The Tyrant's Tomb (The Trials of Apollo, #4)(96)

One Eye grunted and tossed his mane. I imagined his silent exchange with Short Ears went something like this.

One Eye: I’m gonna give this pathetic loser a ride. You go ahead. I’ll catch up.

Short Ears: You’re crazy, man. If he gives you any trouble, kick him in the head.

One Eye: You know I will.

Short Ears trotted off into the night. I couldn’t blame him for leaving. I hoped he would find a safe place to rest and heal.

One Eye nickered at me. Well?

I took one last look at the Caldecott Tunnel, the interior still a maelstrom of green flames. Even without fuel, Greek fire would just keep burning and burning, and that conflagration had been started with Frank’s life force—a final, thermal burst of heroism that had vaporized Caligula. I didn’t pretend to understand what Frank had done, or why he had made that choice, but I understood he’d felt it was the only way. He’d burned brightly, all right. The last word Caligula had heard as he got blasted into tiny particles of soot was Jason.

I stepped closer to the tunnel. I could barely get within fifty feet without the breath being sucked out of my lungs.

“FRANK!” I yelled. “FRANK?”

It was hopeless, I knew. There was no way Frank could have survived that. Caligula’s immortal body had disintegrated instantly. Frank couldn’t have lasted more than a few seconds longer, held together by sheer courage and force of will, just to be sure he took Caligula down with him.

I wished I could cry. I vaguely recalled having tear ducts, once upon a time.

Now all I had was despair, and the knowledge that as long as I wasn’t dead, I had to try to help my remaining friends, no matter how much I hurt.

“I’m so sorry,” I said to the flames.

The flames didn’t answer. They didn’t care who or what they destroyed.

I fixed my gaze on the crest of the hill. Hazel, Meg, and the last of the Twelfth Legion were on the other side, fighting off the undead. That’s where I needed to be.

“Okay,” I told One Eye. “I’m ready.”





Got two words for you:

Swiss Army unicorns, man!

Okay, that’s four words.

IF YOU EVER GET the chance to see weaponized unicorns in action, don’t. It’s something you can’t un-see.

As we got closer to the city, I detected signs of continuing battle: columns of smoke, flames licking the tops of buildings, screams, shouts, explosions. You know, the usual.

One Eye dropped me at the Pomerian Line. He snorted in a tone that said, Yeah, good luck with that, then galloped away. Pegasi are intelligent creatures.

I glanced at Temple Hill, hoping to see storm clouds gathering, or a divine aura of silver light bathing the hillside, or an army of my sister’s Hunters charging to the rescue. I saw nothing. I wondered if Ella and Tyson were still pacing around the shrine of Diana, checking the fire pit every thirty seconds to see if the Sibyl’s jelly-jar shards were cooked yet.

Once again, I had to be a cavalry of one. Sorry, New Rome. I jogged toward the Forum, which was where I caught my first glimpse of the unicorns. Definitely not the usual.

Meg herself led the charge. She was not riding a unicorn. No one who values their life (or their crotch) would ever dare ride one. But she did run alongside them, exhorting them to greatness as they galloped into battle. The beasts were outfitted in Kevlar with their names printed in white block letters along their ribs: MUFFIN, BUSTER, WHANGDOODLE, SHIRLEY, and HORATIO, the Five Unicorns of the Apocalypse. Their leather helmets reminded me of those worn by football players in the 1920s. The steeds’ horns were fitted with specially designed…What would you call them? Attachments? Imagine, if you will, massive conical Swiss Army knives, with various slots from which sprang a convenient variety of destructive implements.

Meg and her friends slammed into a horde of vrykolakai—former legionnaires killed in Tarquin’s previous assault, judging from their grungy bits of armor. A member of Camp Jupiter might have had trouble attacking old comrades, but Meg had no such qualms. Her swords whirled, slicing and dicing and making mounds and mounds of julienned zombies.

With a flick of their snouts, her equine friends activated their favorite accessories: a sword blade, a giant razor, a corkscrew, a fork, and a nail file. (Buster chose the nail file, which did not surprise me.) They plowed through the undead, forking them, corkscrewing them, stabbing them, and nail-filing them into oblivion.

You may wonder why I did not find it horrifying that Meg would use unicorns for war while I had found it horrifying that the emperors had used pegasi for their chariot. Setting aside the obvious difference—that the unicorns weren’t tortured or maimed—it was clear the one-horned steeds were enjoying themselves immensely. After centuries of being treated as delightful, fanciful creatures who frolicked in meadows and danced through rainbows, these unicorns finally felt seen and appreciated. Meg had recognized their natural talent for kicking undead posterior.

“Hey!” Meg grinned when she saw me, like I’d just come back from the bathroom instead of the brink of doomsday. “It’s working great. Unicorns are immune to undead scratches and bites!”

Shirley huffed, clearly pleased with herself. She showed me her corkscrew attachment as if to say, Yeah, that’s right. I ain’t your Rainbow Pony.

“The emperors?” Meg asked me.

“Dead. But…” My voice cracked.