The Titan's Curse by Rick Riordan

having an argument with one of the Hunters, and I decided I’d better not get involved.
    After that, I sat in the empty chariot stands and sulked. Down at the archery fields, Chiron was conducting target practice. I knew he’d be the best person to talk to. Maybe he could give me some advice, but something held me back. I had a feeling Chiron would try to protect me, like he always did. He might not tell me everything he knew.
    I looked the other direction. At the top of Half-Blood Hill, Mr. D and Argus were feeding the baby dragon that guarded the Golden Fleece.
    Then it occurred to me: no one would be in the Big House. There was someone else . . . some thing else I could ask for guidance.
    My blood was humming in my ears as I ran into the house and took the stairs. I’d only done this once before, and I still had nightmares about it. I opened the trap door and stepped into the attic.
    The room was dark and dusty and cluttered with junk, just like I remembered. There were shields with monster bites out of them, and swords bent in the shapes of daemon heads, and a bunch of taxidermy, like a stuffed harpy and a bright orange python.
    Over by the window, sitting on a three-legged stool, was the shriveled-up mummy of an old lady in a tie-dyed hippie dress. The Oracle.
    I made myself walk toward her. I waited for green mist to billow from the mummy’s mouth, like it had before, but nothing happened.
    â€œHi,” I said. “Uh, what’s up?”
    I winced at how stupid that sounded. Not much could be “up” when you’re dead and stuck in the attic. But I knew the spirit of the Oracle was in there somewhere. I could feel a cold presence in the room, like a coiled sleeping snake.
    â€œI have a question,” I said a little louder. “I need to know about Annabeth. How can I save her?”
    No answer. The sun slanted through the dirty attic window, lighting the dust motes dancing in the air.
    I waited longer.
    Then I got angry. I was being stonewalled by a corpse.
    â€œAll right,” I said. “Fine. I’ll figure it out myself.”
    I turned and bumped into a big table full of souvenirs. It seemed more cluttered than the last time I was here. Heroes stored all kinds of stuff in the attic: quest trophies they no longer wanted to keep in their cabins, or stuff that held painful memories. I knew Luke had stored a dragon claw somewhere up here—the one that had scarred his face.
    There was a broken sword hilt labeled: This broke and Leroy got killed. 1999.
    Then I noticed a pink silk scarf with a label attached to it. I picked up the tag and tried to read it:
    Â 
    SCARF OF THE GODDESS APHRODITE
    Recovered at Waterland, Denver, Co.,
    by Annabeth Chase and Percy Jackson
    Â 
    I stared at the scarf. I’d totally forgotten about it. Two years ago, Annabeth had ripped this scarf out of my hands and said something like, Oh, no. No love magic for you!
    I’d just assumed she’d thrown it away. And yet here it was. She’d kept it all this time? And why had she stashed it in the attic?
    I turned to the mummy. She hadn’t moved, but the shadows across her face made it look like she was smiling gruesomely.
    I dropped the scarf and tried not to run toward the exit.
    That night after dinner, I was seriously ready to beat the Hunters at capture the flag. It was going to be a small game: only thirteen Hunters, including Bianca di Angelo, and about the same number of campers.
    Zoë Nightshade looked pretty upset. She kept glancing resentfully at Chiron, like she couldn’t believe he was making her do this. The other Hunters didn’t look too happy, either. Unlike last night, they weren’t laughing or joking around. They just huddled together in the dining pavilion, whispering nervously to each other as they strapped on their armor. Some of them even looked like they’d been crying. I guess Zoë had told them about her nightmare.
    On our team, we had