“Of course you do. But we should hurry.”
“Why?”
“Well…so we can introduce your work to the world!”
“Hmm. Very well.”
Arachne began to weave. It was slow work, turning silk strands into long strips of cloth. The chamber rumbled. The cracks at Annabeth’s feet became wider.
If Arachne noticed, she didn’t seem to care. Annabeth considered trying to push the spider into the pit somehow, but she dismissed the idea. There wasn’t a big enough hole, and besides, if the floor gave way, Arachne could probably hang from her silk and escape, while Annabeth and the ancient statue would tumble into Tartarus.
Slowly, Arachne finished the long strips of silk and braided them together. Her skill was flawless. Annabeth couldn’t help being impressed. She felt another flicker of doubt about her own mother. What if Arachne was a better weaver than Athena?
But Arachne’s skill wasn’t the point. She had been punished for being prideful and rude. No matter how amazing you were, you couldn’t go around insulting the gods. The Olympians were a reminder that there was always someone better than you, so you shouldn’t get a big head. Still…being turned into a monstrous immortal spider seemed like a pretty harsh punishment for bragging.
Arachne worked more quickly, bringing the strands together. Soon, the structure was done. At the feet of the statue lay a braided cylinder of silk strips, five feet in diameter and ten feet long. The surface glistened like abalone shell, but it didn’t seem beautiful to Annabeth. It was just functional: a trap. It would only be beautiful if it worked.
Arachne turned to her with a hungry smile. “Done! Now, my reward! Prove to me that you can deliver on your promises.”
Annabeth studied the trap. She frowned and walked around it, inspecting the weaving from every angle. Then, careful of her bad ankle, she got down on hands and knees and crawled inside. She’d done the measurements in her head. If she’d gotten them wrong, her plan was doomed. But she slipped through the silken tunnel without touching the sides. The webbing was sticky, but not impossibly so. She crawled out the other end and shook her head.
“There’s a flaw,” she said.
“What?!” Arachne cried. “Impossible! I followed your instructions—”
“Inside,” Annabeth said. “Crawl in and see for yourself. It’s right in the middle—a flaw in the weaving.”
Arachne foamed at the mouth. Annabeth was afraid she’d pushed too hard, and the spider would snap her up. She’d be just another set of bones in the cobwebs.
Instead, Arachne stamped her eight legs petulantly. “I do not make mistakes.”
“Oh, it’s small,” Annabeth said. “You can probably fix it. But I don’t want to show the gods anything but your best work. Look, go inside and check. If you can fix it, then we’ll show it to the Olympians. You’ll be the most famous artist of all time. They’ll probably fire the Nine Muses and hire you to oversee all the arts. The goddess Arachne…yes, I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“The goddess…” Arachne’s breathing turned shallow. “Yes, yes. I will fix this flaw.”
She poked her head into the tunnel. “Where is it?”
“Right in the middle,” Annabeth urged. “Go ahead. It might be a bit snug for you.”
“I’m fine!” she snapped, and wriggled in.
As Annabeth had hoped, the spider’s abdomen fit, but only barely. As she pushed her way in, the braided strips of silk expanded to accommodate her. Arachne got all the way up to her spinnerets.
“I see no flaw!” she announced.
“Really?” Annabeth asked. “Well, that’s odd. Come out and I’ll take another look.”
Moment of truth. Arachne wriggled, trying to back up. The woven tunnel contracted around her and held her fast. She tried to wriggle forward, but the trap was already stuck to her abdomen. She couldn’t get through that way either. Annabeth had been afraid the spider’s barbed legs might puncture the silk, but Arachne’s legs were pressed so tightly against her body she could barely move them.
“What—what is this?” she called. “I am stuck!”
“Ah,” Annabeth said. “I forgot to tell you. This piece of art is called Chinese Handcuffs. At least, it’s a larger variation on that idea. I call it Chinese Spidercuffs.”
“Treachery!” Arachne thrashed and rolled and squirmed, but the trap held her tight.
“It was a matter of survival,” Annabeth corrected. “You were going to kill me either way, whether I helped you or not, yes?”
“Well, of course! You’re a child of Athena.” The trap went still. “I mean…no, of course not! I respect my promises.”
“Uh-huh.” Annabeth stepped back as the braided cylinder began to thrash again. “Normally these traps are made from woven bamboo, but spider silk is even better. It will hold you fast, and it’s much too strong to break—even for you.”
“Gahhhh!” Arachne rolled and wriggled, but Annabeth moved out of the way. Even with her broken ankle, she could manage to avoid a giant silk finger trap.
“I will destroy you!” Arachne promised. “I mean…no, I’ll be very nice to you if you let me out.”
“I’d save my energy if I were you.” Annabeth took a deep breath, relaxing for the first time in hours. “I’m going to call my friends.”
“You—you’re going to call them about my artwork?” Arachne asked hopefully.
Annabeth scanned the room. There had to be a way to send an Iris-message to the Argo II. She had some water left in her bottle, but how to create enough light and mist to make a rainbow in a dark cavern?
