The Tower of Nero (The Trials of Apollo #5)(51)

“What language? Day—?”

He hissed. “If you were a tunnel-ling, I would wash your mouth out with basalt!”

Meg smirked. “I’d kinda like to see that.”

“Hmph,” said Grr-Fred. “This way.”

He led us onward into the dark.

I had lost track of time, but I could imagine Rachel Elizabeth Dare tapping her watch, reminding me I was late, late, late. I could only hope we would reach Nero’s tower before sundown.

Just as fervently, I hoped Nico, Will, and Rachel had survived the bulls’ attack. Our friends were resourceful and brave, yes. Hopefully, they still had the assistance of the troglodytes. But too often, survival depended on sheer luck. This was something we gods didn’t like to advertise, as it cut down on donations at our temples.

“Grr-Fred—?” I started to ask.

“It’s Grr-Fred,” he corrected.

“GRR-Fred?”

“Grr-Fred.”

“gRR-Fred?”

“Grr-Fred!”

You would think, with my musical skills, I would be better at picking up the nuances of languages, but apparently, I did not have Nico’s panache for Troglodytish.

“Honored guide,” I said, “what of our friends? Do you believe Screech-Bling will keep his promise and help them dig to the emperor’s fire vats?”

Grr-Fred sneered. “Did the CEO make such a promise? I did not hear that.”

“But—”

“We have arrived.” He stopped at the end of the corridor, where a narrow brick stairwell led upward. “This is as far as I can go. These steps will take you into one of the humans’ subway stations. From there, you can find your way to the Crusty Crust. You will surface within fifty feet of Nero’s tower.”

I blinked. “How can you be sure?”

“I am a trog,” he said, as if explaining something to a particularly slow tunnel-ling.

Meg bowed, making her acorn squash knock together. “Thank you, Grr-Fred.”

He nodded gruffly. I noticed he didn’t correct her pronunciation.

“I have done my duty,” he said. “What happens to your friends is up to Screech-Bling, assuming the CEO is even alive after the destruction you hatless barbarians brought to our headquarters. If it were up to me…”

He didn’t bother finishing the thought. I gathered Grr-Fred would not be voting in favor of offering us stock options at the next troglodyte shareholders’ meeting.

From my soggy backpack, I fished out Beanie Boy’s crystal ball and offered it to Grr-Fred. “Please, would you take this back to its owner? And thank you for guiding us. For what it is worth, I meant what I said. We have to help one another. That’s the only future worth fighting for.”

Grr-Fred turned the crystal sphere in his fingers. His brown eyes were inscrutable as cavern walls. They might have been hard and unmovable, or about to turn to meringue, or on the verge of being broken through by angry cows.

“Good digging,” he said at last. Then he was gone.

Meg peered up the stairwell. Her hands trembled, and I didn’t think it was from the cold.

“Are you sure about this?” I asked.

She started, as if she’d forgotten I was there. “Like you said, either we help each other, or we let a snake eat the future.”

“That’s not exactly what I—”

“Come on, Lester.” She took a deep breath. “Let’s get going.”

Phrased as an order, it wasn’t something I could have refused, but I got the feeling Meg was saying it to steel her own resolve as much as mine.

Together we climbed back toward the Crusty Crust.





I EXPECTED A MOAT FILLED WITH ALLIGATORS. A wrought-iron portcullis. Possibly some vats of boiling oil.

In my mind, I’d built up the Tower of Nero as a fortress of darkness with all the evil trimmings. Instead, it was a glass-and-steel monstrosity of the ordinary Midtown variety.

Meg and I had surfaced from the subway about an hour before sunset. Luxuriously early, by our standards. Now we stood across Seventh Avenue from the tower, observing and gathering our nerve.

The scene on the sidewalk out front could’ve been anywhere in Manhattan. Annoyed New Yorkers jostled past groups of gawping tourists. Kebab-scented steam wafted from a halal food cart. Funk music blared from a Mister Softee ice cream truck. A street artist hawked airbrushed celebrity paintings. No one paid any special attention to the corporate-looking building that housed Triumvirate Holdings Ltd. and the doomsday button that would destroy the city in approximately fifty-eight minutes.

From across the street, I spotted no armed guards, no monsters or Germani on patrol—just black marble pillars flanking a plate-glass entrance, and inside, a typical oversize lobby with abstract art on the walls, a manned security desk, and glass turnstiles protecting access to the elevator banks.

It was after 7:00 p.m., but employees were still leaving the building in small clusters. Folks in business suits clutched briefcases and phones as they hurried to catch their trains. Some exchanged pleasantries with the security guy on their way out. I tried to imagine those conversations. Bye, Caleb. Say hi to the family. See you tomorrow for another day of evil business transactions!

Suddenly, I felt as if we’d come all this way to surrender to a brokerage firm.