The Burning Maze (The Trials of Apollo #3)(86)

‘Go wake up Crest,’ Meg told me. ‘I’ll meet you down at the road. Grover’s getting us a car.’

Grover was almost as good as Piper McLean at procuring luxury vehicles. He had found us a red Mercedes XLS, which I normally would not have complained about – except it was the exact same make and model that Meg and I had driven from Indianapolis to the Cave of Trophonius.

I’d like to tell you I didn’t believe in bad omens. But since I was the god of omens …

At least Grover agreed to drive. The winds had shifted south, filling the Morongo Valley with wildfire smoke and clogging traffic even more than usual. The afternoon sun filtered through the red sky like a baleful eye.

I feared the sun might look that hostile for the rest of eternity if Caligula became the new solar god … but no, I couldn’t think like that.

If Caligula came into possession of the sun chariot, there was no telling what horrible things he would do to trick out his new ride: sequencers, under-carriage lighting, a horn that played the riff from ‘Low Rider’ … Some things could not be tolerated.

I sat in the back seat with Crest and did my best to teach him basic ukulele chords. He was a quick learner, despite the size of his hands, but he grew impatient with the major chords and wanted to learn more exotic combinations.

‘Show me the suspended fourth again,’ he said. ‘I like that.’

Of course he would like the most unresolved chords.

‘We should buy you a large guitar,’ I urged once more. ‘Or even a lute.’

‘You play ukulele,’ he said. ‘I will play ukulele.’

Why did I always attract such stubborn companions? Was it my winning, easygoing personality? I didn’t know.

When Crest concentrated, his expression reminded me strangely of Meg’s – such a young face, yet so intent and serious, as if the fate of the world depended on this chord being played correctly, this packet of seeds being planted, this bag of rotten produce being thrown into the face of this particular street thug.

Why that similarity should make me fond of Crest, I wasn’t sure, but it struck me how much he had lost since yesterday – his job, his uncle, almost his life – and how much he had risked coming with us.

‘I never said how sorry I was,’ I ventured, ‘about your Uncle Amax.’

Crest sniffed the ukulele fret board. ‘Why would you be sorry? Why would I?’

‘Uh … It’s just, you know, an expression of courtesy … when you kill someone’s relatives.’

‘I never liked him,’ Crest said. ‘My mother sent me to him, said he would make me a real pandos warrior.’ He strummed his chord but got a diminished seventh by mistake. He looked pleased with himself. ‘I do not want to be a warrior. What is your job?’

‘Er, well, I’m the god of music.’

‘Then that is what I shall be. A god of music.’

Meg glanced back and smirked.

I tried to give Crest an encouraging smile, but I hoped he would not ask to flay me alive and consume my essence. I already had a waiting list for that. ‘Well, let’s master these chords first, shall we?’

We traced our way north of LA, through San Bernardino, then Pasadena. I found myself gazing up at the hills where we’d visited the Edgarton School. I wondered what the faculty would do when they found Jason Grace missing, and when they discovered that their school van had been commandeered and abandoned at the Santa Barbara waterfront. I thought of Jason’s diorama of Temple Hill on his desk, the sketchbooks that waited on his shelf. It seemed unlikely I would live long enough to keep my promise to him, to bring his plans safely to the two camps. The thought of failing him yet again hurt my heart even worse than Crest’s attempt at a G-flat minor 6.

Finally, Crest directed us south on Interstate 5, towards the city. We took the Crystal Springs Drive exit and plunged into Griffith Park with its winding roads, rolling golf courses and thick groves of eucalyptus.

‘Further,’ Crest said. ‘The second right. Up that hill.’

He guided us onto a gravel service road not designed for a Mercedes XLS.

‘It’s up there.’ Crest pointed into the woods. ‘We must walk.’

Grover pulled over next to a stand of yuccas, who for all I knew were friends of his. He checked out the trailhead, where a small sign read OLD LOS ANGELES ZOO.

‘I know this place.’ Grover’s goatee quivered. ‘I hate this place. Why would you bring us here?’

‘Told you,’ Crest said. ‘Maze entrance.’

‘But …’ Grover gulped, no doubt weighing his natural aversion to places that caged animals against his desire to destroy the Burning Maze. ‘All right.’

Meg seemed happy enough, all things considered. She breathed in the what-passed-in-LA-for-fresh air and even did a few tentative cartwheels as we made our way up the trail.

We climbed to the top of the ridge. Below us spread the ruins of a zoo – overgrown sidewalks, crumbling cement walls, rusty cages and man-made caves filled with debris.

Grover hugged himself, shivering despite the heat. ‘The humans abandoned this place decades ago when they built their new zoo. I can still feel the emotions of the animals that were kept here – their sadness. It’s horrible.’

‘Down here!’ Crest spread his ears and sailed over the ruins, landing in a deep grotto.