for water.
“Stop that.” Frank struggled to the lift the spear. He’d have enough trouble jabbing the monster without his spear fighting against him. Then he heard the grass rustle on either side of him. The other two basilisks slithered into the clearing.
Frank had walked straight into an ambush.
FRANK SWEPT HIS SPEAR BACK AND FORTH. “Stay back!” His voice sounded squeaky. “I’ve got .. . um…amazing powers—and stuff.”
The basilisks hissed in three-part harmony. Maybe they were laughing.
The spear tip was almost too heavy to lift now, as if the jagged white triangle of bone was trying to touch the earth. Then something clicked in the back of Frank’s mind: Mars had said the tip was a dragon’s tooth. Hadn’t there been some story about dragon’s teeth planted in the ground? Something he’d read in monster class at camp…?
The basilisks circled him, taking their time. Maybe they were hesitating because of the spear. Maybe they just couldn’t believe how stupid Frank was.
It seemed like madness, but Frank let the spear tip drop. He drove it into the ground. Crack.
When he lifted it out, the tip was gone—broken off in the dirt.
Wonderful. Now he had a golden stick.
Some crazy part of him wanted to bring out his piece of firewood. If he was going to die anyway, maybe he could set off a massive blaze—incinerate the basilisks, so at least his friends could get away.
Before he could get up the courage, the ground rumbled at his feet. Dirt spewed everywhere, and a skeletal hand clawed the air. The basilisks hissed and backed up.
Frank couldn’t blame them. He watched in horror as a human skeleton crawled out of the ground. It took on flesh as if someone were pouring gelatin over its bones, covering them in glowing, transparent gray skin. Then ghostly clothes enveloped it—a muscle shirt, camo pants, and army boots. Everything about the creature was gray: gray clothes on gray flesh on gray bones.
It turned toward Frank. Its skull grinned beneath an expressionless gray face. Frank whimpered like a puppy. His legs shook so badly he had to support himself with the spear shaft. The skeleton warrior was waiting, Frank realized—waiting for orders.