The Tower of Nero (The Trials of Apollo #5)(73)

Rows of Imperial-gold bars had been lowered over all the windows, making the entire throne room feel appropriately like a cage. Enslaved dryads hovered nervously near their potted plants. The children of the Imperial Household—only seven of them, now—stood next to each plant with burning torches in their hands. Since Nero had raised them to be despicable, I supposed they would burn the dryads if I didn’t cooperate.

My hand rested against my pants pocket, where I’d tucked Meg’s golden rings. I was relieved that at least she wasn’t standing with her siblings. I was glad young Cassius had run away from this place. I wondered where the other three missing adoptees had gone—if they’d been captured or had fallen in battle to Camp Half-Blood. I tried not to feel any satisfaction at the thought, but it was difficult.

“Hello!” Nero sounded genuinely happy to see me. He reclined on his couch, popping grapes in his mouth from a silver platter at his side. “Weapons on the floor, please.”

“Where is Meg?” I demanded.

“Meg…?” Nero feigned confusion. He scanned the line of his torchbearing children. “Meg. Let’s see…where did I leave her? Which one is Meg?”

The other demigods gave him forced smiles, perhaps not sure if Dear Old Dad was joking.

“She’s close,” Nero assured me, his expression hardening. “But first, weapons on the floor. I am taking no chances that you will harm my daughter.”

“You—” I was so angry I couldn’t finish the sentence.

How could someone twist the truth with such brazenness, telling you the exact opposite of what was clear and obvious, and still sound like they believed what they were saying? How could you defend against lies that were so blatant and brash they should have required no challenge?

I put down my bow and quivers. I doubted they would matter. Nero wouldn’t have let me into his presence if he thought they were a threat.

“And the ukulele,” he said. “And the backpack.”

Oh, he was good.

I set these next to my quivers.

I realized that even if I tried something—even if I could throw flames at Nero or shoot him in the face or Apollo-smash his horrible purple love seat—it wouldn’t matter if his fasces was still intact. He looked completely at ease, as if he knew he was invulnerable.

All my bad behavior would do is hurt others. The dryads would burn. If the demigods refused to burn them, then Nero would have the Germani punish the demigods. And if the Germani hesitated to carry out his orders…Well, after what had happened to Luguselwa, I doubted any of the guards would dare challenge Nero. The emperor held everyone in this room in a web of fear and threats. But what about Meg? She was the only wild card I could hope to play.

As if reading my thoughts, Nero gave me a thin smile.

“Meg, my dear,” he called, “it’s safe to come forward.”

She appeared from behind one of the columns in the back of the room. Two cynocephali flanked her. The wolf-headed men did not touch her, but they walked beside her in such a tight orbit they reminded me of sheepdogs herding a wayward lamb.

Meg looked physically unhurt, though she’d been bathed to within an inch of her life. All the hard-earned grime, ash, and dirt she’d accumulated on her way to the tower had been scrubbed away. Her pageboy haircut had been reshaped in a layered pixie style, parted in the middle, making Meg resemble the dryads a little too closely. And her clothes: gone was Sally Jackson’s valentine dress. In its place, Meg wore a sleeveless purple gown, gathered at the waist by a golden cord. Her red high-tops had been exchanged for gold-corded sandals. The only thing that remained of her old look was her glasses, without which she couldn’t see, but I was surprised Nero had let her keep even those.

My heart broke. Meg looked elegant, older, and quite beautiful. She also looked utterly, completely no longer herself. Nero had tried to strip away everything she had been, every choice she’d made, and replace her with someone else—a proper young lady of the Imperial Household.

Her foster siblings watched her approach with undisguised loathing and jealousy.

“There you are!” Nero said with delight. “Come join me, dear.”

Meg met my eyes. I tried to transmit how concerned and anguished I felt for her, but her expression remained carefully neutral. She made her way toward Nero, each step cautious, as if the slightest false step or betrayal of emotion might cause invisible mines to explode around her.

Nero patted the cushions next to him, but Meg stopped at the base of the dais. I chose to take this as a hopeful sign. Nero’s face tightened with displeasure, but he masked it quickly, no doubt deciding, like the professional abusive villain he was, not to exert more pressure than was necessary, to keep the line taut without breaking it.

“And so here we are!” He spread his arms to take in this special occasion. “Lester, it’s a shame you ruined our fireworks display. We could have been down in the parlor right now with our guests, watching a lovely sunset as the city burned. We could’ve had canapés and cake. But no matter. We still have so much to celebrate! Meg is home!”

He turned to the white-bearded Germanus. “Vercorix, bring me the remote control, would you?” He gestured vaguely to the coffee table, where a black lacquered tray was piled with tech gadgets.

Vercorix lumbered over and picked one.

“No, that’s for the television,” said Nero. “No, that’s the DVR. Yes, that’s the one, I think.”