¹On This Spring Day.

009.

               He must've cleaned up for the winter solstice, or used magic to make his form seem a little less hideous. Here in his own workshop, he apparently didn't care how he looked. He wore overalls smeared with oil and grime. Hephaestus was embroidered over the chest pocket. His leg creaked and clicked in its metal brace as he stood, and his left shoulder was lower than his right, so he seemed to be leaning even when he was standing up straight. His head was misshapen and bulging. He wore a permanent scowl. His black beard smoked and hissed. Every once in a while a small wildfire would erupt in his whiskers and then die out just as fast. His hands were the size of catcher mitts, but he handled the spider with amazing skill. He disassembled it in two seconds, then put it back together.

               "There," he muttered to himself. "Much better."

               The spider did a happy flip in his palm, shot a metallic web at the ceiling, and went swinging away.

               Hephaestus stared up at the five. "I didn't make you, did I?"

               "Uh," Annabeth said, "no, sir."

               "Good," the god grumbled. "Shoddy workmanship."

               He studied Annabeth, Violet, and Percy. "Half-bloods," he grunted. "Could be automatons, of course, but probably not."

               "We're not automatons," Violet insisted. "Um, we've met before, sir. The winter solstice."

               "We have?" the god asked absently. Violet got the feeling he didn't care one way or the other, it seemed he cared more about figuring out how she ticked—whether her jaw opened and closed with a hinge or a lever or whatever else. ( Part of her considered that a small victory; perhaps he didn't hold it against Violet for Aphrodite's cheating, especially when it wasn't her fault ). "Well then, if I didn't smash you to a pulp the first time we met, I suppose I won't have to do it now."

               He looked at Grover and frowned. "Satyr." Then he looked at Tyson, and his eyes twinkled. "Well, a Cyclops. Good, good. What are you doing traveling with this lot?"

               "Uh ..." said Tyson, staring in wonder at the god.

               "Yes, well said," Hephaestus agreed. "So, there'd better be a good reason you're disturbing me. The suspension on this Corolla is no small matter, you know."

               "Sir," Annabeth said hesitantly, "we're looking for Daedalus. We thought—"

               "Daedalus?" the god roared. His beard burst into flames and his black eyes glowed. "You want that old scoundrel? You dare to seek him out!"

               "Uh, yes, sir, please," Annabeth said.

               Hephaestus grumbled. "You're wasting your time."

               He frowned at something on his worktable and limped over to it. He picked up a lump of springs and metal plates and tinkered with them. In a few seconds, he was holding a bronze and silver falcon. It spread its metal wings, blinked its obsidian eyes, and flew around the room. Tyson laughed and clapped his hands. The bird landed on Tyson's shoulder and nipped his ear affectionately.

               Hephaestus regarded him. The god's scowl didn't change, but Violet thought his eyes looked softer. "I sense you have something to tell me, Cyclops."

               Tyson's smile faded. "Y-yes, lord. We met a Hundred-handed One."

               Hephaestus nodded, looking unsurprised. "Briares?"