The Tyrant's Tomb (The Trials of Apollo, #4)(16)

“Meg,” I said, “are you seeing this?”

“Yeah.” She didn’t even look up from her iris bulbs. “Hey, Frank. What’s up?”

The bird shape-shifted, its form swelling into that of a bulky human, its feathers melting into clothes, until Frank Zhang sat before us, his hair now properly washed and combed, his silk nightshirt changed for a purple Camp Jupiter tee.

“Hey, Meg,” he said, as if it were completely normal to change species during a conversation. “Everything’s on schedule. I was just checking to see if Apollo was awake, which…obviously, he is.” He gave me an awkward wave. “I mean, you are. Since, er, I’m sitting on your cot. I should get up.”

He rose, tugged at his shirt, then didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. At one time, I would have been used to such nervous behavior from mortals I encountered, but now, it took me a moment to realize Frank was still in awe of me. Perhaps, being a shape-shifter, Frank was more willing than most to believe that, despite my unimpressive mortal appearance, I was still the same old god of archery inside.

You see? I told you Frank was adorable.

“Anyway,” he continued, “Meg and I have been talking, the last day or so, while you were passed out—I mean, recovering—sleeping, you know. It’s fine. You needed sleep. Hope you feel better.”

Despite how terrible I felt, I couldn’t help but smile. “You’ve been very kind to us, Praetor Zhang. Thank you.”

“Erm, sure. It’s, you know, an honor, seeing as you’re…or you were—”

“Ugh, Frank.” Meg turned from her flower box. “It’s just Lester. Don’t treat him like a big deal.”

“Now, Meg,” I said, “if Frank wants to treat me like a big deal—”

“Frank, just tell him.”

The praetor glanced back and forth between us, as if making sure the Meg and Apollo Show was over for now. “So, Meg explained the prophecy you got in the Burning Maze. Apollo faces death in Tarquin’s tomb unless the doorway to the soundless god is opened by Bellona’s daughter, right?”

I shivered. I didn’t want to be reminded of those words, especially given my dreams, and the implication that I would soon face death. Been there. Done that. Got the belly wound.

“Yes,” I said warily. “I don’t suppose you’ve figured out what those lines mean and have already undertaken the necessary quests?”

“Um, not exactly,” Frank said. “But the prophecy did answer a few questions about…well, about what’s been happening around here. It gave Ella and Tyson enough information to work with. They think they might have a lead.”

“Ella and Tyson…” I said, sifting through my foggy mortal brain. “The harpy and the Cyclops who have been working to reconstruct the Sibylline Books.”

“Those are the ones,” Frank agreed. “If you’re feeling up to it, I thought we could take a walk into New Rome.”





Nice stroll into town

Happy birthday to Lester

Here’s some gift-wrapped pain

I DID NOT FEEL up to it.

My gut hurt terribly. My legs could barely support my weight. Even after using the restroom, washing, dressing, and grabbing a Lemurian-spice latte and a muffin from our grumpy host, Bombilo, I didn’t see how I could walk the mile or so to New Rome.

I had no desire to find out more about the prophecy from the Burning Maze. I didn’t want to face more impossible challenges, especially after my dream of that thing in the tomb. I didn’t even want to be human. But, alas, I had no choice.

What do mortals say—suck it up? I sucked it way, way up.

Meg stayed at camp. She had an appointment in an hour to feed the unicorns with Lavinia, and Meg was afraid if she went anywhere, she might miss it. Given Lavinia’s reputation for going AWOL, I supposed Meg’s concern was valid.

Frank led me through the main gates. The sentries snapped to attention. They had to hold that pose for quite a while, since I was moving at the speed of cold syrup. I caught them studying me apprehensively—perhaps because they were worried I might launch into another heartbreaking song, or perhaps because they still couldn’t believe this shambling heap of adolescence had once been the god Apollo.

The afternoon was California perfect: turquoise sky, golden grass rippling on the hillsides, eucalyptus and cedar rustling in the warm breeze. This should have dispelled any thoughts of dark tunnels and ghouls, yet I couldn’t seem to get the smell of grave dust out of my nostrils. Drinking a Lemurian-spice latte did not help.

Frank walked at my speed, staying close enough that I could lean on him if I felt shaky, but not insisting on helping.

“So,” he said at last, “what’s with you and Reyna?”

I stumbled, sending fresh jabs of pain through my abdomen. “What? Nothing. What?”

Frank brushed a raven feather off his cloak. I wondered how that worked, exactly—being left with bits and pieces after shape-shifting. Did he ever discard a spare feather and realize later, Whoops, that was my pinky finger? I’d heard rumors that Frank could even turn into a swarm of bees. Even I, a former god who used to transform himself all the time, had no idea how he managed that.

“It’s just that…when you saw Reyna,” he said, “you froze, like…I dunno, you realized you owed her money or something.”