The Tyrant's Tomb (The Trials of Apollo, #4)(109)

Meg looked at a loss for words. Her lip quivered. She nodded and blinked her thanks.

“Okay, then!” Frank said. “I know we ate at the funeral, but we need to celebrate Hazel’s and Lavinia’s promotions, wish Reyna the best on her new adventures, and wish Apollo and Meg good-bye. And, of course, we’ve got a belated birthday cake for Lester! Party in the mess hall!”





Our great opening!

Win a free Inferno trip!

And take a cupcake!

I DON’T KNOW WHICH good-bye was hardest.

At first light, Hazel and Frank met us at the coffee shop for one final thank-you. Then they were off to rouse the legion. They intended to get right to work on repairs to the camp to take everyone’s minds off the many losses before shock could set in. Watching them walk away together down the Via Praetoria, I felt a warm certainty that the legion was about to see a new golden age. Like Frank, the Twelfth Legion Fulminata would rise from the ashes, though hopefully wearing more than just their undergarments.

Minutes later, Thalia and Reyna came by with their pack of gray wolves, their metal greyhounds, and their pair of rescue pegasi. Their departure saddened me as much as my sister’s, but I understood their ways, those Hunters. Always on the move.

Reyna gave me one last hug. “I’m looking forward to a long vacation.”

Thalia laughed. “Vacation? RARA, I hate to tell you, but we’ve got hard work ahead! We’ve been tracking the Teumessian Fox across the Midwest for months now, and it hasn’t been going well.”

“Exactly,” Reyna said. “A vacation.” She kissed Meg on the top of her head. “You keep Lester in line, okay? Don’t let him get a big head just because he’s got a nice new bow.”

“You can count on me,” Meg said.

Sadly, I had no reason to doubt her.

When Meg and I left the café for the last time, Bombilo actually cried. Behind his gruff exterior, the two-headed barista turned out to be a real sentimentalist. He gave us a dozen scones, a bag of coffee beans, and told us to get out of his sight before he started bawling again. I took charge of the scones. Meg, gods help me, took the coffee.

At the gates of camp, Lavinia waited, chewing her bubble gum while she polished her new centurion badge. “This is the earliest I’ve been up in years,” she complained. “I’m going to hate being an officer.”

The sparkle in her eyes told a different story.

“You’ll do great,” Meg said.

As Lavinia bent to hug her, I noticed a stippled rash running down Ms. Asimov’s left cheek and neck, unsuccessfully covered by some foundation.

I cleared my throat. “Did you perhaps sneak out last night to see Poison Oak?”

Lavinia blushed adorably. “Well? I’m told that my centurionship makes me very attractive.”

Meg looked concerned. “You’re going to have to invest in some calamine lotion if you keep seeing her.”

“Hey, no relationship is perfect,” Lavinia said. “At least with her, I know the problems right up front! We’ll figure it out.”

I had no doubt she would. She hugged me and ruffled my hair. “You’d better come back and see me. And don’t die. I will kick your butt with my new dancing shoes if you die.”

“Understood,” I said.

She did one last soft-shoe routine, gestured to us like, Over to you, then raced off to muster the Fifth Cohort for a long day of tap-dancing.

Watching her go, I marveled at how much had happened to all of us since Lavinia Asimov first escorted us into camp, just a few days before. We had defeated two emperors and a king, which would have been a strong hand in even the most cutthroat poker game. We had put to rest the souls of a god and a Sibyl. We had saved a camp, a city, and a lovely pair of shoes. Most of all, I had seen my sister, and she had restored me to good health—or what passed for good health for Lester Papadopoulos. As Reyna might say, we had added quite a bit to our “good things” column. Now Meg and I were embarking on what might be our last quest with good expectations and hopeful spirits…or at least a good night’s sleep and a dozen scones.

We took one final trip into New Rome, where Tyson and Ella were expecting us. Over the entrance of the bookstore, a newly painted sign proclaimed CYCLOPS BOOKS.

“Yay!” Tyson cried as we came through the doorway. “Come in! We are having our great opening today!”

“Grand opening,” Ella corrected, fussing over a platter of cupcakes and a bunch of balloons at the information desk. “Welcome to Cyclops Books and Prophecies and Also an Orange Cat.”

“That wouldn’t all fit on the sign,” Tyson confided.

“It should have fit on the sign,” Ella said. “We need a bigger sign.”

On top of the old-fashioned cash register, Aristophanes yawned as if it was all the same to him. He was wearing a tiny party hat and an expression that said, I am only wearing this because demigods don’t have phone cameras or Instagram.

“Customers can get prophecies for their quests!” Tyson explained, pointing at his chest, which was covered even more densely with Sibylline verse. “They can pick up the latest books, too!”

“I recommend the 1924 Farmer’s Almanac,” Ella told us. “Would you like a copy?”

“Ah…maybe next time,” I said. “We were told you had a prophecy for us?”