𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐄! percy jackson¹

xx . Tantalus

The other cabins filled up the space: Ares, Hephaestus, Hermes Demeter, Aphrodite, Dionysus and Poseidon ( Percy looked very out of place beside Tyson ). Naids came up from the canoe lake. Dyrads melted out of the trees and from the meadow, came a dozen satyrs, who reminded me painfully of Grover. I glanced over at the Hermes who filed in their table ( or rather, squeezed in, fighting for a good seat ), and for a second, I found myself looking for Luke—and then I remembered, and then I scowled and looked away.

Now, the Hermes cabin was led by Travis and Connor Stoll. They weren't twins, even though they looked so much alike it didn't matter—but Travis was older, I wasn't sure by how much, though. They were both very tall and skinny, with mops of brown hair that hung in their eyes. They had the signature Hermes elfish look: upturned eyebrows, sarcastic smiles and a gleam of mischief in their eyes that whenever they looked at you ... it gave you a feeling that they had put a spider in your hair—trust me, it's happened before.

Once everyone was sitting down, Jenna caught eye of Tyson and said rather loudly, "Who invited that?"

I quickly smacked her shoulder to shut her up when Percy sent a glare our way. I may not like Tyson, but Percy's my friend, and when she insulted the Cyclops, it was like she was insulting him in turn.

From the head table, Mr D drawled, "Well, well, if it isn't Peter Johnson. My millennium is complete."

Percy's jaw clenched, "Percy Jackson ... sir."

Dionysus sipped his Diet Coke. "Yes. Well, as you young people say these days, whatever."

He hadn't changed. He was wearing his usual leopard-pattern Hawaiian shirt, walking shorts and tennis shoes with black socks. His hair so black it looked purple in the light, and a blotchy red face that made him look like a Las Vegas tourist who'd stayed up too late in the casinos. Behind him, a nervous-looking satyr was peeling the skins off grapes and handing them to Mr D one at a time.

Dionysus was the god of wine. Zeus appointed him director of Camp Half-Blood to dry out for a hundred years as punishment for chasing an off-limits wood nymph.

Next to him, where Chiron usually sat ( or stood, in centaur form, really ) was someone I never saw before. The man was pale, with a terribly thin face and body, dressed in a threadbare orange prisoner's jumpsuit. The number of his pocket read 0001. Under his eyes were dark blue shadows, his fingernails were dirty and his hair was grey and badly cut. His eyes were the worse part about him. They looked fractured—Angry and frustrated and hungry all at the same time. At it wasn't only that ... he looked dead. It took me a second to realise that he was. That this man was Tantalus.

"This boy," Dionysus told him, "you need to watch. Poseidon's child, you know."

"Ah!" the prisoner said. "That one."

His tone made it obvious that he and Mr D had discussed Percy already at length.

"I am Tantalus," he said, smiling coldly. "On special assignment here until, well, until my Lord Dionysus decides otherwise. And you, Perseus Jackson, I do expect you to refrain from causing any more trouble."

"Trouble?" Percy demanded.

Mr D snapped his fingers. A newspaper appeared in his hands—the front page of today's New York Post. What looked like Percy's yearbook picture from Meriwether Prep was printed right underneath the headline that I couldn't make out, but I could tell it was bad.