The Tower of Nero (The Trials of Apollo #5)(29)

“So…are you just making horse sounds now?”

A FIG! it cursed. At least, I assumed it was a swear and not a lunch order. TAKEST ME NOT TO THE GROVE, PERNICIOUS LESTER! THINKEST THOU I SHOULDST BE WELCOMED THERE, MY QUEST INCOMPLETE?

Its tone wasn’t easy to understand, since its voice resonated straight into the plates of my skull, but I thought it sounded…hurt.

“I—I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t realize—”

OF COURSE THOU DIDST NOT. Its fletching rippled. I LEFT NOT WILLINGLY FROM MY HOME, O LESTER. I WAS FORCED, CAST OUT! ONE SMALL BRANCH, EXPENDABLE, FORGETTABLE, EXILED FROM THE CHORUS OF TREES UNTIL I SHOULDST PROVE MYSELF! IF NOW I RETURNED, THE ENTIRE GROVE WOULD LAUGH. THE HUMILIATION…

It became still in my hand.

FORGETTEST THOU WHAT I SAID, it hummed. PRETENDEST THOU IT NEVER HAPPENED.

I wasn’t sure what to say. All my years as a god of archery had not prepared me for playing therapist to an arrow. And yet…I felt terrible for the poor projectile. I had hauled it across the country and back again. I had complained about its shortcomings. I had belittled its advice and made fun of its lofty language. I had never stopped to consider that it had feelings, hopes, dreams, and perhaps even a family as dysfunctional and unsupportive as mine.

I wondered, bitterly, if there was anyone I hadn’t neglected, hurt, or overlooked during my time as a mortal—strike that—during my four thousand years of existence, period. I could only be grateful that my shoes were not sentient. Or my underwear. Gods, I would never be able to stop apologizing.

“I have used you poorly,” I told the arrow. “I’m sorry. Once we’ve succeeded in our quest, I’ll return you to the Grove of Dodona, and you’ll be welcomed back as a hero.”

I could feel the pulse in my fingertips beating against the arrow’s shaft. It remained quiet for six heartbeats.

AYE, it said at last. DOUBTLESS YOU ARE RIGHT.

As far as red flags went, the Arrow of Dodona telling me I was right was the reddest and flaggiest I could imagine.

“What is it?” I demanded. “You’ve seen something in the future? Something bad?”

Its point shuddered. WORRY NOT, THOU. I MUST NEEDS RETURN TO MY QUIVER. THOU SHOULDST SPEAK TO MEG.

The arrow fell silent. I wanted to know more. I knew there was more. But the arrow had signaled that it was done talking, and for once, I thought I should consider what it wanted.

I returned it to the quiver and began my hike back to the cabins.

Perhaps I was overreacting. Just because my life was doom and gloom did not necessarily mean the arrow was doomed, too.

Maybe it was just being evasive because, at the end of my journeys, whether I died or not, it was planning to pitch my life story to one of the Muses’ new streaming services. I would be remembered only as a limited series on Calliope+.

Yes, that was probably it. What a relief…

I was almost to the edge of the forest when I heard laughter—the laughter of dryads, I deduced, based on my centuries of experience as a dryad stalker. I followed the sound to a nearby outcropping of rocks, where Meg McCaffrey and Peaches were hanging out with half a dozen tree spirits.

The dryads were fawning over the fruit spirit, who, being no fool, was doing his best to look adorable for the ladies—which meant not baring his fangs, growling, or showing his claws. He was also wearing a clean loincloth, which was more than he’d ever done around me.

“Oh, he’s precious!” said one of the dryads, ruffling Peaches’s leafy green hair.

“These little toes!” said another, giving him a foot massage.

The karpos purred and fluttered his branchy wings. The dryads did not seem to mind that he looked like a killer baby grown from a chia kit.

Meg tickled his belly. “Yeah, he’s pretty awesome. I found him—”

That’s when the dryads saw me.

“Gotta go,” said one, disappearing in a whirl of leaves.

“Yeah, I have this…thing,” said another, and poofed into pollen.

The other dryads followed suit, until it was only Meg, Peaches, me, and the lingering scent of Dryadique? biodegradable shampoo.

Peaches growled at me. “Peaches.”

Which no doubt meant Dude, you scared off my groupies.

“Sorry. I was just…” I waved my hand. “Passing by? Wandering around, waiting to die? I’m not sure.”

“S’okay,” Meg said. “Pull up a rock.”

Peaches snarled, perhaps doubting my willingness to massage his feet.

Meg pacified him by scratching behind his ear, which reduced him to a purring puddle of bliss.

It felt good to sit, even on a jagged chunk of quartz. The sunshine was pleasant without being too warm. (Yes, I used to be a sun god. Now I am a temperature wimp.)

Meg was dressed in her Sally Jackson Valentine’s Day outfit. The pink dress had been washed since our arrival, thank goodness, but the knees of her white leggings were newly stained from her morning digging in the squash garden. Her glasses had been cleaned. The rhinestone-studded rims glittered, and I could actually see her eyes through the lenses. Her hair had been shampooed and corralled with red hair clips. I suspected somebody in the Demeter cabin had given her some loving care in the grooming department.

Not that I could criticize. I was wearing clothes Will Solace had bought for me.