THE BATTLE OF THE LABYRINTH Percy Jackson ... - No one's invited.

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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
thegrave, 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
amTheseus .”
No way, I thought. This couldn’t betheTheseus . He was just a kid. I’d grown up hearing stories about
him fighting the Minotaur and stuff, but I’d always pictured him as this huge, buff guy. The ghost I was