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“Quiet!” Euryale snapped. “As for you, Percy Jackson, it’s true you bear the mark of Achilles. That makes you a little tougher to kill. But don’t worry. We’ll find a way.”

“The mark of what?” “Achilles,” Stheno said cheerfully. “Oh, he was gorgeous! Dipped in the River Styx as a child, you know, so he was invulnerable except for a tiny spot on his ankle. That’s what happened to you, dear. Someone must’ve dumped you in the Styx and made your skin like iron. But not to worry. Heroes like you always have a weak spot. We just have to find it, and then we can kill you. Won’t that be lovely? Have a Cheese ’n’ Wiener!”

Percy tried to think. He didn’t remember any dip in the Styx. Then again, he didn’t remember much of anything. His skin didn’t feel like iron, but it would explain how he’d held out so long against the gorgons.

Maybe if he just fell down the mountain . . . would he sur- vive? He didn’t want to risk it—not without something to slow the fall, or a sled, or . . .

He looked at Stheno’s large silver platter of free samples. Hmm . . . R e c o n s i d e r i n g ? S t h e n o a s k e d . V e r y w i s e , d e a r . I a d d e d

some gorgon’s blood to these, so your death will be quick and painless.”

Percy’s throat constricted. “You added your blood to the Cheese ’n’ Wieners?”

“Just a little.” Stheno smiled. “A little nick on my arm, but you’re sweet to be concerned. Blood from our right side

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