The Dark Prophecy (The Trials of Apollo, #2)

by Rick Riordan

Ohio he tolerated, even after our encounter with Potina, the Roman goddess of childhood drinks, who pursued us in the form of a giant red pitcher emblazoned with a smiley face.

I, the most important passenger, the youth who had once been the glorious god Apollo, was forced to sit in the back of the dragon.

size. I had a flashback to the time I installed a life-size statue of the muse Calliope on my sun chariot and the extra weight of the hood ornament made me nosedive into China and create the Gobi Desert.

Calypso called me a few names that reminded me how colorful the Minoan language had been before it went extinct.

That should have been physically impossible, of course, but like any decent god, demigod, or engineer, Leo Valdez refused to be stopped by the laws of physics.

He looked like a hallucinating ballerina in boxer shorts, but the blemmyae politely got out of his way.

Hey, babe. I just saw your sisters get chased off a cliff and plummet to their deaths. You want to catch a movie or something?

In all, the boy reminded me somewhat of Nico di Angelo, the son of Hades, if Nico were slightly older, more vicious, and had been raised by jackals.

But I was also irritated with Hemithea. She had not only given up being a Hunter; in doing so she had also given up the divinity I had granted her.

I was reassured to see that despite their recent spat, they could still unite on important matters like my welfare.

“Here comes the time limit.” Leo looked at me knowingly. “There’s always a time limit.”

I didn’t recall who his mother was…the wife of King Erginus, perhaps? She had been quite a beauty.

NOW HAST THOU ASKED TOO MANY QUESTIONS, the arrow intoned. MY WISDOM DOTH NOT SPEW FORTH ANSWERS AS IF ’TWERE GOOGLE.

I wondered if Meg knew that Marcus and Vortigern had been beheaded for letting her escape. I decided not to mention it. If Meg was really curious, she could check their Facebook status updates.

Leo frowned. “I wasn’t going to say that. Seemed too corny.” “When I say it,” I assured him, “it’s poetry.”

It’s not how long you live that matters. It’s what you live for.”

“Commodus blames me for his death,” I said. “Why?” Meg asked. “Probably because I killed him.” “Ah.” Leo nodded sagely. “That would do it.”

We were ten feet away when we triggered the First Law of Percy Jackson.

I felt a bit silly giving this advice to a girl who regularly fought monsters with golden swords, but I had promised Bill Nye the Science Guy I would always promote safe laboratory practices.

Whoa,” Meg said, which was probably the highest compliment she’d ever given me.

I really wished dangerous quests could start at a more reasonable time, like perhaps three in the afternoon.

Literally me if I was a demigod

The Hunters cheered. I may have cheered also. I always love it when courageous heroes volunteer to fight battles I don’t want to fight.

Then, from her backpack of supplies, she produced a baggie of carrots (peeled by me, thank you very much) and began munching them loudly while knocking the tips of her shoes together. Because Meg.

Think of yourself as dead. You have lived your life. Now, take what’s left and live it properly. What doesn’t transmit light creates its own darkness.

Lord Apollo. The title did not fit me. It felt like a hat I’d worn centuries ago…something large and impractical and top-heavy like those Elizabethan chapeaus Bill Shakespeare used to hide his bald pate.

I smiled. “Hello, Grover Underwood. I am Apollo. This is Meg. And you, my lucky friend, have been summoned to lead us through the Labyrinth.”