The Tyrant's Tomb (The Trials of Apollo, #4)(44)

The king regarded me as I writhed like a bug pinned to a corkboard. “I hope the Sibyl lasts long enough to see you humbled. That may be what finally breaks her. And when those bumbling emperors arrive, they will see the true terror of a Roman king!”

Hazel howled. The back wall collapsed, bringing down half the ceiling. Tarquin and his troops disappeared under an avalanche of rocks the size of assault vehicles.

My pain subsided to mere agony levels. Lavinia and Meg hauled me to my feet. Angry purple lines of infection now twisted up my arms. That probably wasn’t good.

Hazel hobbled over. Her corneas had turned an unhealthy shade of gray. “We need to move.”

Lavinia glanced at the pile of rubble. “But isn’t he—?”

“Not dead,” Hazel said with bitter disappointment. “I can feel him squirming under there, trying to…” She shivered. “It doesn’t matter. More undead will be coming. Let’s go!”


Easier said than done.

Hazel limped along, breathing heavily as she led us back through a different set of tunnels. Meg guarded our retreat, slicing down the occasional zombie who stumbled across our path. Lavinia had to support most of my weight, but she was deceptively strong, just as she was deceptively nimble. She seemed to have no trouble hauling my sorry carcass through the tomb.

I was only semiconscious of my surroundings. My bow clanged against my ukulele, making a jarring open chord in perfect sync with my rattled brain.

What had just happened?

After that beautiful moment of godlike prowess with my bow, I’d suffered an ugly, perhaps terminal setback with my gut wound. I now had to admit I was not getting better. Tarquin had spoken of a poison slowly making its way to my brain. Despite the best efforts of the camp’s healers, I was turning, becoming one of the king’s creatures. By facing him, I had apparently accelerated the process.

This should have terrified me. The fact that I could think about it with such detachment was itself concerning. The medical part of my mind decided I must be going into shock. Or possibly just, you know, dying.

Hazel stopped at the intersection of two corridors. “I—I’m not sure.”

“What do you mean?” Meg asked.

Hazel’s corneas were still the color of wet clay. “I can’t get a read. There should be an exit here. We’re close to the surface, but…I’m sorry, guys.”

Meg retracted her blades. “That’s okay. Keep watch.”

“What are you doing?” Lavinia asked.

Meg touched the nearest wall. The ceiling shifted and cracked. I had a fleeting image of us getting buried like Tarquin under several tons of rock—which, in my present state of mind, seemed like an amusing way to die. Instead, dozens of thickening tree roots wriggled their way through the cracks, pushing apart the stones. Even as a former god accustomed to magic, I found it mesmerizing. The roots spiraled and wove themselves together, shoving aside the earth, letting in the dim glow of moonlight, until we found ourselves at the base of a gently sloping chute (A root chute?) with handholds and footholds for climbing.

Meg sniffed the air above. “Smells safe. Let’s go.”

While Hazel stood guard, Meg and Lavinia joined forces to get me up the chute. Meg pulled. Lavinia pushed. It was all very undignified, but the thought of Lavinia’s half-primed manubalista jostling around somewhere below my delicate posterior gave me an incentive to keep moving.

We emerged at the base of a redwood in the middle of the forest. The carousel was nowhere in sight. Meg gave Hazel a hand up, then touched the trunk of the tree. The root chute spiraled shut, submerging under the grass.

Hazel swayed on her feet. “Where are we?”

“This way,” Lavinia announced.

She shouldered my weight again, despite my protestations that I was fine. Really, I was only dying a little bit. We staggered down a trail among the looming redwoods. I couldn’t see the stars or discern any landmarks. I had no idea which direction we were heading, but Lavinia seemed undeterred.

“How do you know where we are?” I asked.

“Told you,” she said. “I like to explore.”

She must really like Poison Oak, I thought for the umpteenth time. Then I wondered if Lavinia simply felt more at home in the wild than she did at camp. She and my sister would get along fine.

“Are any of you hurt?” I asked. “Did the ghouls scratch you?”

The girls all shook their heads.

“What about you?” Meg scowled and pointed at my gut. “I thought you were getting better.”

“I guess I was too optimistic.” I wanted to scold her for jumping into combat and nearly getting us all killed, but I didn’t have the energy. Also, the way she was looking at me, I got the feeling that her grumpy facade might collapse into tears faster than Tarquin’s ceilings had crumbled.

Hazel eyed me warily. “You should have healed. I don’t understand.”

“Lavinia, can I have some gum?” I asked.

“Seriously?” She dug in her pocket and handed me a piece.

“You’re a corrupting influence.” With leaden fingers, I managed to unwrap the gum and stick it in my mouth. The flavor was sickly sweet. It tasted pink. Still, it was better than the sour ghoul poison welling up in my throat. I chewed, glad for something to focus on beside the memory of Tarquin’s skeletal fingers curling and sending scythes of fire through my intestines. And what he had said about the Sibyl…? No. I couldn’t process that right now.