You guys are so... dark. Even if I used flash, I'm not sure it would come out."

"Y-yeah," Percy managed. "You guys aren't photogenic.

Whenever he felt like giving up, plopping himself down, and dying (which was, like, every ten minutes), he reached over and took her hand, just to remember there was warmth in the world.

What-what do you want?" Annabeth asked, trying to maintain a tone of confidence.
The voice cackled maliciously.
'To curse you, of course! To destroy you thousand times in the name of Mother Night!'
"Only a thousand times?" Percy murmured. "Oh, good...I thought we were in trouble.

GETTING KILLED BY TARTARUS didn’t seem like much of an honor.

As Annabeth stared up at his dark whirlpool face, she decided she’d rather die in some less memorable way—maybe falling down the stairs, or going peacefully in her sleep at age eighty, after a nice quiet life with Percy. Yes, that sounded good.

She looked at me, like she was drinking in the fact that I was still here. And I realized I was doing the same thing. The world was collapsing, and the only thing that really mattered to me was that she was alive.

Annabeth?” Percy said again. “You’re planning something. You’ve got that I’m-planning-something look.”
“I don’t have an I’m-planning-something look.”
“Yeah, you totally do. Your eyebrows knit together and your lips press together and—”
“Do you have a pen?” she asked him.