The Burning Maze (The Trials of Apollo #3)(14)

Grover rose. ‘My father and my uncle sacrificed their lives searching for Pan. I just wish we had more help carrying on his work. Humans don’t seem to care. Even demigods. Even …’

He stopped himself, but I suspected he was about to say Even gods.

I had to admit he had a point.

Gods wouldn’t normally mourn the loss of a griffin, or a few dryads, or a single ecosystem. Eh, we would think. Doesn’t concern me!

The longer I was mortal, the more affected I was by even the smallest loss.

I hated being mortal.

We followed the road as it skirted the walls of a gated community, leading us towards the neon store signs in the distance. I watched where I put my feet, wondering with each step if a plume of fire might turn me into a Lester flambé.

‘You said everything is connected,’ I recalled. ‘You think the third emperor created this burning maze?’

Grover glanced from side to side, as if the third emperor might jump out from behind a palm tree with an axe and a scary mask. Given my suspicions about the emperor’s identity, that might not be too far-fetched.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘but we don’t know how or why. We don’t even know where the emperor’s base is. As far as we can tell, he moves around constantly.’

‘And …’ I swallowed, afraid to ask. ‘The emperor’s identity?’

‘All we know is that he uses the monogram NH,’ said Grover. ‘For Neos Helios.’

A phantom ground squirrel gnawed its way up my spine. ‘Greek. Meaning New Sun.’

‘Right,’ Grover said. ‘Not a Roman emperor’s name.’

No, I thought. But it was one of his favourite titles.

I decided not to share that information; not here in the dark, with only a jumpy satyr for company. If I confessed what I now knew, Grover and I might break down and sob in each other’s arms, which would be both embarrassing and unhelpful.

We passed the gates of the neighbourhood: DESERT PALMS. (Had someone really got paid to think up that name?) We continued to the nearest commercial street, where fast-food joints and gas stations shimmered.

‘I hoped Mellie and Gleeson would have new information,’ Grover said. ‘They’ve been staying in LA with some demigods. I thought maybe they’d had more luck tracking down the emperor, or finding the heart of the maze.’

‘Is that why the Hedge family came to Palm Springs?’ I asked. ‘To share information?’

‘Partly.’ Grover’s tone hinted at a darker, sadder reason behind Mellie and Gleeson’s arrival, but I didn’t press.

We stopped at a major intersection. Across the boulevard stood a warehouse store with a glowing red sign: MARCO’S MILITARY MADNESS! The parking lot was empty except for an old yellow Pinto parked near the entrance.

I read the store sign again. On second look, I realized the name was not MARCO. It was MACRO. Perhaps I’d developed a bit of demigod dyslexia simply from hanging around them too long.

Military Madness sounded like exactly the sort of place I didn’t want to go. And Macro, as in large worldview or computer program or … something else. Why did that name unleash another herd of ground squirrels into my nervous system?

‘It looks closed,’ I said dully. ‘Must be the wrong army-surplus store.’

‘No.’ Grover pointed to the Pinto. ‘That’s Gleeson’s car.’

Of course it is, I thought. With my luck, how could it not be?

I wanted to run away. I did not like the way that giant red sign washed the tarmac in bloodstained light. But Grover Underwood had led us through the Labyrinth and, after all his talk about losing friends, I was not about to let him lose another.

‘Well, then,’ I said, ‘let’s go and find Gleeson Hedge.’





7


Family fun packs

Should be for frozen pizzas

Not for frag grenades





How hard could it be to find a satyr in an army-surplus store?

As it turned out, quite hard.

Macro’s Military Madness stretched on forever – aisle after aisle of equipment no self-respecting army would want. Near the entrance, a giant bin with a neon purple sign promised PITH HELMETS! BUY 3, GET 1 FREE! An end-of-aisle display featured a Christmas tree built of stacked propane tanks with garlands of blowtorch hoses, and a placard that read ’TIS ALWAYS THE SEASON! Two aisles, each a quarter of a mile long, were entirely devoted to camouflage clothing in every possible colour: desert brown, forest green, arctic grey, and hot pink, just in case your spec-ops team needed to infiltrate a child’s princess-themed birthday party.

Directory signs hung over each lane: HOCKEY HEAVEN, GRENADE PINS, SLEEPING BAGS, BODY BAGS, KEROSENE LAMPS, CAMPING TENTS, LARGE POINTY STICKS. At the far end of the store, perhaps half a day’s hike away, a massive yellow banner screamed FIREARMS!!!

I glanced at Grover, whose face looked even paler under the harsh fluorescents. ‘Should we start with the camping supplies?’ I asked.

The corners of his mouth drifted downward as he scanned a display of rainbow-coloured impaling spikes. ‘Knowing Coach Hedge, he’ll gravitate towards the guns.’

So we started our trek towards the distant promised land of FIREARMS!!!

I didn’t like the store’s too-bright lighting. I didn’t like the too-cheerful canned music, or the too-cold air-conditioning that made the place feel like a morgue.