Free The Son of Sobek by Rick Riordan Page B

for how stupid I’d been.
    My lungs burned. I was blacking out. I picked a word of power, summoned all my concentration and prepared to speak.
    Suddenly the monster lurched upwards. He roared, which sounded really weird from the inside, and his throat contracted round me like I was being squeezed from a toothpaste tube. I shot out of the creature’s mouth and tumbled into the marsh grass.
    Somehow I got to my feet. I staggered around, half blind, gasping and covered with crocodile goo, which smelled like a scummy fish tank.
    The surface of the river churned with bubbles. The crocodile was gone, but standing in the marsh about twenty feet away was a teenage guy in jeans and a faded orange T-shirt that said CAMP something. I couldn’t read the rest. He looked a little older than me – maybe seventeen – with tousled black hair and sea-green eyes. What really caught my attention was his sword – a straight double-edged blade glowing with faint bronze light.
    I’m not sure which of us was more surprised.
    For a second, Camper Boy just stared at me. He noted my
khopesh
and wand, and I got the feeling that he actually
saw
these things as they were. Normal mortals have trouble seeing magic. Their brains can’t interpret it, so they might look at my sword, for instance, and see a baseball bat or a walking stick.
    But this kid … he was different. I figured he must be a magician. The only problem was I’d met most of the magicians in the North American nomes, and I’d never seen this guy before. I’d also never seen a sword like that. Everything about him seemed …
un-Egyptian.
    ‘The crocodile,’ I said, trying to keep my voice calm and even. ‘Where did it go?’
    Camper Boy frowned. ‘You’re welcome.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘I stuck that croc in the rump.’ He mimicked the action with his sword. ‘That’s why it vomited you up. So, you’re welcome. What were you doing in there?’
    I’ll admit I wasn’t in the best mood. I smelled. I hurt. And, yeah, I was a little embarrassed: the mighty Carter Kane, head of Brooklyn House, had been disgorged from a croc’s mouth like a giant hairball.
    ‘I was resting,’ I snapped. ‘What do you
think
I was doing? Now, who are you, and why are you fighting my monster?’
    ‘
Your
monster?’ The guy trudged towards me through the water. He didn’t seem to have any trouble with the mud. ‘Look, man, I don’t know who you are, but that crocodile has been terrorizing Long Island for weeks. I take that kind of personally, as this is my home turf. A few days ago, it ate one of our pegasi.’
    A jolt went up my spine like I’d backed into an electric fence. ‘Did you say
pegasi
?’
    He waved the question aside. ‘Is it your monster or not?’
    ‘I don’t own it!’ I growled. ‘I’m trying to
stop
it! Now, where –’
    ‘The croc headed that way.’ He pointed his sword to the south. ‘I would already be chasing it, but you surprised me.’
    He sized me up, which was disconcerting since he was half a foot taller. I still couldn’t read his T-shirt except for the word CAMP . Round his neck hung a leather strap with some colourful clay beads, like a kid’s arts-and-crafts project. He wasn’t carrying a magician’s pack or a wand. Maybe he kept them in the Duat? Or maybe he was just a delusional mortal who’d accidentally found a magic sword and thought he was a superhero. Ancient relics can really mess with your mind.
    Finally he shook his head. ‘I give up. Son of Ares? You’ve got to be a half-blood, but what happened to your sword? It’s all bent.’
    ‘It’s a
khopesh.
’ My shock was rapidly turning to anger. ‘It’s supposed to be curved.’
    But I wasn’t thinking about the sword.
    Camper Boy had just called me a
half-blood
? Maybe I hadn’t heard him right. Maybe he meant something else. But my dad was African-American. My mom was white.
Half-blood
wasn’t a word I liked.
    ‘Just get out of here,’ I said, gritting my teeth. ‘I’ve got a