The Tyrant's Tomb (The Trials of Apollo, #4)(61)

Where it doesn’t belong and—

Venus, I hate you

FOR SUCH A POPULATED area, San Francisco had a surprising number of wilderness pockets. We parked on a dead-end road at the base of the tower’s hill. To our right, a field of rocks and weeds offered a multimillion-dollar view of the city. To our left, the incline was so heavily forested you could almost use the eucalyptus trunks as climbing rungs.

From the hill’s summit, perhaps a quarter mile above us, Sutro Tower soared into the fog, its red-and-white pylons and crossbeams forming a giant tripod that reminded me uncomfortably of the Delphic Oracle’s seat. Or the scaffolding for a funeral pyre.

“There’s a relay station at the base.” Reyna pointed toward the hilltop. “We may have to deal with mortal guards, fences, barbed wire, that kind of thing. Plus whatever Tarquin might have waiting for us.”

“Neat,” Meg said. “Let’s go!”

The greyhounds needed no encouragement. They charged uphill, plowing through the underbrush. Meg followed, clearly determined to rip her clothes on as many brambles and thorn bushes as possible.

Reyna must have noticed my pained expression as I contemplated the climb.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “We can take it slow. Aurum and Argentum know to wait for me at the top.”

“But does Meg?” I imagined my young friend charging alone into a relay station filled with guards, zombies, and other “neat” surprises.

“Good point,” Reyna said. “Let’s take it medium, then.”

I did my best, which entailed lots of wheezing, sweating, and leaning against trees to rest. My archery skills may have improved. My music was getting better. But my stamina was still 100 percent Lester.

At least Reyna didn’t ask me how my wound felt. The answer was Somewhere south of horrible.

When I’d gotten dressed that morning, I had avoided looking at my gut, but I couldn’t ignore the throbbing pain, or the deep purple tendrils of infection now licking at the bases of my wrists and my neck, which not even my long-sleeve hoodie could hide. Occasionally, my vision blurred, turning the world a sickly shade of eggplant. I would hear a distant whisper in my head…the voice of Tarquin, beckoning me to return to his tomb. So far, the voice was just an annoyance, but I had the feeling it would get stronger until I could no longer ignore it…or fail to obey it.

I told myself I just needed to hang in there until tonight. Then I could summon godly help and get myself cured. Or I’d die in battle. At this point, either option was preferable to a painful, lingering slide into undeath.

Reyna hiked alongside me, using her sheathed sword to poke the ground as if she expected to find land mines. Ahead of us, through the dense foliage, I saw no sign of Meg or the greyhounds, but I could hear them rustling through leaves and stepping on twigs. If any sentries waited for us at the summit, we would not be taking them by surprise.

“So,” Reyna said, apparently satisfied that Meg was out of earshot, “are you going to tell me?”

My pulse accelerated to a tempo suitable for a parade march. “Tell you what?”

She raised her eyebrows like, Really? “Ever since you showed up at camp, you’ve been acting jumpy. You stare at me like I’m the one who got infected. Then you won’t make eye contact. You stammer. You fidget. I do notice these things.”

“Ah.”

I climbed a few more steps. Perhaps if I concentrated on the hike, Reyna would let the matter drop.

“Look,” she said, “I’m not going to bite you. Whatever is going on, I’d rather not have it hanging over your head, or mine, when we go into battle.”

I swallowed, wishing I had some of Lavinia’s bubble gum to cut the taste of poison and fear.

Reyna made a good point. Whether I died today, or turned into a zombie, or somehow managed to live, I would rather face my fate with my conscience clear and no secrets. For one thing, I should tell Meg about my encounter with Peaches. I should also tell her I didn’t hate her. In fact, I liked her pretty well. All right, I loved her. She was the bratty little sister I’d never had.

As for Reyna—I didn’t know whether I was or wasn’t the answer to her destiny. Venus might curse me for leveling with the praetor, but I had to tell Reyna what was bothering me. I was unlikely to get another chance.

“It’s about Venus,” I said.

Reyna’s expression hardened. It was her turn to stare at the hillside and hope the conversation went away. “I see.”

“She told me—”

“Her little prediction.” Reyna spat out the words like inedible seeds. “No mortal or demigod will ever heal my heart.”

“I didn’t mean to pry,” I promised. “It’s just—”

“Oh, I believe you. Venus loves her gossip. I doubt there’s anyone at Camp Jupiter who doesn’t know what she told in me Charleston.”

“I—Really?”

Reyna broke a dry branch off a shrub and flicked it into the underbrush. “I went on that quest with Jason, what, two years ago? Venus took one look at me and decided…I don’t know. I was broken. I needed romantic healing. Whatever. I wasn’t back at camp a full day before the whispering started. Nobody would admit that they knew, but they knew. The looks I got: Oh, poor Reyna. The innocent suggestions about who I should date.”