The Tower of Nero (The Trials of Apollo #5)(56)

I soaked some linen napkins in the ice-water pitcher and wrapped them across Lu’s head and neck to lower her temperature. I crushed some painkillers together with ambrosia and nectar and fed her some of the mush, though she could barely swallow. Her eyes were unfocused. Her shivering was getting worse.

She croaked, “Meg—?”

“Hush,” I said, trying not to cry. “We’ll save her, I swear. But first you have to heal.”

She whimpered, then made a high-pitched noise like a scream with no energy behind it. She had to be in unbelievable pain. She should have been dead already, but the Gaul was tough.

“You need to be asleep for what comes next,” I warned. “I—I’m sorry. But I have to check your wrists. I have to clean the wounds and re-bandage them or you’ll die from sepsis.”

I had no idea how I was going to accomplish this without her dying from blood loss or shock, but I had to try. The guards had tied off her wrists sloppily. I doubted they’d bothered with sterilization. They had slowed the bleeding, but Lu would still die unless I intervened.

I grabbed another napkin and a vial of chloroform—one of Will’s more dangerous med-kit components. Using it was a huge risk, but the desperate circumstances left me little choice, unless I wanted to knock Lu over the head with a cheese platter.

I moved the soaked napkin over her face.

“No,” she said feebly. “Can’t…”

“It’s either this or pass out from the pain as soon as I touch those wrists.”

She grimaced, then nodded.

I pressed the cloth against her nose and mouth. Two breaths, and her body went limp. For her own sake, I prayed she would stay unconscious.

I worked as fast as I could. My hands were surprisingly steady. The medical knowledge came back out of instinct. I didn’t think about the grave injuries I was looking at, nor the amount of blood…I just did the work. Tourniquet. Sterilize. I would’ve tried to reattach her hands, despite the hopeless odds, but they hadn’t bothered to bring them. Sure, give me a chandelier and a selection of fruit, but no hands.

“Cauterize,” I mumbled to myself. “I need—”

My right hand burst into flame.

At the time, I didn’t find this strange. A little spark of my old sun-god power? Sure, why not? I sealed the stumps of Lu’s poor wrists, slathered them with healing ointment, then re-bandaged them properly, leaving her with two stubby Q-tips instead of hands.

“I’m so sorry,” I said.

Guilt weighed me down like a suit of armor. I had been so suspicious of Lu, when all the time she’d been risking her life trying to help. Her only crime was underestimating Nero, just as we all had. And the price she’d paid…

You have to understand, to a musician like me, no punishment could be as bad as losing one’s hands—to no longer be able to play the keyboard or the fretboard, to never again summon music with one’s fingers. Making music was its own sort of divinity. I imagined Lu felt the same way about her fighting skills. She would never again hold a weapon.

Nero’s cruelty was beyond measure. I wanted to cauterize the smirk off his smug face.

Attend to your patient, I chided myself.

I grabbed pillows from the sofa and positioned them around Lu, trying to make her as comfortable on the carpet as I could. Even if I’d wanted to risk moving her to the sofa, I doubted I would have had the strength. I dabbed her forehead with more cold cloths. I dribbled water and nectar into her mouth. Then I put my hand against her carotid artery and concentrated with all my might. Heal, heal, heal.

Perhaps it was my imagination, but I thought some of my old power stirred. My fingers warmed against her skin. Her pulse began to stabilize. Her breathing came easier. Her fever lessened.

I had done what I could. I crawled across the floor and climbed onto my sofa, my head swimming with exhaustion.

How much time had passed? I didn’t know if Nero had decided to destroy New York or wait until the forces of Camp Half-Blood came within range. The city could be burning around me right now and I’d see no sign of it in this windowless cell within Nero’s self-contained tower. The AC would keep blowing. The chandelier would keep glittering. The toilet would keep flushing.

And Meg…Oh, gods, what would Nero be doing to “rehabilitate” her?

I couldn’t bear it. I had to get up. I had to save my friend. But my exhausted body had other ideas.

My vision turned watery. I keeled over sideways, and my thoughts sank into a pool of shadow.

“Hey, man.”

The familiar voice seemed to come from half a world away over a weak satellite connection.

As the scene resolved, I found myself sitting at a picnic table on the beach in Santa Monica. Nearby stood the fish-taco shack where Jason, Piper, Meg, and I had eaten our last meal before infiltrating Caligula’s fleet of mega-yachts. Across the table sat Jason Grace, glowing and insubstantial, like a video projected against a cloud.

“Jason.” My voice was a ruined sob. “You’re here.”

His smile flickered. His eyes were nothing but smudges of turquoise dye. Still, I could feel the quiet strength of his presence, and I heard the kindness in his voice. “Not really, Apollo. I’m dead. You’re dreaming. But it’s good to see you.”

I looked down, not trusting myself to speak. Before me sat a plate of fish tacos that had been turned into gold, like the work of King Midas. I didn’t know what that meant. I didn’t like it.