The Tyrant's Tomb (The Trials of Apollo, #4)(78)

At last, the birds got the message. With a few parting screeches—probably unprintable comments about my parentage—they broke off their assault and flew north toward Marin County.

“Nice work,” Meg told me, retracting her blades.

The best I could manage was a nod and some wheezing. Beads of sweat froze on my forehead. My legs felt like soggy french fries. I didn’t see how I could climb back down the ladder, much less race off for a fun-filled evening of god-summoning, combat to the death, and possibly turning into a zombie.

“Oh, gods.” Reyna stared in the direction the flock had gone, her fingers absently exploring her scalp where the raven had snapped off a hunk of her hair.

“It’ll grow back,” I said.

“What? No, not my hair. Look!”

She pointed to the Golden Gate Bridge.

We must have been inside the shipping container much longer than I’d realized. The sun sat low in the western sky. The daytime full moon had risen above Mount Tamalpais. The afternoon heat had burned away all the fog, giving us a perfect view of the white fleet—fifty beautiful yachts in V formation—gliding leisurely past Point Bonita Lighthouse at the edge of the Marin Headlands, making their way toward the bridge. Once past it, they would have smooth sailing into the San Francisco Bay.

My mouth tasted like god dust. “How long do we have?”

Reyna checked her watch. “The vappae are taking their time, but even at the rate they’re sailing, they’ll be in position to fire on the camp by sunset. Maybe two hours?”

Under different circumstances, I might have enjoyed her use of the term vappae. It had been a long time since I’d heard someone call their enemies spoiled wines. In modern parlance, the closest meaning would’ve been scumbags.

“How long will it take for us to reach camp?” I asked.

“In Friday afternoon traffic?” Reyna calculated. “A little more than two hours.”

From one of her gardening-belt pouches, Meg pulled a fistful of seeds. “I guess we’d better hurry, then.”


I was not familiar with Jack and the Beanstalk.

It didn’t sound like a proper Greek myth.

When Meg said we’d have to use a Jack-and-the-Beanstalk exit, I didn’t have a clue what she meant, even as she scattered handfuls of seeds down the nearest pylon, causing them to explode into bloom until she’d formed a latticework of plant matter all the way to the ground.

“Over you go,” she ordered.

“But—”

“You’re in no shape to climb the ladder,” she said. “This’ll be faster. Like falling. Only with plants.”

I hated that description.

Reyna just shrugged. “What the heck.”

She kicked one leg over the railing and jumped. The plants grabbed her, passing her down the leafy latticework a few feet at a time like a bucket brigade. At first she yelped and flailed her arms, but about halfway to the ground, she shouted up to us, “NOT—THAT—BAD!”

I went next. It was bad. I screamed. I got flipped upside down. I floundered for something to hold on to, but I was completely at the mercy of creepers and ferns. It was like free-falling through a skyscraper-size bag of leaves, if those leaves were still alive and very touchy-feely.

At the bottom, the plants set me down gently on the grass next to Reyna, who looked like she’d been tarred and flowered. Meg landed beside us and immediately crumpled into my arms.

“Lotta plants,” she muttered.

Her eyes rolled up in her head. She began to snore. I guessed she would not be Jacking any more beanstalks today.

Aurum and Argentum bounded over, wagging their tails and yapping. The hundreds of black feathers strewn around the parking lot told me the greyhounds had been having fun with the birds I’d shot out of the sky.

I was in no condition to walk, much less carry Meg, but somehow, dragging her between us, Reyna and I managed to stumble back down the hillside to the truck. I suspected Reyna was using her Bellona-mazing skills to lend me some of her strength, though I doubted she had much left to spare.

When we reached the Chevy, Reyna whistled. Her dogs jumped into the back. We wrestled our unconscious beanstalk master into the middle of the bench seat. I collapsed next to her. Reyna cranked the ignition, and we tore off down the hill.

Our progress was great for about ninety seconds. Then we hit the Castro District and got stuck in Friday traffic funneling toward the highway. It was almost enough to make me wish for another bucket brigade of plants that could toss us back to Oakland.

After our time with Harpocrates, everything seemed obscenely loud: the Chevy’s engine, the chatter of passing pedestrians, the thrum of subwoofers from other cars. I cradled my backpack, trying to take comfort in the fact that the glass jar was intact. We had gotten what we came for, though I could hardly believe the Sibyl and Harpocrates were gone.

I would have to process my shock and grief later, assuming I lived. I needed to figure out a way to properly honor their passing. How did one commemorate the death of a god of silence? A moment of silence seemed superfluous. Perhaps a moment of screaming?

First things first: survive tonight’s battle. Then I would figure out the screaming.

Reyna must have noticed my worried expression.

“You did good back there,” she said. “You stepped up.”

Reyna sounded sincere. But her praise just made me feel more ashamed.