‘I’ve written a playlist of my own songs to, like, help us set the mood for battle,’ droned Jason.

‘That’s totally awesome, man,’ said Apollo, whipping out a flute. ‘Let’s jam.’

‘Cool,’ said Jason, strumming on his lyre. ‘Shall we start with This is My Final Curtain (Defeat is Certain) or Death, It Won’t Be Too Long Now?’

‘Where is Elliot?’ Zeus asked Hades quickly. ‘Is he OK?’

‘Yes. And no,’ said Hades. ‘Geez, Zeus – I dunno how to say this, so I’m gonna give it you straight . . . The kid gave Thanatos the Chaos Stones. I’m so sawrry.’

The Olympians gasped and muttered amongst themselves. Zeus dropped his head.

‘I can’t say I’m surprised,’ he sighed after a weighty pause. ‘He’s just a child. There’s only so much he can bear.’

‘And it gets worse,’ Hades continued. ‘The Daemon army is free. It’s just a matter of time before Thanatos makes his move. We need a plan.’

‘Told you so,’ muttered Athene smugly.

‘A plan, you shay?’ said Ares, swaggering over to Zeus. ‘Well, that’sh my shpeshiality. I shuggesht . . . Whoa!’

‘SORRY!’ barked Achilles as Ares skidded on his discarded foot. ‘Those banana leaves get everywhere!’

‘Ash I was shaying,’ Ares continued, smoothing his hair back down. ‘We need shtealth. We need shecreshy. We need shubterfuge.’

‘We need a ruddy translator,’ grumbled Hephaestus. ‘What you on about, boy?’

‘Hephaeshtush,’ Ares smiled. ‘You’re jusht the pershon I need. Now gather in, comradesh. Thish ish what we’re going to do. Thish ish our shtrategy. Thish – THISH – thish is how we defeat Thanatosh . . .’

12. Home Sweet Home

12. Home Sweet Home

Patricia Porshley-Plum looked happily over Home Farm. It was so satisfying to see hard work pay off. Indeed, everything other people had worked so hard for was finally coming together. In just two days, this blight on the landscape would be sold at auction. Some rich idiot would buy into the brochure’s promise of ‘a country retreat away from the hustle and bustle, with unspoilt idyllic rural views – a chance to live the quiet life’.

Of course, what that idiot didn’t know was that she was keeping half the land to build her new housing development, thus totally spoiling the ‘idyllic rural views’ and filling ‘the quiet life’ with rows and rows of identical, soulless houses. But by the time they had signed on the dotted line, it would be too late. Patricia Porshley-Plum would have had her money. But more importantly, she would finally have had her revenge. The Hooper brat had obstructed her plans long enough. And now he had disappeared, nothing could stand in her way.