The Tyrant's Tomb (The Trials of Apollo, #4)(97)

Meg studied my face. She knew me well enough. She had been at my side in moments of tragedy.

Her expression darkened. “Okay. Grieve later. Right now, we should find Hazel. She’s”—Meg waved vaguely toward the middle of the town—“somewhere. So is Tarquin.”

Just hearing his name made my gut contort. Why, oh, why couldn’t I be a unicorn?

We ran with our Swiss Army herd up the narrow, winding streets. The battle was mostly pockets of house-to-house combat. Families had barricaded their homes. Shops were boarded up. Archers lurked in upper-story windows on the lookout for zombies. Roving bands of eurynomoi attacked any living thing they could find.

As horrible as the scene was, something about it seemed oddly subdued. Yes, Tarquin had flooded the city with undead. Every sewer grate and manhole cover was open. But he wasn’t attacking in force, sweeping systematically through the city to take control. Instead, small groups of undead were popping up everywhere at once, forcing the Romans to scramble and defend the citizenry. It felt less like an invasion and more like a diversion, as if Tarquin himself were after something specific and didn’t want to be bothered.

Something specific…like a set of Sibylline Books he’d paid good money for back in 530 BCE.

My heart pumped more cold lead. “The bookstore. Meg, the bookstore!”

She frowned, perhaps wondering why I wanted to shop for books at a time like this. Then realization dawned in her eyes. “Oh.”

She picked up speed, running so fast the unicorns had to break into a trot. How I managed to keep up, I don’t know. I suppose, at that point, my body was so far beyond help it just said, Run to death? Yeah, okay. Whatever.

The fighting intensified as we climbed the hill. We passed part of the Fourth Cohort battling a dozen slavering ghouls outside a sidewalk café. From the windows above, small children and their parents were tossing things at the eurynomoi—rocks, pots, pans, bottles—while the legionnaires jabbed their spears over the tops of their locked shields.

A few blocks farther on, we found Terminus, his World War I greatcoat peppered with shrapnel holes, his nose broken clean off his marble face. Crouching behind his pedestal was a little girl—his helper, Julia, I presumed—clutching a steak knife.

Terminus turned on us with such fury I feared he would zap us into stacks of customs declaration forms.

“Oh, it’s you,” he grumbled. “My borders have failed. I hope you’ve brought help.”

I looked at the terrified girl behind him, feral and fierce and ready to spring. I wondered who was protecting whom. “Ah…maybe?”

The old god’s face hardened a bit more, which shouldn’t have been possible for stone. “I see. Well. I’ve concentrated the last bits of my power here, around Julia. They may destroy New Rome, but they will not harm this girl!”

“Or this statue!” said Julia.

My heart turned to Smucker’s jelly. “We’ll win today, I promise.” Somehow I made it sound like I actually believed that statement. “Where’s Hazel?”

“Over there!” Terminus pointed with his nonexistent arms. Based on his glance (I couldn’t go by his nose anymore), I assumed he meant to the left. We ran in that direction until we found another cluster of legionnaires.

“Where’s Hazel?” Meg yelled.

“That way!” shouted Leila. “Two blocks maybe!”

“Thanks!” Meg sprinted on with her unicorn honor guard, their nail file and corkscrew attachments at the ready.

We found Hazel just where Leila had predicted—two blocks down, where the street widened into a neighborhood piazza. She and Arion were surrounded by zombies in the middle of the square, outnumbered about twenty to one. Arion didn’t look particularly alarmed, but he grunted and whinnied in frustration, unable to use his speed in such close quarters. Hazel slashed away with her spatha while Arion kicked at the mob to keep them back.

No doubt Hazel could’ve handled the situation without help, but our unicorns couldn’t resist the opportunity for more zombie-posterior-kicking. They crashed into the fray, slicing and bottle-opening and tweezing the undead in an awesome display of multifunction carnage.

Meg leaped into battle, her twin blades spinning. I scanned the street for abandoned projectile weapons. Sadly, they were easy to find. I scooped up a bow and quiver and went to work, giving the zombies some very fashionable skull-piercings.

When Hazel realized it was us, she laughed with relief, then scanned the area behind me, probably looking for Frank. I met her eyes. I’m afraid my expression told her everything she didn’t want to hear.

Emotions rippled across her face: utter disbelief, desolation, then anger. She yelled in rage, spurring Arion, and plowed through the last of the zombie mob. They never had a chance.

Once the piazza was secure, Hazel cantered up to me. “What happened?”

“I…Frank…The emperors…”

That’s all I could manage. It wasn’t much of a narrative, but she seemed to get the gist.

She doubled over until her forehead touched Arion’s mane. She rocked and murmured, clutching her wrist like a ballplayer who had just broken her hand and was trying to fight down the pain. At last she straightened. She took a shaky breath. She dismounted, wrapped her arms around Arion’s neck, and whispered something in his ear.