The Tyrant's Tomb (The Trials of Apollo, #4)(39)

Despite our differences, Artemis understood me. Well, okay, she tolerated me. Most of the time. All right, some of the time. I longed to see her beautiful, annoying face again. That’s how lonely and pathetic I had become.

Meg walked a few yards ahead of me, flanking Lavinia so they could share bubble gum and talk unicorns. Hazel hiked at my side, though I got the feeling she was mostly trying to make sure I didn’t collapse.

“You don’t look so good,” she noted.

“What gave it away? The cold sweat? The rapid breathing?”

In the darkness, Hazel’s gold eyes reminded me of an owl’s: supremely alert, ready to fly or pounce as needed. “How’s the gut wound?”

“Better,” I said, though I was having more and more trouble convincing myself.

Hazel redid her ponytail, but it was a losing battle. Her hair was so long, curly, and luxurious it kept escaping its scrunchie. “Just no more cuts, all right? Is there anything else you can tell me about Tarquin? Weaknesses? Blind spots? Pet peeves?”

“Don’t they teach you Roman history as part of legion training?”

“Well, yes. But I may have tuned out during the lectures. I went to Catholic school back in New Orleans in the 1930s. I have a lot of experience in tuning out teachers.”

“Mmm. I can relate. Socrates. Very smart. But his discussion groups…not exactly riveting entertainment.”

“So, Tarquin.”

“Right. He was power-mad. Arrogant. Violent. Would kill anyone who got in his way.”

“Like the emperors.”

“But without any of their refinement. Tarquin was also obsessed with building projects. He started the Temple of Jupiter. Also, Rome’s main sewer.”

“Claim to fame.”

“His subjects finally got so weary of taxes and forced labor that they rebelled.”

“They didn’t like digging a sewer? I can’t imagine why.”

It occurred to me that Hazel wasn’t so much interested in information as she was in distracting me from my worries. I appreciated that, but I had trouble returning her smile. I kept thinking about Tarquin’s voice speaking through the ghoul in the tunnel. He had known Hazel’s name. He had promised her a special place among his undead horde.

“Tarquin is sly,” I said. “Like any true psychopath, he has always been good at manipulating people. As for weaknesses, I don’t know. His relentlessness, maybe. Even after he got kicked out of Rome, he never stopped trying to win back the crown. He kept gathering new allies, attacking the city over and over again, even when it was clear he didn’t have the strength to win.”

“Apparently he still hasn’t given up.” Hazel pushed a eucalyptus branch out of our way. “Well, we’ll stick to the plan: get in quietly, investigate, leave. At least Frank is safe back at camp.”

“Because you value his life more than ours?”

“No. Well…”

“You can leave it at no.”

Hazel shrugged. “It’s just that Frank seems to be looking for danger these days. I don’t suppose he told you what he did at the Battle of the New Moon?”

“He said the battle turned at the Little Tiber. Zombies don’t like running water.”

“Frank turned the tide of battle, almost single-handedly. Demigods were falling all around him. He just kept fighting—shape-shifting into a giant snake, then a dragon, then a hippopotamus.” She shuddered. “He makes a terrifying hippo. By the time Reyna and I managed to bring up reinforcements, the enemy was already in retreat. Frank had no fear. I just…” Her voice tightened. “I don’t want to lose him. Especially after what happened to Jason.”

I tried to reconcile Hazel’s story of Frank Zhang, fearless-hippo killing machine, with the easygoing, big cuddly praetor who slept in a yellow silk jammie shirt decorated with eagles and bears. I remembered the casual way he’d flipped his stick of firewood. He’d assured me he didn’t have a death wish. Then again, neither had Jason Grace.

“I don’t intend to lose anyone else,” I told Hazel.

I stopped short of making a promise.

The goddess of the River Styx had excoriated me for my broken oaths. She’d warned that everyone around me would pay for my crimes. Lupa, too, had foreseen more blood and sacrifice. How could I promise Hazel that any of us would be safe?

Lavinia and Meg halted so abruptly I almost ran into them.

“See?” Lavinia pointed through a break in the trees. “We’re almost there.”

In the valley below, an empty parking lot and picnic area occupied a clearing in the redwoods. At the far end of the meadow, silent and still, stood a carousel, all its lights blazing.

“Why is it lit up?” I wondered.

“Maybe somebody’s home,” said Hazel.

“I like merry-go-rounds,” said Meg, and she started down the path.


The carousel was topped by a tan dome like a giant pith helmet. Behind a barricade of teal and yellow metal railings, the ride blazed with hundreds of lights. The painted animals threw long distorted shadows across the grass. The horses looked frozen in panic, their eyes wild, their forelegs kicking. A zebra’s head was raised as if in agony. A giant rooster flared its red comb and stretched its talons. There was even a hippocampus like Tyson’s friend Rainbow, but this fish pony had a snarling face. What sort of parents would let their children ride such nightmarish creatures? Maybe Zeus, I thought.