Prologue

I sigh, flipping the book shut. Giddiness and disappointment course through me.

For one thing, I'm exhilarated because I've finally completed the final existing installment in The Heroes of Olympus series. But I'm going to have to wait, like, till October, 2013, until the next book comes out. It's pure torture.

Well, at least I actually have the book. There are a lot of people itching to get their hands on The Mark of Athena. I am aware of a huge, stupid grin creeping up on my face but I can't help myself. I'm a hardcore fan. A little too hardcore. It lengthens to a point where I start daydreaming, and night-dreaming, about the characters, the story, everything about it. It's slightly creepy, really, but I love it.

Now I have absolutely nothing to do. Except write, sing, read (although, right now, I can't imagine reading anything but Percy Jackson and the Olympians), watch TV, and other random, unappealing activities. No. What I really want to do is be a demigod.

I know every time Rick Riordan writes a little note, he tells us that we should absolutely not want this, but really, I'd die if I got to meet Leo Valdez, or Nico di Angelo, or anyone for that matter. I guess it's not about being a demigod; it's about being with demigods. I'm so bored and completely jobless, I just sit on my bed thinking about it even though I know it's impossible. Because I'm mental like that.

I'm thinking like a child, for a thirteen-year-old. But, hey, thinking normally is boring. Actually, quoting Leo from The Mark of Athena, I try not to think. It interferes with being nuts. See? I quote characters too, just when I want to. But that line describes me so perfectly; when I read it, I screamed, excited.

Saying I'm totally addicted is a mild way of putting it. I suppose that's not a good thing, but seeing as though I don't really care…

I grab the book I just tossed onto my bed, and open it again, thinking, maybe if I read it again; I'll finally get bored of it. Of course, it's absolutely impossible for me to tire of this story. But what I see shocks me, to say the least.

"The pages. Are. Blank," I sputter, though there's no one around to comprehend what I just said. I need to hear it to believe it, even though it's there in front of my eyes.

Blank. I flip the page. Blank. I skim through the book. Blank blank blank blank blank blank blank blank—

"But that's not possible," I mutter to myself. "Didn't I just finish reading this exact book?" It wasn't blank then.

I hesitate, and then touch the paper, just to see if it's real. Apparently it's not, because my hand just sinks through it and I scream. This time, I'm not excited. I'm terrified.

That's not all. There's a strong magnetic force, pulling me into the crisp, white pages. I'm being stretched; I can feel it. There's this airy sensation in my chest, and somehow I fit right through miniscule book pages, though they're eleven inches and I'm five-and-a-half feet. I guess the laws of science are slacking off as well.

The moment every last inch of my body is fitted through the book, the next thing I know, I'm somehow suspended in the sky, gliding. Oh, wait, I'm not gliding; I'm falling.

I'm falling. The words echo through my mind, and I take a minute to process them. At first, I'm disbelieving. How on earth could I have gotten from my room, to the sky, through a book?

And then panic kicks in. I don't care how, and it doesn't matter, anyway. I shriek at the top of my lungs, flailing violently. Somehow, I'm still breathing fine, but I know it's just a matter of time before I start losing oxygen. Then what would happen? I refuse to believe that this is the end of me. I'm probably just dreaming. Yes, that's it. I'm so caught up in the mythological world of danger and excitement, that I'm somehow vividly imagining all this.

But the growing pain in my chest feels so real, so terrifyingly real. I can still inhale and exhale, but it hurts. And for the first time, I look down and see nothing but more clouds. How high up am I? Too high to land without breaking something, or everything. I can only hope I'll wake up before impact, though I'm beginning to doubt that I'm dreaming at all. Tears trickle down my cheeks and fall down, down, down. But I'm sure they're evaporate before reaching whatever awaits me on the ground. The pain increases to agony, and the only thing that keeps me sane is the thought that this is all an illusion.

To think I wanted to be a demigod, I thought in wonder, when all I'd get is this, and worse. I know this is no time to be thinking about fictional things, but it's better than thinking of a dying wish I'll never have, right? But that gets me thinking. If I could have just one wish, it would be that I'd get to meet all the characters in the Percy Jackson and Heroes of Olympus series.

I try to inhale, since breathing is starting to grow difficult, but no air rushes into my lungs. I'm accelerating too fast. I choke back a sob, thinking of all the things I never got to do. "It's all because of that stupid book," I say, or would have said, if I wasn't falling. I can't even scream anymore. And I'm trying not to think. Thinking will just make things worse. So I content myself to playing random songs in my head, songs that I have always liked. If this is the death of me, then why bore myself to tears that will eventually vaporize?

I slowly feel a tiredness spreading through my body. I think I've held on for a remarkably long time for someone falling from the sky. I sigh, exasperated, yet I feel my emotions beginning to dull as well, caving in to a welcome eternal sleep.

That's when I crashed into the flying ship.