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11 / Percy

can cure anything, you know, but blood from our left side is deadly—”

“You dimwit!” Euryale screeched. “You’re not supposed to tell him that! He won’t eat the wieners if you tell him they’re poisoned!”

Stheno looked stunned. “He won’t? But I said it would be quick and painless.”

“Never mind!” Euryale’s fingernails grew into claws. “We’ll kill him the hard way—just keep slashing until we find the weak spot. Once we defeat Percy Jackson, we’ll be more famous than Medusa! Our patron will reward us greatly!”

Percy gripped his sword. He’d have to time his move perfectly—a few seconds of confusion, grab the platter with his left hand . . .

Keep them talking, he thought. “Before you slash me to bits,” he said, “who’s this patron you mentioned?”

Euryale sneered. “The goddess Gaea, of course! The one who brought us back from oblivion! You won’t live long enough to meet her, but your friends below will soon face her wrath. Even now, her armies are marching south. At the Feast of Fortune, she’ll awaken, and the demigods will be cut down like—like—”

“Like our low prices at Bargain Mart!” Stheno suggested. “Gah!” Euryale stormed toward her sister. Percy took the opening. He grabbed Stheno’s platter, scattering poisoned Cheese ’n’ Wieners, and slashed Riptide across Euryale’s waist, cutting her in half.

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