The Tower of Nero (The Trials of Apollo #5)(76)

Meg clenched her fists. “You didn’t have the right. It wasn’t fair—”

“Now, Meg.” His voice hardened, letting her know that his patience was strained. “Apollo might still be allowed to live, if that’s really what you want. We don’t have to surrender him to Python. But if we’re going to take that kind of risk, I’ll need you at my side with your wonderful powers. Be my daughter again. Let me save him for you.”

She said nothing. Her stance radiated stubbornness. I imagined her putting down her own roots, mooring herself in place.

Nero sighed. “Everything becomes much, much harder when you wake the Beast. You don’t want to make the wrong choice again, do you? And lose someone else like you lost your father?” He gestured to his dozen pollen-covered Germani, his pair of cynocephali, his seven demigod foster children—all of whom glared at us as if they, unlike the dryads, would be quite happy to tear us to pieces.

I wondered how quickly I could retrieve my bow, though I was in no shape for combat. I wondered how many opponents Meg could handle with her scimitars. Good as she was, I doubted she could fend off twenty-one. Then there was Nero himself, who had the constitution of a minor god. Despite her anger, Meg couldn’t seem to make herself look him in the face.

I imagined Meg making these same calculations, perhaps deciding that there was no hope, that the only possibility of sparing my life was to give in to Nero.

“I didn’t kill my father,” she said, her voice small and hard. “I didn’t cut off Lu’s hands or enslave those dryads or twist us all up inside.” She swept a hand toward the other demigods of the household. “You did that, Nero. I hate you.”

The emperor’s expression turned sad and weary. “I see. Well…if you feel that way—”

“It’s not about feelings,” Meg snapped. “It’s about the truth. I’m not listening to you. And I’m not using your weapons to fight my fights anymore.”

She tossed her rings away.

A small desperate yelp escaped my throat.

Nero chuckled. “That, my dear, was foolish.”

For once, I was tempted to agree with the emperor. No matter how good my young friend was with gourds and pollen, no matter how glad I was to have her at my side, I couldn’t imagine us getting out of this room alive unarmed.

The Germani hefted their spears. The imperial demigods drew their swords. The wolf-headed warriors snarled.

Nero raised his hand, ready to give the kill command, when behind me a mighty BOOM! shook the chamber. Half our enemies were thrown off their feet. Cracks sprouted in the windows and the marble columns. Ceiling tiles broke, raining dust like split bags of flour.

I turned to see the impenetrable blast doors lying twisted and broken, a strangely emaciated red bull standing in the breach. Behind it stood Nico di Angelo.

Safe to say, I had not been expecting this kind of party-crasher.

Clearly, Nero and his followers hadn’t, either. They stared in amazement as the taurus silvestre lumbered across the threshold. Where the bull’s blue eyes should have been, there were only dark holes. Its shaggy red hide hung loosely over its reanimated skeleton like a blanket. It was an undead thing with no flesh or soul—just the will of its master.

Nico scanned the room. He looked worse than the last time I’d seen him. His face was covered in soot, his left eye swollen shut. His shirt was ripped to shreds, and his black sword dripped with some sort of monster blood. Worst of all, someone (I’m guessing a trog) had forced him to wear a white cowboy hat. I half expected him to say yee-haw in the most unenthusiastic voice ever.

For the benefit of his skeleton bull, he pointed at Nero and said, “Kill that one.”

The bull charged. The followers of Nero went crazy. Germani rushed the creature like linebackers going after a wide receiver, desperate to stop it before it reached the dais. The cynocephali howled and bounded in our direction. The imperial demigods faltered, looking at each other for direction like, Who do we attack? The bull? The emo kid? Dad? Each other? (This is the problem when you raise your children to be paranoid murderers.)

“Vercorix!” Nero shrieked, his voice a half-octave higher than usual. He leaped onto his couch, madly punching buttons on his Sassanid gas remote control and apparently deciding that it was not, in fact, his Sassanid gas remote control. “Bring me the other controls! Hurry!”

Halfway to the bull, Vercorix stumbled and reversed course for the coffee table, perhaps wondering why he’d taken this promotion and why Nero couldn’t fetch his own stupid remotes.

Meg tugged at my arm, shaking me from my stupor. “Get up!”

She dragged me out of the path of a cynocephalus, who landed next to us on all fours, snarling and slavering. Before I could decide whether to fight him with my bare hands or my bad breath, Nico leaped between us, his sword already in motion. He slashed the wolf-man into dust and dog fur.

“Hey, guys.” Nico’s swollen eye made him look even fiercer than usual. “You should probably find some weapons.”

I tried to remember how to speak. “How did you—? Wait, let me guess. Rachel sent you.”

“Yup.”

Our reunion was interrupted by the second wolf-headed warrior, who loped toward us more cautiously than his fallen comrade, edging sideways and looking for an opening. Nico fended him off with his sword and his scary cowboy hat, but I had a feeling we’d be getting more company soon.