Page 47 of The Chalice of the Gods

She kept piling merchandise over Mercedes: sashes, beads, pouches of rocks, as if she wanted to hide the staff as quickly as possible. Why did she seem so nervous?

“Just the information would be great,” Annabeth said. “You... did get information?”

“Mm-hmm.” Iris sighed. “It’s just that you seem like such nice young people. I would hate...”

She let the thought drift away into the Land of Half-Formed Thoughts About Things That Could Kill Percy Jackson. I spent a lot of my time in that land.

“You found where the cup is,” I guessed.

“I have a fairly good idea.”

Her grim tone made me wonder if I should just take the bath salts. Then I looked at Annabeth. I remembered this was about going to college with her. Being with her. That was nonnegotiable, no matter how difficult the challenge or how cleansing the sage.

“Tell all,” I said.

Iris picked at the macramé bracelet around her wrist. “I have narrowed your search down to Greenwich Village.”

Annabeth frowned. “That’s a pretty big area.”

“He will be there,” Iris insisted. “If, indeed, I am right about the thief’s identity.”

“He...?” I prompted.

I waited for more. It’s never a good sign when your informant avoids naming the Big Bad. Especially when that informant is a god. Who could make Iris so nervous?

“I should have guessed,” she mumbled to herself. She picked up a bundle of incense and waved it around, maybe hoping to clear the air, which it did not. “He would, of course, hate Ganymede. And the goblet. But...” She shook her head. “I hope I am wrong. I am probably not wrong.”

“Who is it?” Annabeth asked. “We need a name.”

She had more courage than I did. I’d already resigned myself to the idea of searching the entire Village for random dudes carrying chalices.

Iris looked over one shoulder, then leaned toward us conspiratorially. “He will go by the name...Gary.”

I didn’t dare laugh, but all I could think about was the cartoon snail fromSpongeBob SquarePants. Usually, the things that sound the most ridiculous are the ones that kill you the quickest. You laugh, then you get murdered in the silliest way possible.

“Gary,” Annabeth repeated.

“Yes,” Iris said. “I do not know how he managed the theft. Or what he hopes to achieve. But this information came from a reliable cloud nymph.”

“So, we go to Greenwich Village,” I summed up, “and start asking around for Gary.”

Iris tilted her head. “I suppose you could do that. It would be quicker, however, to use nectar.”

She plucked a vial from her display rack of essential oils, then held it up like she was modeling for a television commercial. I’d seen nectar before. I’d drunk my fair share of it whenever I’d needed to heal from cuts, contusions, sick burns, and the other daily injuries of demigod life. But this little vial seemed particularly bright and golden, like sunlight suspended in honey.

Annabeth leaned in. “Is that...?”

“One hundred percent pure concentrate,” Iris said with a smug little smile. “Collected from the dew in the groves on Mount Olympus at dawn on the first day of spring. With no additives or preservatives. Donotconsume this. Unblended nectar would burn you demigods to cinders.”

I edged away from the happy golden death juice. “Then what do we do with it?”

Iris swirled the little vial, making the insides glow even more. “The chalice of the gods is designed to mix nectar. All nectar is naturally attracted to it. Release a drop or two of this liquid into the air in Greenwich Village, and if the chalice is anywhere in the vicinity, you should be able to follow the droplets right to Gary.”

“That’s surprisingly helpful,” I admitted. “Thank you.”

I reached for the vial, but Iris withdrew her hand.

“Ah-ah,” she chided. “There is a price.”

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