The Burning Maze (The Trials of Apollo #3)(64)

‘Uncle Amax.’ The white-haired pandos spoke for the first time. ‘Perhaps the pimply boy has a point. If it’s valuable information –’

‘Silence, Crest!’ snapped Amax. ‘You’ve already disgraced yourself once this week.’

The pandos leader pulled more zip ties from his belt. ‘Timbre, Peak, bind the pimply boy and the stepdaughter of Nero. We will take them all below, interrogate them ourselves and then hand them over to the emperor!’

‘Yes! Yes!’ barked Timbre and Peak.

So it was that three powerful demigods and one former major Olympian god were led as prisoners into a super-yacht by four fuzzy creatures with ears the size of satellite dishes. Not my finest hour.

Since I had reached peak humiliation, I assumed Zeus would pick that moment to recall me to the heavens and the other gods would spend the next hundred years laughing at me.

But no. I remained fully and pathetically Lester.

The guards hustled us to the aft deck, which featured six hot tubs, a multicoloured fountain and a flashing gold and purple dance floor just waiting for party-goers to arrive.

Affixed to the stern, a red-carpeted ramp jutted across the water, connecting our boat to the prow of the next yacht. I guessed all the boats were linked this way, making a road across Santa Barbara Harbor, just in case Caligula decided to do a golf-cart drive-through.

Rising amidships, the upper decks gleamed with dark-tinted windows and white walls. Far above, the conning tower sprouted radar dishes, satellite antennae and two billowing pennants: one with the imperial eagle of Rome, the other with a golden triangle on a field of purple, which I supposed was the logo for Triumvirate Holdings.

Two more guards flanked the heavy oak doors that led inside. The guy on the left looked like a mortal mercenary, with the same black pyjamas and body armour as the gentlemen we’d sent on the wild fish-taco chase. The guy on the right was a Cyclops (the huge single eye gave him away). He also smelled like a Cyclops (wet wool socks) and dressed like a Cyclops (denim cut-offs, torn black T-shirt and a large wooden club).

The human mercenary frowned at our merry band of captors and prisoners.

‘What’s all this?’ he asked.

‘Not your concern, Florence,’ Amax growled. ‘Let us through!’

Florence? I might have snickered, except Florence weighed three hundred pounds, had knife scars across his face and still had a better name than Lester Papadopoulos.

‘Regulations,’ Florence said. ‘You got prisoners, I have to call it in.’

‘Not yet, you won’t.’ Amax spread his ears like the hood of a cobra. ‘This is my ship. I’ll tell you when to call it in – after we interrogate these intruders.’

Florence frowned at his Cyclops partner. ‘What do you think, Grunk?’

Now, Grunk – that was a good Cyclops name. I didn’t know if Florence realized he was working with a Cyclops. The Mist could be unpredictable. But I immediately formulated the premise for an action-adventure buddy-comedy series, Florence and Grunk. If I survived captivity, I’d have to mention it to Piper’s father. Perhaps he could help me schedule some lunches and pitch the idea. Oh, gods … I had been in Southern California too long.

Grunk shrugged. ‘It’s Amax’s ears on the line if the boss gets mad.’

‘Okay.’ Florence waved us through. ‘You all have fun.’

I had little time to appreciate the opulent interior – the solid-gold fixtures, the luxurious Persian carpets, the million-dollar works of art, the plush purple furniture I was pretty sure had come from Prince’s estate sale.

We saw no other guards or crew, which seemed strange. Then again, I supposed that, even with Caligula’s resources, finding enough personnel to man fifty super-yachts at once might be difficult.

As we walked through a walnut-panelled library hung with masterpiece paintings, Piper caught her breath. She pointed her chin towards a Joan Miró abstraction.

‘That came from my dad’s house,’ she said.

‘When we get out of here,’ Jason muttered, ‘we’ll take it with us.’

‘I heard that.’ Peak jabbed his sword hilt into Jason’s ribs.

Jason stumbled against Piper, who stumbled into a Picasso. Seeing an opportunity, Meg surged forward, apparently meaning to tackle Amax with all one hundred pounds of her weight. Before she took two steps, an arrow sprouted from the carpet at her feet.

‘Don’t,’ said Timbre. His vibrating bowstring was the only evidence he’d made the shot. He had drawn and fired so fast even I couldn’t believe it.

Meg backed away. ‘Fine. Jeez.’

The pandai herded us into a forward lounge. Along the front wrapped a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree glass wall overlooking the prow. Off to starboard, the lights of Santa Barbara twinkled. In front of us, yachts twenty-five to one made a glittering necklace of amethyst, gold and platinum across the dark water.

The sheer extravagance of it all hurt my brain, and normally I was all about extravagance.

The pandai arranged four plush chairs in a row and shoved us into them. As interrogation rooms went, it wasn’t bad. Peak paced behind us, sword at the ready in case anyone required decapitation. Timbre and Crest lurked on either flank, their bows down, but arrows nocked. Amax pulled up a chair and sat facing us, spreading his ears around him like a king’s robe.