The Tyrant's Tomb (The Trials of Apollo, #4)(79)

“I’m holding the last breath of a god I bullied,” I said miserably, “in the jar of a Sibyl I cursed, who was protected by birds I turned into killing machines after they tattled about my cheating girlfriend, who I subsequently had assassinated.”

“All true,” Reyna said. “But the thing is, you recognize it now.”

“It feels horrible.”

She gave me a thin smile. “That’s kind of the point. You do something evil, you feel bad about it, you do better. That’s a sign you might be developing a conscience.”

I tried to remember which of the gods had created the human conscience. Had we created it, or had humans just developed it on their own? Giving mortals a sense of decency didn’t seem like the sort of thing a god would brag about on their profile page.

“I—I appreciate what you’re saying,” I managed. “But my past mistakes almost got you and Meg killed. If Harpocrates had destroyed you when you were trying to protect me…”

The idea was too awful to contemplate. My shiny new conscience would have blown up inside me like a grenade.

Reyna gave me a brief pat on the shoulder. “All we did was show Harpocrates how much you’ve changed. He recognized it. Have you completely made up for all the bad things you’ve done? No. But you keep adding to the ‘good things’ column. That’s all any of us can do.”

Adding to the “good things” column. Reyna spoke of this superpower as if it were one I could actually possess.

“Thank you,” I said.

She studied my face with concern, probably noting how far the purple vines of infection had wriggled their way across my cheeks. “You can thank me by staying alive, okay? We need you for that summoning ritual.”

As we climbed the entrance ramp to Interstate 80, I caught glimpses of the bay beyond the downtown skyline. The yachts had now slipped under the Golden Gate Bridge. Apparently, the cutting of Harpocrates’s cords and the destruction of the fasces hadn’t deterred the emperors at all.

Stretching out in front of the big vessels were silver wake lines from dozens of smaller boats making their way toward the East Bay shoreline. Landing parties, I guessed. And those boats were moving a whole lot faster than we were.

Over Mount Tam, the full moon rose, slowly turning the color of Dakota’s Kool-Aid.

Meanwhile, Aurum and Argentum barked cheerfully in the truck bed. Reyna drummed her fingers on the steering wheel and murmured, “Vamonos. Vamonos.” Meg leaned against me, snoring and drooling on my shirt. Because she loved me so much.

We were inching our way onto the Bay Bridge when Reyna finally said, “I can’t stand this. The ships shouldn’t have made it past the Golden Gate.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Open the glove compartment, please. Should be a scroll inside.”

I hesitated. Who knew what sort of dangers might lurk in the glove compartment of a praetor’s pickup truck? Cautiously, I rummaged past her insurance documents, a few packages of tissues, some baggies of dog treats….

“This?” I held up a floppy cylinder of vellum.

“Yeah. Unroll it and see if it works.”

“You mean it’s a communication scroll?”

She nodded. “I’d do it myself, but it’s dangerous to drive and scroll.”

“Um, okay.” I spread the vellum across my lap.

Its surface appeared blank. Nothing happened.

I wondered if I was supposed to say some magic words or give it a credit card number or something. Then, above the scroll, a faint ball of light flickered, slowly resolving into a miniature holographic Frank Zhang.

“Whoa!” Tiny Frank nearly jumped out of his tiny armor. “Apollo?”

“Hi,” I said. Then to Reyna, “It works.”

“I see that,” she said. “Frank, can you hear me?”

Frank squinted. We must have looked tiny and fuzzy to him, too. “Is that…? Can barely…Reyna?”

“Yes!” she said. “We’re on our way back. The ships are incoming!”

“I know…. Scout’s report…” Frank’s voice crackled. He seemed to be in some sort of large cave, legionnaires hustling behind him, digging holes and carrying large urns of some kind.

“What are you doing?” Reyna asked. “Where are you?”

“Caldecott…” Frank said. “Just…defensive stuff.”

I wasn’t sure if his voice fuzzed out that time because of static, or if he was being evasive. Judging from his expression, we’d caught him at an awkward moment.

“Any word…Michael?” he asked. (Definitely changing the subject.) “Should’ve…by now.”

“What?” Reyna asked, loud enough to make Meg snort in her sleep. “No, I was going to ask if you’d heard anything. They were supposed to stop the yachts at the Golden Gate. Since the ships got through…” Her voice faltered.

There could have been a dozen reasons why Michael Kahale and his commando team had failed to stop the emperors’ yachts. None of them were good, and none of them could change what would happen next. The only things now standing between Camp Jupiter and fiery annihilation were the emperors’ pride, which made them insist on making a ground assault first, and an empty Smucker’s jelly jar that might or might not allow us to summon godly help.