The Battle of the Labyrinth by Rick Riordan Page A

saltwater fountain, brighter and more urgent than the night before. It was almost like the water was humming. I got out of bed and approached.
    No voice spoke out of the water this time, asking for a deposit. I got the feeling the fountain was waiting for me to make the first move. I probably should’ve gone back to bed. Instead I thought about what I’d seen last night—the weird image of Nico at the banks of the River Styx.
    “You’re trying to tell me something,” I said.
    No response from the fountain.
    “All right,” I said. “Show me Nico di Angelo.”
    I didn’t even throw a coin in, but this time it didn’t matter. It was like some other force had control of the water besides Iris the messenger goddess. The water shimmered. Nico appeared, but he was no longer in the Underworld. He was standing in a graveyard under a starry sky. Giant willow trees loomed all around him.
    He was watching some gravediggers at work. I heard shovels and saw dirt flying out of a hole. Nico was dressed in a black cloak. The night was foggy. It was warm and humid, and frogs were croaking. A large Wal-Mart bag sat next to Nico’s feet.
    “Is it deep enough yet?” Nico asked. He sounded irritated.
    “Nearly, my lord.” It was the same ghost I’d seen Nico with before, the faint shimmering image of a man. “But, my lord, I tell you, this is unnecessary. You already have me for advice.”
    “I want a second opinion!” Nico snapped his fingers, and the digging stopped. Two figures climbed out of the hole. They weren’t people. They were skeletons in ragged clothes.
    “You are dismissed,” Nico said. “Thank you.”
    The skeletons collapsed into piles of bones.
    “You might as well thank the shovels,” the ghost complained. “They have as much sense.”
    Nico ignored him. He reached into his Wal-Mart bag and pulled out a twelve-pack of Coke. He popped open a can. Instead of drinking it, he poured it into the grave.
    “Let the dead taste again,” he murmured. “Let them rise and take this offering. Let them remember.”
    He dropped the rest of the Cokes into the grave and pulled out a white paper bag decorated with cartoons. I hadn’t seen one in years, but I recognized it—a McDonald’s Happy Meal.
    He turned it upside down and shook the fries and hamburger into the grave.
    “In my day, we used animal blood,” the ghost mumbled. “It’s perfectly good enough. They can’t taste the difference.”
    “I will treat them with respect,” Nico said.
    “At least let me keep the toy,” the ghost said.
    “Be quiet!” Nico ordered. He emptied another twelve-pack of soda and three more Happy Meals into the grave, then began chanting in Ancient Greek. I caught only some of the words—a lot about the dead and memories and returning from the grave. Real happy stuff.
    The grave started to bubble. Frothy brown liquid rose to the top like the whole thing was filling with soda. The fog thickened. The frogs stopped croaking. Dozens of figures began to appear among the gravestones: bluish, vaguely human shapes. Nico had summoned the dead with Coke and cheeseburgers.
    “There are too many,” the ghost said nervously. “You don’t know your own powers.”
    “I’ve got it under control,” Nico said, though his voice sounded fragile. He drew his sword—a short blade made of solid black metal. I’d never seen anything like it. It wasn’t celestial bronze or steel. Iron, maybe? The crowd of shades retreated at the sight of it.
    “One at a time,” Nico commanded.
    A single figure floated forward and knelt at the pool. It made slurping sounds as it drank. Its ghostly hands scooped French fries out of the pool. When it stood again, I could see it much more clearly—a teenage guy in Greek armor. He had curly hair and green eyes, a clasp shaped like a seashell on his cloak.
    “Who are you?” Nico said. “Speak.”
    The young man frowned as if trying to remember. Then he spoke in a voice like dry, crumpling paper: “I am