The Burning Maze (The Trials of Apollo #3)(34)

‘So why us?’ Piper said. ‘Why now?’

‘In your case,’ I said, ‘I can only guess Caligula wants you out of the way. If you are distracted by your father’s problems, you are no threat, especially if you’re in Oklahoma, far from Caligula’s territory. As for Meg and her dad … I don’t know. He was involved in some sort of work Caligula found threatening.’

‘Something that would’ve helped the dryads,’ Grover added. ‘It had to be, based on where he was working, those greenhouses. Caligula ruined a man of nature.’

Grover sounded as angry as I’d ever heard him. I doubted there was higher praise a satyr could give a human than calling him a man of nature.

Piper studied the waves on the horizon. ‘You think it’s all connected. Caligula is working up to something – pushing out anyone who threatens him, starting this Burning Maze, destroying the nature spirits.’

‘And imprisoning the Oracle of Erythraea,’ I said. ‘As a trap. For me.’

‘But what does he want?’ Grover demanded. ‘What’s his endgame?’

Those were excellent questions. With Caligula, however, you almost never wanted the answers. They would make you cry.

‘I’d like to ask the Sibyl,’ I said, ‘if anyone here knows how we might find her.’

Piper pressed her lips together. ‘Ah. That’s why you’re here.’

She looked at Meg, then at the gas grill, perhaps trying to decide what would be more dangerous – going on a quest with us, or remaining here with a bored child of Demeter.

‘Let me get my weapons,’ Piper said. ‘We’ll go for a ride.’





14


Bedrossian Man

Bedrossian Man, runs as

Fast as … yoga pants





‘Don’t judge,’ Piper warned as she re-emerged from her room.

I would not have dreamed of it.

Piper McLean looked fashionably ready for combat in her bright white Converses, distressed skinny jeans, leather belt and orange camp tee. Braided down one side of her hair was a bright blue feather – a harpy feather, if I wasn’t mistaken.

Strapped to her belt was a triangular-bladed dagger like the kind Greek women used to wear – a parazonium. Hecuba, future queen of Troy, sported one back when we were dating. It was mostly ceremonial, as I recalled, but very sharp. (Hecuba had a bit of a temper.)

Hanging from the other side of Piper’s belt … Ah. I guessed this was the reason she felt self-conscious. Holstered to her thigh was a miniature quiver stocked with foot-long projectiles, their fletching made from fluffy thistles. Slung across her shoulder, along with a backpack, was a four-foot tube of river cane.

‘A blowpipe!’ I cried. ‘I love blowpipes!’

Not that I was an expert, mind you, but the blowpipe was a missile weapon – elegant, difficult to master and very sneaky. How could I not love it?

Meg scratched her neck. ‘Are blowpipes Greeky?’

Piper laughed. ‘No, they’re not Greeky. But they are Cherokee-y. My Grandpa Tom made this one for me a long time ago. He was always trying to get me to practise.’

Grover’s goatee twitched as if trying to free itself from his chin, Houdini-style. ‘Blowpipes are really difficult to use. My Uncle Ferdinand had one. How good are you?’

‘Not the best,’ Piper admitted. ‘Nowhere near as good as my cousin in Tahlequah; she’s a tribal champion. But I’ve been practising. Last time Jason and I were in the maze –’ she patted her quiver – ‘these came in handy. You’ll see.’

Grover managed to contain his excitement. I understood his concern. In a novice’s hands, a blowpipe was more dangerous to allies than to enemies.

‘And the dagger?’ Grover asked. ‘Is that really –?’

‘Katoptris,’ Piper said proudly. ‘Belonged to Helen of Troy.’

I yelped. ‘You have Helen of Troy’s dagger? Where did you find it?’

Piper shrugged. ‘In a shed at camp.’

I felt like pulling out my hair. I remembered the day Helen had received that dagger as a wedding present. Such a gorgeous blade, held by the most beautiful woman ever to walk the earth. (No offence to the billions of other women out there who are also quite enchanting; I love you all.) And Piper had found this historically significant, well-crafted, powerful weapon in a shed?

Alas, time makes bric-a-brac of everything, no matter how important. I wondered if such a fate awaited me. In a thousand years, somebody might find me in a toolshed and say, Oh, look. Apollo, god of poetry. Maybe I can polish him up and use him.

‘Does the blade still show visions?’ I asked.

‘You know about that, huh?’ Piper shook her head. ‘The visions stopped last summer. That wouldn’t have anything to do with you getting kicked out of Olympus, would it, Mr God of Prophecy?’

Meg sniffed. ‘Most things are his fault.’

‘Hey!’ I said. ‘Er, moving right along, Piper, where exactly are you taking us? If all your cars have been repossessed, I’m afraid we’re stuck with Coach Hedge’s Pinto.’

Piper smirked. ‘I think we can do better than that. Follow me.’

She led us to the driveway, where Mr McLean had resumed his duties as a dazed wanderer. He meandered around the drive, head bowed as if he were looking for a dropped coin. His hair stuck up in ragged rows where his fingers had raked through it.