The Tower of Nero (The Trials of Apollo #5)(83)

“Fine.” Nico dashed off without kissing me on the forehead, which was just as well. He couldn’t have reached my forehead with the massive brim of his cowboy hat.

Lu glowered at me. “You did good, cellmate.”

Was I crying? Had there been any point in the last twenty-four hours when I hadn’t been crying? “Lu…You’re good people. I’m sorry I mistrusted you.”

“Eh.” She waved one of her daggers. “That’s okay. I thought you were pretty useless, too.”

“I—I didn’t say useless.…”

“I should go check on the former imperial family,” she said. “They’re looking a little lost without General Sapling.” She winked at Meg, then lumbered off.

Will pressed a vial of nectar into my hands. “Drink this. And this.” He passed me a Mountain Dew. “And here’s some salve for those wounds.” He handed the jar to Meg. “Could you do the honors? I have to find more bandages. I used up my supply outfitting Luguselwa Dagger-Hands.”

He hurried away, leaving me alone with Meg.

She sat next to me, cross-legged, and started finger-painting my ouchies with healing ointment. She had plenty of ouchies to choose from. I alternated drinking my nectar and Mountain Dew, which was sort of like alternating between premium gasoline and regular gasoline.

Meg had thrown away her sandals, braving bare feet despite the arrows, rubble, bones, and discarded blades that littered the floor. Someone had given her an orange Camp Half-Blood shirt, which she’d put on over her dress, making her allegiance clear. She still looked older and more sophisticated, but she also looked like my Meg.

“I’m so proud of you,” I said. I definitely was not weeping like a baby. “You were so strong. So brilliant. So— OW!”

She poked the dagger wound in my side, effectively silencing my compliments. “Yeah, I know. I had to be. For them.”

She chin-pointed to her wayward foster siblings, who had broken down in the wake of Nero’s death. A couple of them stormed around the room, throwing things and screaming hateful comments while Luguselwa and some of our demigods stood by, giving them space, watching to make sure the imperials didn’t hurt themselves or anyone else. Another child of Nero was curled up and sobbing between two Aphrodite campers who’d been pressed into service as grief counselors. Nearby, one of the youngest imperials appeared catatonic in the arms of a Hypnos camper, who rocked the child back and forth while singing lullabies.

In the space of an evening, the imperial children had gone from enemies to victims who needed help, and Camp Half-Blood was stepping up to the challenge.

“They’ll need time,” Meg said. “And a lot of good support, like I got.”

“They’ll need you,” I added. “You showed them the way out.”

She gave me a one-shoulder shrug. “You really got a lot of wounds.”

I let her work, but as I sipped my high-octane beverages, I considered that perhaps courage was a self-perpetuating cycle, like abuse. Nero had hoped to create miniature, tortured versions of himself because that made him feel stronger. Meg had found the strength to oppose him because she saw how much her foster siblings needed her to succeed, to show them another way.

There were no guarantees. The imperial demigods had dealt with so much for so long, some of them might never be able to come back from the darkness. Then again, there had been no guarantees for Meg, either. There were still no guarantees that I would come back from what awaited me in the caverns of Delphi. All any of us could do was try, and hope that, in the end, the virtuous cycle would break the vicious one.

I scanned the rest of the throne room, wondering how long I had been unconscious. Outside it was full dark. Emergency lights pulsed against the side of the neighboring building from the street far below. The thwump-thwump-thwump of a helicopter told me we were still making local news.

Most of the troglodytes had vanished, though Screech-Bling and a few of his lieutenants were here, having what looked like a serious conversation with Sherman Yang. Perhaps they were negotiating a division of the spoils of war. I imagined Camp Half-Blood was about to be flush with Greek fire and Imperial gold weapons, while the trogs would have a fabulous new selection of haberdashery and whatever lizards and rocks they could find.

Demigod children of Demeter were tending the overgrown dryads, discussing how best to transport them back to camp. Over by the emperor’s dais, some of the Apollo kids (my kids) conducted triage operations. Jerry, Yan, and Gracie—the newbies from camp—now all looked like seasoned pros, shouting orders to the stretcher-bearers, examining the wounded, treating campers and Germani alike.

The barbarians looked glum and dejected. None seemed to have the slightest interest in fighting. A few sported injuries that should have made them crumble to ash, but they were no longer creatures of Nero, bound to the living world by his power. They were just humans again, like Luguselwa. They would have to find a new purpose for their remaining years, and I supposed none of them loved the idea of staying loyal to the cause of a dead emperor.

“You were right,” I told Meg. “About trusting Luguselwa. I was wrong.”

Meg patted my knuckles. “Just keep saying that. I’m right. You’re wrong. Been waiting months for you to realize it.”

She gave me a little smirk. Again, I could only marvel at how much she’d changed. She still looked ready to do a cartwheel for no reason, or wipe her nose on her sleeve with zero shame, or eat an entire birthday cake just because yum, but she was no longer the half-wild alley-dwelling urchin I’d met in January. She’d grown taller and more confident. She carried herself like someone who owned this tower. And for all I knew, she might, now that Nero was dead, assuming the whole place didn’t burn down.