The Burning Maze (The Trials of Apollo #3)(21)

A moment after he said that, I heard the faint sound of sirens in the distance.

‘I could search the area,’ the newcomer suggested. ‘Maybe check those ruins up the hill.’

Hedge and Grover exchanged a worried look. Surely the ruins meant our sanctuary, currently housing Mellie, Baby Hedge and Meg.

‘I know you think you took care of it,’ said the newcomer. ‘But, look, that place is still dangerous. I’m telling you –’ This time I could hear a faint, tinny voice raging on the other end of the line.

‘Okay, C,’ said the newcomer. ‘Yes. Jupiter’s jumpers, calm down! I’ll just – Fine. Fine. I’m on my way back.’

His exasperated sigh told me the call must have ended.

‘Kid’s gonna give me colic,’ the speaker grumbled aloud to himself.

Something slammed into the side of our dumpster, right next to my face. Then the hooves galloped away.

Several minutes passed before I felt safe enough even to look at the two satyrs. We silently agreed that we had to get out of the dumpster before we died of suffocation, heatstroke or the smell of my pants.

Outside, the alley was littered with smoking chunks of twisted metal and plastic. The warehouse itself was a blackened shell, flames still swirling within, adding more columns of smoke to the ash-choked night sky.

‘Wh-who was that?’ Grover asked. ‘He smelled like a guy on a horse, but …’

Coach Hedge’s nunchaku clattered in his hands. ‘Maybe a centaur?’

‘No.’ I put my hand on the dented metal side of the dumpster – which now bore the unmistakable impression of a shod hoof. ‘He was a horse. A talking horse.’

The satyrs stared at me.

‘All horses talk,’ Grover said. ‘They just talk in Horse.’

‘Wait.’ Hedge frowned at me. ‘You mean you understood the horse?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That horse spoke in English.’

They waited for me to explain, but I couldn’t make myself say more. Now that we were out of immediate danger, now that my adrenalin was ebbing, I found myself gripped by a cold, heavy despair. If I’d harboured any last hopes that I might be wrong about the enemy we were facing, those hopes had been torpedoed.

Gaius Julius Caesar Augustus Germanicus … strangely enough, that name could have applied to several famous Ancient Romans. But the master of Naevius Sutorius Macro? Big C? Neos Helios? The only Roman emperor ever to possess a talking horse? That could mean only one person. One terrible person.

The flashing lights of emergency vehicles pulsed against the fronds of the nearest palm trees.

‘We need to get out of here,’ I said.

Gleeson stared at the wreckage of the surplus store. ‘Yeah. Let’s go around the front, see if my car survived. I just wish I’d got some camping supplies out of this deal.’

‘We got something much worse.’ I took a shaky breath. ‘We got the identity of the third emperor.’

The explosion hadn’t scathed the coach’s yellow 1979 Ford Pinto. Of course it hadn’t. Such a hideous car couldn’t be destroyed by anything less than a worldwide apocalypse. I sat in the back, wearing a new pair of hot-pink camo pants we’d salvaged from the army surplus wreckage. I was in such a stupor that I barely remember going through the drive-through lane of Enchiladas del Rey and picking up enough combo plates to feed several dozen nature spirits.

Back at the hilltop ruins, we convened a council of the cacti.

The Cistern was packed with desert-plant dryads: Joshua Tree, Prickly Pear, Aloe Vera and many more, all dressed in bristly clothes and doing their best not to poke each other.

Mellie fussed over Gleeson, one minute showering him with kisses and telling him how brave he was, the next minute punching him and accusing him of wanting her to raise Baby Hedge by herself as a widow. The infant – whose name, I learned, was Chuck – was awake and none too happy, kicking his little hooves into his father’s stomach as Gleeson tried to hold him, tugging Hedge’s goatee with his chubby little fists.

‘On the bright side,’ Hedge told Mellie, ‘we got enchiladas and I scored some awesome nunchaku!’

Mellie gazed heavenward, perhaps wishing she could go back to her simple life as an unmarried cloud.

As for Meg McCaffrey, she had regained consciousness and looked as well as she ever looked – just slightly greasier thanks to the first-aid ministrations of Aloe Vera. Meg sat at the edge of the pool, trailing her bare feet in the water and stealing glances at Joshua Tree, who stood nearby, brooding handsomely in his khakis.

I asked Meg how she was feeling – because I am nothing if not thoughtful – but she waved me off, insisting she was fine. I think she was just embarrassed by my presence as she tried to discreetly ogle Joshua, which made me roll my eyes.

Girl, I see you, I felt like saying. You are not subtle, and we really need to have a talk about crushing on dryads.

I didn’t want her to order me to slap myself, however, so I kept my mouth shut.

Grover distributed enchilada plates to everyone. He ate nothing himself – a sure sign of how nervous he felt – but paced the circumference of the pool, tapping his fingers against his reed pipes.

‘Guys,’ he announced, ‘we’ve got problems.’

I would not have imagined Grover Underwood as a leader. Nevertheless, as he spoke, all the other nature spirits gave him their full attention. Even Baby Chuck quietened down, tilting his head towards Grover’s voice as if it was something interesting and possibly worth kicking.