Page 20 of The Chalice of the Gods

If you’ve never had to run through an arcade pursued by killer chickens... you wanna trade lives for a while? Because seriously, you arewelcometo mine.

The birds were small, but they were fast, vicious, and surprisingly strong. They stormed across the space in a wave of feathers and claws, shredding more furniture, scattering the customers, and driving up the high scores on theDance Dance Revolutionmachines. The whole time, their unblinking eyes stayed fixed on us, their beaks and talons gleaming like polished steel.

I’d heard stories of people staging rooster fights, putting razor blades on the birds’ feet for extra damage—because people do terrible things—but these hens were even scarier. They were killing machines au naturel, and they looked like they really enjoyed their job.

My eight-year-old legs were not up to the chase. I’d never been a great runner, and now I was falling behind Annabeth and Grover.

“Hurry!” Annabeth yelled back at me, like I hadn’t thought of that. “Over here!” She bolted toward the play structure with big plastic crawl tubes.

I wanted to ask what her plan was, but I was already out of breath.

“Guys, grab that table!” She pointed to a high café table, the kind you’d stand around to mingle at a fancy party or whatever.

It took me only a second to understand why she wanted it. By now, we’d had enough adventures together that I was usually only a few steps behind Annabeth’s thought process, rather than a few days.

Grover grabbed the top. I grabbed the pedestal base. It was heavy, and I wasn’t nearly as strong as a feral chicken, but we managed to lug the table over to the entrance of the play structure. Annabeth plunged into the tunnel first, then Grover and I followed, pulling the base of the table in behind us like we were corking a bottle. The circular tabletop was just big enough to block the entrance, leaving no room for chickens.

A moment later, the flock slammed into the play structure, making the plastic tubes shudder. The chickens screamed in outrage. But for the moment, we were safe.

“How long until they figure out there are other ways into the tube?” I asked.

“Not long.” Annabeth’s eyes blazed with intensity. I could see how afraid she was, but I also knew shelivedfor these situations. She was at her most Annabeth when she was thinking her way out of an impossible predicament.

That was good, because we tended to have a lot of those.

“Why chickens?” I grumbled. “Of all the animals...”

“Would you prefer jaguars?” she asked.

“It’s because of Hebe’s temples,” Grover said, chewing his knuckle. “The priestesses always kept hens and chicks. Roosters were kept in Hercules’s temple. The birds only got together on Hebe’s holy day.”

“Oh, right,” Annabeth said. “Hebe married Hercules when he became a god.” She shuddered. “I almost feel sorry for her.”

“Hold up,” I said. “Grover, how do you know about the hen/rooster thing?”

“Daycare,” he said miserably. “Hebe sponsors daycare centers for young satyrs. We used to sing ‘Happy the Holy Hen’ every morning.”

Suddenly, I had a new theory about why satyrs aged half as fast as humans, but I decided this might not be the moment to discuss it.

“You’re a member of the Council of Cloven Elders,” I said. “Can’t you ask the chickens to back off?”

“I can try.” He bleated something in Goatenese.

The chickens slammed into the play structure with even more force. A steely beak punctured the plastic between my legs.

“I guess that’s a no,” Grover said.

“Hebe’s holy day,” Annabeth mused. “Baby chicks...”

I frowned. “What are you thinking? Some kind of distraction? I don’t have any roosters handy.”

“No, but there were chicks in that coop....”

“So?” I yelled as another beak almost gave me a thigh piercing.

“So we need to get back to the coop. And grab a chick.”

“Killer hens are chasing us,” Grover said, “and you want to run to their coop and steal their babies?”

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