Percy Jackson and the Olympians: The Chalice of the Gods

I mouthed, Okay, bye.

I slowly lowered the edge of the tablecloth. It would not protect me from the lion, but maybe he would forget about me?

“Then,” Zeus was saying, “my loving mother showed up! And you will never guess what she did!”

Rawwwwwr, said the lion.

Everyone around the table laughed.

“That’s right, Lucius!” Zeus agreed. “She roared! After that . . .”

I risked another peek, just to see if the lion was about to eat my face. Instead, Lucius had his head tilted and eyes closed in a look of utter bliss as Rhea scratched his ear, probably in an effort to keep him quiet.

I did meet the gaze of someone else, though. Apparently, she had peeked under the table to see the cute kitty. Now, from across the table, Athena was staring right at me.

Our eye-lock lasted less than a second, but the thing about Athena is that she is so smart, she can just glance at you and you feel like you’ve gone through a silent interrogation under a hot spotlight. The conversation went something like this:

Athena: Why?

Me: Quest. Sorry. Trying to hide.

Athena: Under a pastry cart? That is so clichéd.

Me: Yeah, I know.

Athena: I can’t believe my daughter is still dating you.

Me: Love is a mystery. Please don’t kill me?

Athena: . . . . . .

Me: . . . . . .

She popped her head back up while Zeus went on with his story. I waited for the goddess to interrupt and reveal my identity.

“So anyway, the first llama—” Zeus was saying.

“Ganymede?” Athena interrupted. “Would you be a sweetheart and take that pastry cart back to the kitchen? I don’t see any clotted cream for the scones, and that’s a deal-breaker.”

Ganymede stuttered, “Uh, I—”

“I want Ganymede to hear the end of the story!” Zeus protested.

“But, Father,” Athena said, calm and collected, “you know how Rhea loves her scones.”

There followed a moment of electric tension—I could imagine storm clouds forming around Zeus’s chair.

“Hmph,” he said at last. I couldn’t see him, but I swore I could feel the moment he let go of Ganymede’s wrist. “Hurry back.”

“Or don’t,” Hera muttered. “Take your time.”

The cart started to move. I couldn’t tell if it was shaking because of the wheels or because Ganymede was coming apart.

Behind us, Zeus mumbled, “I do love watching him walk away. . . .”

“Could you not at the brunch table?” Hera asked through what sounded like clenched teeth.

“So where was I?”

“Crete,” Hermes said. “Llamas.”

The double doors swung open, and we were safely in the kitchen.

Gasping, I rolled out from under the pastry cart. I realized I’d been holding my breath for way too long.

“Oh, baby!” said Ganymede. “Come to Papa, you beautiful thing!”

Thankfully, he was not talking to me. He made gimme-gimme hands at the chalice. I wondered why he just didn’t grab it. Then it occurred to me I had to hand it over. I had to complete the quest and place the cup into his possession.

“Chalice for you, sir,” I said, and managed to lift the cup.

Ganymede hugged it, kissed its rim, examined it for dents and dings. “Oh, Percy Jackson! You did it! I don’t know how to thank you!”

“How about a recommendation letter?”

Ganymede blinked. “Right! Of course!” A piece of paper floated down from nowhere, straight onto my chest.

I looked at both sides. “It’s blank.”

“Just dictate whatever you want me to say. The words will write themselves. When you’re done, as long as you haven’t gone overboard with the praise, my signature will appear at the bottom. It’s all completely legitimate and legal.”

All this . . . for a blank piece of paper.

I could have laughed or sobbed, but that wouldn’t have done any good. And it would have attracted the attention of the other gods.

“Thanks,” I said, getting to my feet. “So . . . we’re done?”

“Now I have to fill this chalice,” Ganymede said. “And clotted cream! I need some clotted cream! But yes. We’re done. I won’t forget this, Percy Jackson. Good luck in college!”

As Ganymede rushed around the kitchen, Zeus called out, “Ganymede, where are you? I’m getting to the good part!”

“Coming, Lord Zeus!” Ganymede called. “Just . . . filling my chalice, which has been in my possession this entire time!”

He winced, then returned to work. Clotted cream obtained and chalice filled, he rushed the cart back into the dining hall.

I glanced at Barbara the dryad. “Thanks for your help. I’ll arrange that meet and greet with Annabeth.”

“Awesome! It must be such a thrill to work for her.”

“Um, yep.”

I turned and nearly jumped out of my jeans. Chef Naomi was standing one inch away, glaring at me.

“Bit of a letdown, doing quests for the gods?” she asked. “Kind of the way I feel every time I make a meal and none of them even says thank you.”

“You know,” I said, “it’s a living.”

She patted me on the shoulder. “Would you like a demi bag for the road? Then you can get out of my kitchen.”





The worst part of it all?

Demi bags—as in bags of leftovers for demigods—were a real thing.

Naomi gave me an insulated white sack with DEMI BAG! written in red letters above a sketch of smiling children with their tongues hanging out, waiting for tasty treats.

I’m not sure what I found more insulting—the fact that the gods treated their kids like pets, or the fact that Poseidon had never once brought me any leftovers. Naomi loaded me up with primo pastries, though she didn’t include any clotted cream.

Somehow, I made it back across the Olympian bridge without being accosted by minor gods or rabid dryad fans demanding Annabeth’s autograph.

As I took the elevator down to the mortal world, “I Got You, Babe” was still playing. Gods almighty, how long was that song? Or maybe the Olympians just had it on a loop to torture their visitors.

I realized I was shaking from delayed fear. All the adrenaline rushed out of my body. I could still see Athena’s eyes boring into me, so much worse than the gaze of a lion. Unlike Lucius, the goddess of wisdom couldn’t be pacified by a scratch behind the ear—or at least, I wasn’t going to be the one to try.

I took off Annabeth’s cap, which helped a little. The itching stopped immediately. I expected my skin to be covered in red welts, but my arms looked no different. By the time I reached the lobby, I was feeling almost calm again.

The doors slid open. I took a deep breath and strolled out of the elevator, doing my best to act casual. I dropped my stolen key card near the front desk. There was no sign of Grover, though when I passed one of the mortal guards, she was humming “Get Lucky.” The sentry at the front desk didn’t try to stop me, but I’m pretty sure he narrowed his eyes when he saw my demi bag.

Once out on Fifth Avenue, I spotted Grover at the end of the block, waving his sparkly Hula-Hoop at me.

“Lobby security let me off with a warning!” he said as he trotted up. “And did you— Ooh, a demi bag! Thanks!”

Grover dove in like a horse with a grain sack . . . which I mean in a completely complimentary and positive way.

“Yum,” he said. “You know what these pastries need?”

“Clotted cream?” I guessed.

He got a dreamy look on his face. “I was going to say strawberry jelly. But yeah . . . clotted cream. Anyway, tell me what happened!”

I gave him the rundown on my fabulous brunch experience.

“Llamas in Crete?” Grover frowned. “You sure they weren’t vicu?a or guanaco?”

“You know, I didn’t get the chance to ask while I was hiding under the pastry cart.”

“That’s a cliché. But you met Lucius the lion! I hear he tells hilarious jokes. . . .” Grover must’ve registered the blank look on my face. “Which of course you didn’t have time for. It sounds like everything worked out, though!”