The Burning Maze (The Trials of Apollo #3)(12)

I wished I could say the same. ‘Weren’t the dryads born in those greenhouses? Don’t they know who planted them?’

‘Most were too young when the house burned down,’ Grover said. ‘Some of the older plants might know more, but they’ve gone dormant. Or –’ he nodded towards the destroyed greenhouses – ‘they’re no longer with us.’

We observed a moment of silence for the departed succulents.

Grover steered us towards the largest of the brick cylinders. Judging from its size and position in the centre of the ruins, I guessed it must once have been the central support column for the structure. At ground level, rectangular openings ringed the circumference like medieval castle windows. We dragged Meg through one of these and found ourselves in a space very much like the well where we’d fought the strixes.

The top was open to the sky. A spiral ramp led downward, but fortunately only twenty feet before reaching the bottom. In the centre of the dirt floor, like the hole in a giant doughnut, glittered a dark blue pool, cooling the air and making the space feel comfortable and welcoming. Around the pool lay a ring of sleeping bags. Blooming cacti overflowed from alcoves built into the walls.

The Cistern was not a fancy structure – nothing like the dining pavilion at Camp Half-Blood, or the Waystation in Indiana – but inside it I immediately felt better, safer. I understood what Grover had been talking about. This place resonated with soothing energy.

We got Meg to the bottom of the ramp without tripping and falling, which I considered a major accomplishment. We set her down on one of the sleeping bags, then Grover scanned the room.

‘Mellie?’ he called. ‘Gleeson? Are you guys here?’

The name Gleeson sounded vaguely familiar to me, but, as usual, I couldn’t place it.

No chlorophyll bubbles popped from the plants. Meg turned on her side and muttered in her sleep … something about Peaches. Then, at the edge of the pond, wisps of white fog began to gather. They fused into the shape of a petite woman in a silvery dress. Her dark hair floated around her as if she were underwater, revealing her slightly pointed ears. In a sling over one shoulder she held a sleeping baby perhaps seven months old, with hooved feet and tiny goat horns on his head. His fat cheek was squished against his mother’s clavicle. His mouth was a veritable cornucopia of drool.

The cloud nymph (for surely that’s what she was) smiled at Grover. Her brown eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep. She held one finger to her lips, indicating that she’d rather not wake the baby. I couldn’t blame her. Satyr babies at that age are loud and rambunctious, and can teethe their way through several metal cans a day.

Grover whispered, ‘Mellie, you made it!’

‘Grover, dear.’ She looked down at the sleeping form of Meg, then tilted her head at me. ‘Are you … Are you him?’

‘If you mean Apollo,’ I said, ‘I’m afraid so.’

Mellie pursed her lips. ‘I’d heard rumours, but I didn’t believe them. You poor thing. How are you holding up?’

In times past, I would have scoffed at any nymph who dared to call me poor thing. Of course, few nymphs would have shown me such consideration. Usually they were too busy running away from me. Now, Mellie’s show of concern caused a lump to form in my throat. I was tempted to rest my head on her other shoulder and sob out my troubles.

‘I – I’m fine,’ I managed. ‘Thank you.’

‘And your sleeping friend here?’ she asked.

‘Just exhausted, I think.’ Though I wondered if that was the whole story with Meg. ‘Aloe Vera said she would be along in a few minutes to care for her.’

Mellie looked worried. ‘All right. I’ll make sure Aloe doesn’t overdo it.’

‘Overdo it?’

Grover coughed. ‘Where’s Gleeson?’

Mellie scanned the room, as if just realizing this Gleeson person was not present. ‘I don’t know. As soon as we got here, I went dormant for the day. He said he was going into town to pick up some camping supplies. What time is it?’

‘After sunset,’ Grover said.

‘He should’ve been back by now.’ Mellie’s form shimmered with agitation, becoming so hazy I was afraid the baby might fall right through her body.

‘Gleeson is your husband?’ I guessed. ‘A satyr?’

‘Yes, Gleeson Hedge,’ Mellie said.

I remembered him then, vaguely – the satyr who had sailed with the demigod heroes of the Argo II. ‘Do you know where he went?’

‘We passed an army-surplus store as we drove in, down the hill. He loves army-surplus stores.’ Mellie turned to Grover. ‘He may have just got distracted, but … I don’t suppose you could go check on him?’

At that moment, I realized just how exhausted Grover Underwood must be. His eyes were even redder than Mellie’s. His shoulders drooped. His reed pipes dangled listlessly from his neck. Unlike Meg and me, he hadn’t slept since last night in the Labyrinth. He’d used the cry of Pan, got us to safety, then spent all day guarding us, waiting for the dryads to wake up. Now he was being asked to make another excursion to check on Gleeson Hedge.

Still, he mustered a smile. ‘Sure thing, Mellie.’

She gave him a peck on the cheek. ‘You’re the best lord of the Wild ever!’