Percy Jackson and the Olympians: the lightning thief by Rick Riordan Read Free Book Online Page B

and every one of my teeth hurt.
    On the table next to me was a tall drink. It looked like iced apple juice, with a green straw and a paper parasol stuck through a maraschino cherry.
    My hand was so weak I almost dropped the glass once I got my fingers around it.
    "Careful," a familiar voice said.
    Grover was leaning against the porch railing, looking like he hadn't slept in a week. Under one arm, he cradled a shoe box. He was wearing blue jeans, Converse hi-tops and a bright orange T-shirt that said CAMP HALF-BLOOD. Just plain old Grover, Not the goat boy. So maybe I'd had a nightmare. Maybe my mom was okay. We were still on vacation, and we'd stopped here at this big house for some reason. And ...
    "You saved my life," Grover said. "I... well, the least I could do ... I went back to the hill. I thought you might want this."
    Reverently, he placed the shoe box in my lap.
    Inside was a black-and-white bull's horn, the base jagged from being broken off, the tip splattered with dried blood. It hadn't been a nightmare.
    "The Minotaur," I said.
    "Urn, Percy, it isn't a good idea—"
    "That's what they call him in the Greek myths, isn't it?" I demanded. "The Minotaur. Half man, half bull."
    Grover shifted uncomfortably. "You've been out for two days. How much do you remember?"
    "My mom. Is she really ..."
    He looked down.
    I stared across the meadow. There were groves of trees, a winding stream, acres of strawberries spread out under the blue sky. The valley was surrounded by rolling hills, and the tallest one, directly in front of us, was the one with the huge pine tree on top. Even that looked beautiful in the sunlight.
    My mother was gone. The whole world should be black and cold. Nothing should look beautiful.
    "I'm sorry," Grover sniffled. "I'm a failure. I'm—I'm the worst satyr in the world." He moaned, stomping his foot so hard it came off. I mean, the Converse hi-top came off. The inside was filled with Styrofoam, except for a hoof-shaped hole.
    "Oh, Styx!" he mumbled.
    Thunder rolled across the clear sky.
    As he struggled to get his hoof back in the fake foot, I thought, Well, that settles it. Grover was a satyr. I was ready to bet that if I shaved his curly brown hair, I'd find tiny horns on his head. But I was too miserable to care that satyrs existed, or even minotaurs. All that meant was my mom really had been squeezed into nothingness, dissolved into yellow light. I was alone. An orphan. I would have to live with ... Smelly Gabe? No. That would never happen. I would live on the streets first. I would pretend I was seventeen and join the army. I'd do something.
    Grover was still sniffling. The poor kid—poor goat, satyr, whatever—looked as if he expected to be hit.
    I said, "It wasn't your fault."
    "Yes, it was. I was supposed to protect you."
    "Did my mother ask you to protect me?"
    "No. But that's my job. I'm a keeper. At least... I was."
    "But why ..." I suddenly felt dizzy, my vision swimming.
    "Don't strain yourself," Grover said. "Here." He helped me hold my glass and put the straw to my lips.
    I recoiled at the taste, because I was expecting apple juice. It wasn't that at all. It was chocolate-chip cookies. Liquid cookies. And not just any cookies—my mom's homemade blue chocolate-chip cookies, buttery and hot, with the chips still melting. Drinking it, my whole body felt warm and good, full of energy. My grief didn't go away, but I felt as if my mom had just brushed her hand against my cheek, given me a cookie the way she used to when I was small, and told me everything was going to be okay.
    Before I knew it, I'd drained the glass. I stared into it, sure I'd just had a warm drink, but the ice cubes hadn't even melted.
    "Was it good?" Grover asked.
    I nodded.
    "What did it taste like?" He sounded so wistful, I felt guilty.
    "Sorry," I said. "I should've let you taste."
    His eyes got wide. "No! That's not what I meant. I just... wondered."
    "Chocolate-chip cookies," I said. "My mom's. Homemade." He sighed.