“Normally, as long as I'm telling him what to do, he wins in a fight.”

“Is Tyson okay?" I asked.The question seemed to take my dad by surprise. He's fine. Doing much better than I expected. Though "peanut butter" is a strange battle cry."You let him fight?"Stop changing the subject! You realize what you are asking me to do? My palace will be destroyed."And Olympus might be saved."Do you have any idea how long I've worked on remodeling this palace? The game room alone took six hundred years."Dad—"Very well! It shall be as you say. But my son, pray this works."I am praying. I'm talking to you, right?"Oh . . . yes. Good point.”

“You do know how to play pinochle?" Mr. D eyed me suspiciously."I'm afraid not," I said."I'm afraid not, sir," he said."Well," he told me, "it is, along with gladiator fighting and Pac-Man, one of the greatest games ever invented by humans. I would expect all civilized young men to know the rules.”

“He remembered his home now, and that gave him new determination to succeed. He was fighting for two camps now -- two families.”

“Sorghum started to answer, but Wheat flew at him and knocked him down. The karpoi began to fight, dissolving into funnel clouds of grain. Hazel considered making a run for it. Then Wheat re-formed, holding Sorghum in a headlock. "Stop!" he yelled at the others. "Mulitgrain fighting is not allowed!”

“Stop!" he yelled at the others. "Multigrain fighting is not allowed!”

“Everybody was patting Nico on the back, complimenting him on his fighting. Even the Ares kids thought he was pretty cool. Hey, show up with an army of undead warriors to save the day, and suddenly you're everybody's best friend.”