The Tyrant's Tomb (The Trials of Apollo, #4)(7)

Typical of mortals: they warn you about drowning, but not about flesh-devouring ghouls.

Lavinia marched us to a small stone building that offered restrooms and a changing area. On the exterior back wall, half-hidden behind blackberry bushes, stood a nondescript metal door, which Lavinia kicked open. Inside, a concrete shaft sloped down into the darkness.

“I suppose the mortals don’t know about this,” I guessed.

Don giggled. “Nah, dude, they think it’s a generator room or something. Even most of the legionnaires don’t know about it. Only the cool ones like Lavinia.”

“You’re not getting out of helping, Don,” said Lavinia. “Let’s set down the coffin for a second.”

I said a silent prayer of thanks. My shoulders ached. My back was slick with sweat. I was reminded of the time Hera made me lug a solid-gold throne around her Olympian living room until she found exactly the right spot for it. Ugh, that goddess.

Lavinia pulled a pack of bubble gum from the pocket of her jeans. She stuffed three pieces in her mouth, then offered some to me and Meg.

“No, thanks,” I said.

“Sure,” said Meg.

“Sure!” said Don.

Lavinia jerked the bubble gum pack out of his reach. “Don, you know bubble gum doesn’t agree with you. Last time, you were hugging the toilet for days.”

Don pouted. “But it tastes good.”

Lavinia peered into the tunnel, her jaw working furiously at the gum. “It’s too narrow to carry the coffin with four people. I’ll lead the way. Don, you and Apollo”—she frowned as if she still couldn’t believe that was my name—“each take one end.”

“Just the two of us?” I protested.

“What he said!” Don agreed.

“Just carry it like a sofa,” said Lavinia, as if that was supposed to mean something to me. “And you—what’s your name? Peg?”

“Meg,” said Meg.

“Is there anything you don’t need to bring?” asked Lavinia. “Like…that poster-board thing under your arm—is that a school project?”

Meg must have been incredibly tired, because she didn’t scowl or hit Lavinia or cause geraniums to grow out of her ears. She just turned sideways, shielding Jason’s diorama with her body. “No. This is important.”

“Okay.” Lavinia scratched her eyebrow, which, like her hair, was frosted pink. “Just stay in back, I guess. Guard our retreat. This door can’t be locked, which means—”

As if on cue, from the far side of the lake came the loudest howl yet, filled with rage, as if the ghoul had discovered the dust and vulture diaper of its fallen comrade.

“Let’s go!” Lavinia said.

I began to revise my impression of our pink-haired friend. For a skittish baby giraffe, she could be very bossy.

We descended single-file into the passage, me carrying the back of the coffin, Don the front.

Lavinia’s gum scented the stale air, so the tunnel smelled like moldy cotton candy. Every time Lavinia or Meg popped a bubble, I flinched. My fingers quickly began to ache from the weight of the casket.

“How much farther?” I asked.

“We’re barely inside the tunnel,” Lavinia said.

“So…not far, then?”

“Maybe a quarter mile.”

I tried for a grunt of manly endurance. It came out as more of a snivel.

“Guys,” Meg said behind me, “we need to move faster.”

“You see something?” Don asked.

“Not yet,” Meg said. “Just a feeling.”

Feelings. I hated those.

Our weapons provided the only light. The gold fittings of the manubalista slung across Lavinia’s back cast a ghostly halo around her pink hair. The glow of Meg’s swords threw our elongated shadows across either wall, so we seemed to be walking in the midst of a spectral crowd. Whenever Don looked over his shoulder, his rainbow-tinted lenses seemed to float in the dark like patches of oil on water.

My hands and forearms burned from strain, but Don didn’t seem to be having any trouble. I was determined not to weep for mercy before the faun did.

The path widened and leveled out. I chose to take that as a good sign, though neither Meg nor Lavinia offered to help carry the casket.

Finally, my hands couldn’t take any more. “Stop.”

Don and I managed to set down Jason’s coffin a moment before I would’ve dropped it. Deep red gouges marred my fingers. Blisters were beginning to form on my palms. I felt like I’d just played a nine-hour set of dueling jazz guitar with Pat Metheny, using a six-hundred-pound iron Fender Stratocaster.

“Ow,” I muttered, because I was once the god of poetry and have great descriptive powers.

“We can’t rest long,” Lavinia warned. “My sentry shift must have ended by now. My partner’s probably wondering where I am.”

I almost wanted to laugh. I’d forgotten we were supposed to be worried about Lavinia playing hooky along with all our other problems. “Will your partner report you?”

Lavinia stared into the dark. “Not unless she has to. She’s my centurion, but she’s cool.”

“Your centurion gave you permission to sneak off?” I asked.

“Not exactly.” Lavinia tugged at her Star of David pendant. “She just kinda turned a blind eye, you know? She gets it.”