The Tyrant's Tomb (The Trials of Apollo, #4)(25)

In some corner of my mind, I wondered if this was how mortals felt when they used to pray to me. Perhaps their devotions had been nothing but muscle memory, reciting by rote while their minds drifted elsewhere, uninterested in my glory. I found the idea strangely…understandable. Now that I was a mortal, why should I not practice nonviolent resistance against the gods, too?

I finished my benediction.

I gestured for the aurae to distribute the feast, to place the first serving on Jason’s coffin so he could symbolically share a last meal with his brethren in the mortal world. Once that happened, and the pyre was lit, Jason’s soul would cross the Styx—so Roman tradition said.

Before the torches could be set to the wood, a plaintive howl echoed in the distance. Then another, much closer. An uneasy ripple passed through the assembled demigods. Their expressions weren’t alarmed, exactly, but definitely surprised, as if they hadn’t planned on extra guests. Hannibal grunted and stamped.

At the edges of our gathering, gray wolves emerged from the gloom—dozens of huge beasts, keening for the death of Jason, a member of their pack.

Directly behind the pyre, on the raised steps of Jupiter’s temple, the largest wolf appeared, her silvery hide glowing in the torchlight.

I felt the legion holding its collective breath. No one knelt. When facing Lupa, the wolf goddess, guardian spirit of Rome, you don’t kneel or show any sign of weakness. Instead we stood respectfully, holding our ground, as the pack bayed around us.

At last, Lupa fixed me with her lamp-yellow eyes. With a curl of her lip, she gave me a simple order: Come.

Then she turned and paced into the darkness of the temple.

Reyna approached me.

“Looks like the wolf goddess wants to have a private word.” She frowned with concern. “We’ll get the feast started. You go ahead. Hopefully Lupa isn’t angry. Or hungry.”





Sing it with me: Who’s

Afraid of the Big Good Wolf?

Me. That would be me.

LUPA WAS BOTH ANGRY and hungry.

I didn’t claim to be fluent in Wolf, but I’d spent enough time around my sister’s pack to understand the basics. Feelings were the easiest to read. Lupa, like all her kind, spoke in a combination of glances, snarls, ear twitches, postures, and pheromones. It was quite an elegant language, though not well-suited to rhyming couplets. Believe me, I’d tried. Nothing rhymes with grr-rrr-row-rrr.

Lupa was trembling with fury over Jason’s death. The ketones on her breath indicated she had not eaten in days. The anger made her hungry. The hunger made her angry. And her twitching nostrils told her that I was the nearest, most convenient sack of mortal meat.

Nevertheless, I followed her into Jupiter’s massive temple. I had little choice.

Ringing the open-air pavilion, columns the size of redwoods supported a domed, gilded ceiling. The floor was a colorful mosaic of Latin inscriptions: prophecies, memorials, dire warnings to praise Jupiter or face his lightning. In the center, behind a marble altar, rose a massive golden statue of Dad himself: Jupiter Optimus Maximus, draped in a purple silk toga big enough to be a ship’s sail. He looked stern, wise, and paternal, though he was only one of those in real life.

Seeing him tower above me, lightning bolt raised, I had to fight the urge to cower and plead. I knew it was only a statue, but if you’ve ever been traumatized by someone, you’ll understand. It doesn’t take much to trigger those old fears: a look, a sound, a familiar situation. Or a fifty-foot-tall golden statue of your abuser—that does the trick.

Lupa stood before the altar. Mist shrouded her fur as if she were off-gassing quicksilver.

It is your time, she told me.

Or something like that. Her gestures conveyed expectation and urgency. She wanted me to do something. Her scent told me she wasn’t sure I was capable of it.

I swallowed dryly, which in itself was Wolf for I’m scared. No doubt Lupa already smelled my fear. It wasn’t possible to lie in Lupa’s language. Threaten, bully, cajole…yes. But not outright lie.

“My time,” I said. “For what, exactly?”

She nipped the air in annoyance. To be Apollo. The pack needs you.

I wanted to scream I’ve been trying to be Apollo! It’s not that easy!

But I restrained my body language from broadcasting that message.

Talking face-to-face with any god is dangerous business. I was out of practice. True, I’d seen Britomartis back in Indianapolis, but she didn’t count. She liked torturing me too much to want to kill me. With Lupa, though…I had to be careful.

Even when I’d been a god myself, I’d never been able to get a good read on the Wolf Mother. She didn’t hang out with the Olympians. She never came to the family Saturnalia dinners. Not once had she attended our monthly book group, even when we discussed Dances with Wolves.

“Fine,” I relented. “I know what you mean. The last lines from the Dark Prophecy. I’ve reached the Tiber alive, et cetera, et cetera. Now I am supposed to ‘jive.’ I assume that entails more than dancing and snapping my fingers?”

Lupa’s stomach growled. The more I talked, the tastier I smelled.

The pack is weak, she signaled with a glance toward the funeral pyre. Too many have died. When the enemy surrounds this place, you must show strength. You must summon help.

I tried to suppress another wolfish display of irritation. Lupa was a goddess. This was her city, her camp. She had a pack of supernatural wolves at her command. Why couldn’t she help?