Free The Last Olympian by Rick Riordan Page A

her heels. “Hey, wait! I just meant—Clarisse, wait!”
    I watched the last sparks from Beckendorf’s fire curl into the afternoon sky. Then I headed toward the sword-fighting arena. I needed a break, and I wanted to see an old friend.

FIVE

I DRIVE MY DOG INTO A TREE
    Mrs. O’Leary saw me before I saw her, which was a pretty good trick considering she’s the size of a garbage truck. I walked into the arena, and a wall of darkness slammed into me.
    “WOOF!”
    The next thing I knew I was flat on the ground with a huge paw on my chest and an oversized Brillo pad tongue licking my face.
    “Ow!” I said. “Hey, girl. Good to see you too. Ow!”
    It took a few minutes for Mrs. O’Leary to calm down and get off me. By then I was pretty much drenched in dog drool. She wanted to play fetch, so I picked up a bronze shield and tossed it across the arena.
    By the way, Mrs. O’Leary is the world’s only friendly hellhound. I kind of inherited her when her previous owner died. She lived at camp, but Beckendorf . . . well, Beckendorf used to take care of her whenever I was gone. He had smelted Mrs. O’Leary’s favorite bronze chewing bone. He’d forged her collar with the little smiley face and a crossbones name tag. Next to me, Beckendorf had been her best friend.
    Thinking about that made me sad all over again, but I threw the shield a few more times because Mrs. O’Leary insisted.
    Soon she started barking—a sound slightly louder than an artillery gun—like she needed to go for a walk. The other campers didn’t think it was funny when she went to the bathroom in the arena. It had caused more than one unfortunate slip-and-slide accident. So I opened the gates of the arena, and she bounded straight toward the woods.
    I jogged after her, not too concerned that she was getting ahead. Nothing in the woods could threaten Mrs. O’Leary. Even the dragons and giant scorpions ran away when she came close.
    When I finally tracked her down, she wasn’t using the facilities. She was in a familiar clearing where the Council of Cloven Elders had once put Grover on trial. The place didn’t look so good. The grass had turned yellow. The three topiary thrones had lost all their leaves. But that’s not what surprised me. In the middle of the glade stood the weirdest trio I’d ever seen: Juniper the tree nymph, Nico di Angelo, and a very old, very fat satyr.
    Nico was the only one who didn’t seem freaked out by Mrs. O’Leary’s appearance. He looked pretty much like I’d seen him in my dream—an aviator’s jacket, black jeans, and a T-shirt with dancing skeletons on it, like one of those Day of the Dead pictures. His Stygian iron sword hung at his side. He was only twelve, but he looked much older and sadder.
    He nodded when he saw me, then went back to scratching Mrs. O’Leary’s ears. She sniffed his legs like he was the most interesting thing since rib-eye steaks. Being the son of Hades, he’d probably been traveling in all sorts of hellhound-friendly places.
    The old satyr didn’t look nearly so happy. “Will someone—what is this underworld creature doing in my forest!” He waved his arms and trotted on his hooves as if the grass were hot. “You there, Percy Jackson! Is this your beast?”
    “Sorry, Leneus,” I said. “That’s your name, right?”
    The satyr rolled his eyes. His fur was dust-bunny gray, and a spiderweb grew between his horns. His belly would’ve made him an invincible bumper car. “Well, of course I’m Leneus. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten a member of the Council so quickly. Now, call off your beast!”
    “WOOF!” Mrs. O’Leary said happily.
    The old satyr gulped. “Make it go away! Juniper, I will not help you under these circumstances!”
    Juniper turned toward me. She was pretty in a dryad-y way, with her purple gossamer dress and her elfish face, but her eyes were green-tinted with chlorophyll from crying.
    “Percy,” she sniffled. “I was just asking about Grover. I