The Burning Maze (The Trials of Apollo #3)(4)

‘K-killing the bird will curse you,’ I said finally.

‘And if I don’t kill it?’ Meg asked.

‘Oh, then it will d-disembowel you, drink your blood and eat your flesh.’ I grinned, though I had a feeling I hadn’t said anything funny. ‘Also, don’t let a strix scratch you. It’ll paralyse you!’

By way of demonstration, I fell over sideways.

Above us, the strix spread its wings and swooped down.





2


Now I’m a suitcase

Duct-taped to a satyr’s back.

Worst. Morning. Ever.





‘Stop!’ Grover yelped. ‘We come in peace!’

The bird was not impressed. It attacked, only missing the satyr’s face because Meg lashed out with her scimitars. The strix veered, pirouetting between her blades, and landed unscathed a little higher up the spiral ramp.

SCREE! the strix yelled, ruffling its feathers.

‘What do you mean “you need to kill us”?’ Grover asked.

Meg scowled. ‘You can talk to it?’

‘Well, yes,’ Grover said. ‘It’s an animal.’

‘Why didn’t you tell us what it was saying before now?’ Meg asked.

‘Because it was just yelling scree!’ Grover said. ‘Now it’s saying scree as in, it needs to kill us.’

I tried to move my legs. They seemed to have turned into sacks of cement, which I found vaguely amusing. I could still move my arms and had some feeling in my chest, but I wasn’t sure how long that would last.

‘Perhaps ask the strix why it needs to kill us?’ I suggested.

‘Scree!’ Grover said.

I was getting tired of the strix language. The bird replied in a series of squawks and clicks.

Meanwhile, out in the corridor, the other strixes shrieked and bashed against the net of plants. Black talons and gold beaks poked out, snapping tomatoes into pico de gallo. I figured we had a few minutes at most until the birds burst through and killed us all, but their razor-sharp beaks sure were cute!

Grover wrung his hands. ‘The strix says he’s been sent to drink our blood, eat our flesh and disembowel us, not necessarily in that order. He says he’s sorry, but it’s a direct command from the emperor.’

‘Stupid emperors,’ Meg grumbled. ‘Which one?’

‘I don’t know,’ Grover said. ‘The strix just calls him Scree.’

‘You can translate disembowel,’ she noted, ‘but you can’t translate the emperor’s name?’

Personally, I was okay with that. Since leaving Indianapolis, I’d spent a lot of time mulling over the Dark Prophecy we had received in the Cave of Trophonius. We had already encountered Nero and Commodus, and I had a dreadful suspicion about the identity of the third emperor, whom we had yet to meet. At the moment, I didn’t want confirmation. The euphoria of the strix venom was starting to dissipate. I was about to be eaten alive by a bloodsucking mega-owl. I didn’t need any more reasons to weep in despair.

The strix dived at Meg. She dodged aside, whacking the flat of her blade against the bird’s tail feathers as it rushed past, sending the unfortunate bird into the opposite wall, where it smacked face-first into the brick, exploding in a cloud of monster dust and feathers.

‘Meg!’ I said. ‘I told you not to kill it! You’ll get cursed!’

‘I didn’t kill it. It committed suicide against that wall.’

‘I don’t think the Fates will see it that way.’

‘Then let’s not tell them.’

‘Guys?’ Grover pointed to the tomato plants, which were rapidly thinning under the onslaught of claws and beaks. ‘If we can’t kill the strixes, maybe we should strengthen this barrier?’

He raised his pipes and played. Meg turned her swords back into rings. She stretched her hands towards the tomato plants. The stems thickened and the roots struggled to take hold in the stone floor, but it was a losing battle. Too many strixes were now battering the other side, ripping through the new growth as fast as it emerged.

‘No good.’ Meg stumbled back, her face beaded with sweat. ‘Only so much we can do without soil and sunlight.’

‘You’re right.’ Grover looked above us, his eyes following the spiral ramp up into the gloom. ‘We’re nearly home. If we can just get to the top before the strixes get through –’

‘So we climb,’ Meg announced.

‘Hello?’ I said miserably. ‘Paralysed former god here.’

Grover grimaced at Meg. ‘Duct tape?’

‘Duct tape,’ she agreed.

May the gods defend me from heroes with duct tape. And heroes always seem to have duct tape. Meg produced a roll from a pouch on her gardening belt. She propped me into a sitting position, back-to-back with Grover, then proceeded to loop tape under our armpits, binding me to the satyr as if I were a hiking pack.

With Meg’s help, Grover staggered to his feet, jostling me around so I got random views of the walls, the floor, Meg’s face and my own paralysed legs manspreading beneath me.

‘Uh, Grover?’ I asked. ‘Will you have enough strength to carry me all the way up?’

‘Satyrs are great climbers,’ he wheezed.