Arachne began to roll around again. “You’re calling your friends to kill me!” she shrieked. “I will not die! Not like this!”
“Calm down,” Annabeth said. “We’ll let you live. We just want the statue.”
“The statue?”
“Yes.” Annabeth should’ve left it at that, but her fear was turning to anger and resentment. “The artwork that I’ll display most prominently on Mount Olympus? It won’t be yours. The Athena Parthenos belongs there—right in the central park of the gods.”
“No! No, that’s horrible!”
“Oh, it won’t happen right away,” Annabeth said. “First we’ll take the statue with us to Greece. A prophecy told us it has the power to help defeat the giants. After that…well, we can’t simply restore it to the Parthenon. That would raise too many questions. It’ll be safer in Mount Olympus. It will unite the children of Athena and bring peace to the Romans and Greeks. Thanks for keeping it safe all these centuries. You’ve done Athena a great service.”
Arachne screamed and flailed. A strand of silk shot from the monster’s spinnerets and attached itself to a tapestry on the far wall. Arachne contracted her abdomen and blindly ripped away the weaving. She continued to roll, shooting silk randomly, pulling over braziers of magic fire and ripping tiles out of the floor. The chamber shook. Tapestries began to burn.
“Stop that!” Annabeth tried to hobble out of the way of the spider’s silk. “You’ll bring down the whole cavern and kill us both!”
“Better than seeing you win!” Arachne cried. “My children! Help me!”
Oh, great. Annabeth had hoped the statue’s magic aura would keep away the little spiders, but Arachne continued shrieking, imploring them to help. Annabeth considered killing the spider woman to shut her up. It would be easy to use her knife now. But she hesitated to kill any monster when it was so helpless, even Arachne. Besides, if she stabbed through the braided silk, the trap might unravel. It was possible Arachne could break free before Annabeth could finish her off.
All these thoughts came too late. Spiders began swarming into the chamber. The statue of Athena glowed brighter. The spiders clearly didn’t want to approach, but they edged forward as if gathering their courage. Their mother was screaming for help. Eventually they would pour in, overwhelming Annabeth.
“Arachne, stop it!” she yelled. “I’ll—”
Somehow Arachne twisted in her prison, pointing her abdomen toward the sound of Annabeth’s voice. A strand of silk hit her in the chest like a heavyweight’s glove.
Annabeth fell, her leg flaring with pain. She slashed wildly at the webbing with her dagger as Arachne pulled her toward her snapping spinnerets.
Annabeth managed to cut the strand and crawl away, but the little spiders were closing around her.
She realized her best efforts had not been enough. She wouldn’t make it out of here. Arachne’s children would kill her at the feet of her mother’s statue.
Percy, she thought, I’m sorry.
At that moment, the chamber groaned, and the cavern ceiling exploded in a blast of fiery light.
Chapter 51
Annabeth had seen some strange things before, but she’d never seen it rain cars.
As the roof of the cavern collapsed, sunlight blinded her. She got the briefest glimpse of the Argo II hovering above. It must have used its ballistae to blast a hole straight through the ground.
Chunks of asphalt as big as garage doors tumbled down, along with six or seven Italian cars. One would’ve crushed the Athena Parthenos, but the statue’s glowing aura acted like a force field, and the car bounced off. Unfortunately, it fell straight toward Annabeth.
She jumped to one side, twisting her bad foot. A wave of agony almost made her pass out, but she flipped on her back in time to see a bright red Fiat 500 slam into Arachne’s silk trap, punching through the cavern floor and disappearing with the Chinese Spidercuffs.
As Arachne fell, she screamed like a freight train on a collision course; but her wailing rapidly faded. All around Annabeth, more chunks of debris slammed through the floor, riddling it with holes.
The Athena Parthenos remained undamaged, though the marble under its pedestal was a starburst of fractures. Annabeth was covered in cobwebs. She trailed strands of leftover spider silk from her arms and legs like the strings of a marionette, but somehow, amazingly, none of the debris had hit her. She wanted to believe that the statue had protected her, though she suspected it might’ve been nothing but luck.
The army of spiders had disappeared. Either they had fled back into the darkness, or they’d fallen into the chasm. As daylight flooded the cavern, Arachne’s tapestries along the walls crumbled to dust, which Annabeth could hardly bear to watch—especially the tapestry depicting her and Percy.
But none of that mattered when she heard Percy’s voice from above: “Annabeth!”
“Here!” she sobbed.
All the terror seemed to leave her in one massive yelp. As the Argo II descended, she saw Percy leaning over the rail. His smile was better than any tapestry she’d ever seen.
The room kept shaking, but Annabeth managed to stand. The floor at her feet seemed stable for the moment. Her backpack was missing, along with Daedalus’s laptop. Her bronze knife, which she’d had since she was seven, was also gone—probably fallen into the pit. But Annabeth didn’t care. She was alive.