The Tower of Nero (The Trials of Apollo #5)(65)

HURRY, the arrow said with new urgency. I SENSE…YES. NERO HAS SENT GUARDS TO FETCH MEG.

I wasn’t sure how it had gleaned this information—if it was monitoring the building’s security system or eavesdropping on Nero’s personal psychic hotline—but the news made me clench my teeth.

“There will be no Meg-fetching on my watch,” I growled.

I slid the Arrow of Dodona into one of my quivers and drew a missile of the non-Shakespearean variety.

I bounded up the stairs.

I worried about Luguselwa, who must have been facing the leontocephaline by now. I worried about Nico, Will, and Rachel, whom I hadn’t seen any sign of in my dreams. I worried about the forces of Camp Half-Blood, who might be charging into a suicidal rescue mission at this very moment. Most of all, I worried about Meg.

To find her, I would fight the entire tower by myself if I had to.

I reached the next landing. Had Lu said five floors up? Six? How many had I already climbed? Argh, I hated numbers!

I shouldered my way into another bland white corridor and ran in the direction I thought might be southeast.

I kicked open a door and discovered (try not to be too shocked) that I was in the entirely wrong place. A large control room glowed with dozens of monitors. Many showed live feeds of huge metal reservoirs—the emperor’s Greek-fire vats. Mortal technicians turned and gawked at me. Germani looked up and frowned. A Germanus who must have been the commander, judging from the quality of his armor and the number of shiny beads in his beard, scowled at me with disdain.

“You heard the emperor’s order,” he snarled at the technicians. “Light those fires NOW. And, guards, kill this fool.”





HOW MANY TIMES HAD I SAID THOSE words? Kill this fool.

We gods bandied about statements like that all the time, but we never gave thought to the cost. Like, actual fools may die. And in this situation, that fool was me.

A millisecond’s scan of the room showed me ten enemies in various states of readiness. In the far corner, four Germani were scrunched together on a broken-down sofa, eating Chinese food from takeout boxes. Three technicians sat in swivel chairs, manning control consoles. They were human security, each with a sidearm, but they were too focused on their work to be an immediate threat. A mortal guard stood right next to me, looking surprised that I’d just pushed through the door he was monitoring. Oh, hello! A second guard stood across the room, blocking the other exit. That left just the Germanus leader, who was now rising from his chair, drawing his sword.

So many questions flashed through my mind.

What did the mortal technicians see through the Mist?

How would I get out of here alive?

How did Leader Guy sit comfortably in that swivel chair while wearing a sword?

Was that lemon chicken I smelled, and was there enough for me?

I was tempted to say, Wrong room, close the door, and beat it down the hall. But since the technicians had just been ordered to burn down the city, that wasn’t an option.

“STOP!” I sang out of instinct. “IN THE NAME OF LOVE!”

Everyone froze—maybe because my voice had magic powers, or maybe because I was horribly off-key. I bow-punched the guy next to me in the face. If you have never been punched by a fist holding a bow, I do not recommend it. The experience is like being hit with brass knuckles, except it hurts the archer’s fingers much more. Door Guy #1 went down.

Across the room, Door Guy #2 raised his gun and fired. The bullet sparked off the door next to my head.

Fun fact from a former god who knows acoustics: If you fire a gun in an enclosed space, you have just deafened everyone in that room. The technicians flinched and covered their ears. The Germani’s Chinese-takeout boxes went flying. Even Leader Guy stumbled half out of his chair.

My ears ringing, I drew my bow and shot two arrows at once—the first knocking the gun out of Door Guy #2’s hand, the second pinning his sleeve to the wall. Yes, this ex–archery god still had some moves!

The technicians returned their attention to their controls. The Chinese-food contingent tried to extract themselves from their sofa. Leader Guy charged me, his sword in both hands, pointed directly at my soft underbelly.

“Ha-ha!” I initiated a home-plate slide. In my mind, the maneuver had seemed so simple: I would glide effortlessly across the floor, avoiding Leader Guy’s thrust, veering between his legs as I fired at multiple targets from a supine position. If Orlando Bloom could do it in Lord of the Rings, why couldn’t I?

I neglected to consider that this floor was carpeted. I fell flat on my back and Leader Guy tripped over me, barreling headfirst into the wall.

I did get off one shot—an arrow that skimmed across the nearest technician’s control panel and knocked him out of his chair in surprise. I rolled aside as Leader Guy turned and hacked at me. Having no time to nock another arrow, I pulled one out and jabbed it into his shin.

Leader Guy howled. I scrambled to my feet and jumped onto the bank of control consoles.

“Back off!” I yelled at the technicians, doing my best to aim one arrow at all three of them.

Meanwhile, the Chinese Food Four were fumbling with their swords. Door Guy #2 had tugged his sleeve free of the wall and was hunting around for his pistol.

One of the technicians reached for his gun.

“NOPE!” I fired a warning arrow, impaling the seat of his chair a millimeter from his crotch. I was loath to harm hapless mortals (wow, I really wrote that sentence), but I had to keep these guys away from the naughty buttons that would destroy New York.