Rick Riordan
Rick Riordan
Richard Russell "Rick" Riordan, Jr. is an American author known for writing the Percy Jackson & the Olympians series, which is about a twelve-year-old who discovers he is a son of Poseidon. His books have been translated into 37 languages and sold more than 30 million copies in the US. Twentieth Century Fox has adapted the first two books of his Percy Jackson series as part of a series of films. His books have spawned related media, such as graphic novels...
NationalityAmerican
ProfessionYoung Adult Author
Date of Birth5 June 1964
CountryUnited States of America
Whoa, boy, he told himself. Golden Rule for Demigods: Thou shalt not Hokey Pokey with psychos.
Run!” Piper said. “We are running!” Jason picked up the speed. “Run better!” Leo shouted.
Leo felt trapped. He’d once been stuck in a cave on top of Pikes Peak, surrounded by a pack of werewolves. Another time he’d been stuck in an abandoned factory with a family of evil Cyclopes. But this—standing in an open clearing with a dozen pretty girls—was much worse.
Hello!” The girl in the blood-red dress beamed at Leo. “Are you Dionysus?” There was only one answer to that. “Yes!” Leo yelped. “Absolutely. I am Dionysus.
Just because I’m Native American doesn’t mean I can track furniture through the wilderness.” She deepened her voice: “‘Yes, kemosabe. A three-legged table passed this way an hour ago.’ Heck, I don’t know.
Was that amazing?” she demanded. “That was amazing,” I agreed. It’s hard to pull off a romantic kiss when you’re both drenched in muck, but we gave it our best shot.
I smiled at the giant. “Actually, Cacus, I have another secret weapon.” The giant’s eyes lit up with greed. “Another weapon? I will steal it! I will copy it and sell the knockoffs for a profit! What is this secret weapon?” “Her name is Annabeth,” I said. “And she’s one of a kind.
My girlfriend: sophomore honors student, demigod, and—oh, yeah—head architect for redesigning the palace of the gods on Mount Olympus in her spare time.
She was beautiful in combat. I know that’s a crazy thing to say, especially after we’d just climbed a sewage waterfall, but her gray eyes sparkled when she was fighting for her life. Her face shone like a goddess’s, and believe me, I’ve seen goddesses. The way her Camp Half-Blood beads rested against her throat—Okay, sorry. Got a little distracted.
You’re probably thinking: Wait, you just charged in without a plan? But Annabeth and I had been fighting together for years. We knew each other’s abilities. We could anticipate each other’s moves. I might have felt awkward and nervous about being her boyfriend, but fighting with her? That came naturally. Hmm…that sounded wrong. Oh, well.
I turned to Annabeth and shook my head in exasperation. “Always Hercules. What is it with Hercules?” Annabeth shrugged. “He had a great publicist.
Cacus.” I’d had years of practice looking dumb when people threw out Greek names I didn’t know. It’s a skill of mine. Annabeth keeps telling me to read a book of Greek myths, but I don’t see the need. It’s easier just to have folks explain stuff.
I gave her a smile that I hoped conveyed something like: Hey, you know I’m on your side. Gods are such jerks! But what can you do? Probably my expression actually conveyed: It’s not my fault! Please do not kill me!
I could hear hopefulness in her voice, but also doubt. She was waiting for me to admit the obvious: I’d forgotten. I was toast. I was boyfriend roadkill.