The Tower of Nero (The Trials of Apollo #5)(71)

I shook my head. “It’s too dangerous. I can’t let you—”

“Hey.” Austin smirked. For a moment, I glimpsed my own old godly self-confidence in him—that look that said, I’m a musician. Trust me. “Dangerous is part of the job description. Let me do this. You hang back until I draw them out. Then go find our girl. I’ll see you on the other side.”

Before I could protest, Austin ran to the junction of the corridor and yelled, “Hey, idiots! You’re all gonna die!” Then he put his mouthpiece to his lips and blasted out “Pop Goes the Weasel.”

Even without the insults, that particular song, when played by a child of Apollo, will cause a stampede 100 percent of the time. I pressed myself against the wall by the elevator as Austin dashed toward the library, pursued by fifty or sixty angry screaming party guests and Germani. I could only hope Austin found a second exit from the library, or else this would be a very short chase.

I forced myself to move. Find our girl, Austin had said.

Yes. That was the plan.

I sprinted to the right and into the party room.

Austin had cleared out the place completely. Even Areca seemed to have followed the rampaging “Pop Goes the Weasel” mob.

Left behind were dozens of high cocktail tables covered in linen, sprinkled with glitter and rose petals, and topped with balsa-wood centerpiece sculptures of Manhattan going up in painted flames. Even for Nero, I found this over-the-top. The sideboard was loaded with every conceivable party appetizer, plus a multilayered red-and-yellow flame-motif cake. A banner across the back wall read HAPPY INFERNO!

Along the other wall, plate-glass windows (no doubt heavily insulated) looked over the city, allowing for a beautiful view of the promised firestorm, which now—bless the trogs and their magnificent hats—would not be happening.

In one corner, a small stage had been set up with a single microphone and a stand of instruments: a guitar, a lyre, and a violin. Oh, Nero. As a sick joke, he had intended to fiddle while New York burned. No doubt his guests would have laughed and clapped politely as the city exploded and millions perished to the tune of “This Land Is Your Land.” And who were these guests? The emperor’s billionaire golf buddies? Adult demigods who had been recruited for his postapocalyptic empire? Whoever they were, I hoped Austin stampeded them straight into a mob of angry troglodyte shareholders.

It was fortunate no one was left in the room. They would have faced my wrath. As it was, I shot an arrow into the cake, which wasn’t a very satisfying experience.

I marched through the room, and then, impatient with the sheer size of the place, began to jog. At the far end, I kicked through a doorway, my bow drawn and ready, but found only another empty hallway.

I recognized this area from my dreams, though. Finally, I had reached the imperial family’s living area. Where were the guards? The servants? I decided I didn’t care. Just up ahead would be Meg’s door. I ran.

“Meg!” I barreled into her bedroom.

No one was there.

The bed had been perfectly made up with a new comforter. The broken chairs had been replaced. The room smelled of Pine Sol, so even Meg’s scent had been erased along with any sign of her rebellion. I’d never felt so depressed and alone.

“Hello!” said a small, tinny voice to my left.

I shot an arrow at the nightstand, cracking the screen of a laptop computer showing Nero’s face on a live video call.

“Oh, no,” he said dryly, his image now fractured and pixelated. “You got me.”

His image jiggled, too large and off-center, as if he were holding the camera phone himself and not used to using it. I wondered if the emperor had to worry about cell phones malfunctioning, the way demigods did, or if the phone would broadcast his location to monsters. Then I realized there was no monster within five hundred miles worse than Nero.

I lowered my bow. I had to unclench my jaw in order to speak. “Where is Meg?”

“Oh, she’s quite well. She’s here with me in the throne room. I imagined you’d stumble in front of that monitor sooner or later, so we could chat about your situation.”

“My situation? You’re under siege. We’ve ruined your inferno party. Your forces are being routed. I’m coming for you now, and if you so much as touch a rhinestone on Meg’s glasses, I’ll kill you.”

Nero laughed gently, as if he had no concerns in the world. I didn’t catch the first part of his response, because my attention was drawn to a flash of movement in the hallway. Screech-Bling, CEO of the troglodytes, materialized in Meg’s bedroom doorway, grinning with delight, his colonial outfit covered with monster dust and tufts of red bull fur, his tricorn hat topped with several new headwear acquisitions.

Before Screech-Bling could say anything that would announce his presence, I gave him a subtle shake of the head, warning him to stay put, out of range of the laptop camera. I didn’t want to give Nero any more information about our allies than necessary.

It was impossible to read Screech-Bling’s eyes behind his dark goggles, but being a smart trog, he seemed to understand.

Nero was saying “—quite a different situation. Have you heard of Sassanid gas, Apollo?”

I had no idea what that was, but Screech-Bling almost leaped out of his buckle shoes. His lips curled in a distasteful sneer.

“Ingenious, really,” Nero continued. “The Persians used it against our troops in Syria. Sulfur, bitumen, a few other secret ingredients. Horribly poisonous, causes excruciating death, especially effective in enclosed spaces like tunnels…or buildings.”