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

by Rick Riordan

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.

Having lost her immortal powers, Calypso was in the process of trying to master other skills. So far, she’d failed at swords, polearms, shurikens, whips, and improvisational comedy. (I sympathized with her frustration.) Today, she’d decided to try fisticuffs.

realized I’d been standing there, frozen in shock—which would’ve been fine if I’d been watching the scene unfold from the safety of my throne on Mount Olympus. Alas, I was very much down here in the trenches with the lesser beings.

My heart pounded. My legs shook. I hated having a mortal body. I experienced so many bothersome things, like fear, cold, nausea, and the impulse to whimper Please don’t kill me!

I tried to calm my nerves by silently composing a sonnet about various ways a wrathful god could destroy Dumpsters.

I won’t die here, I promised myself. I’m much too important to bite it in Indiana.

Nevertheless, I doubted Rhoeo would appreciate it if I failed to help her sisters on my way to our big date. 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?

Just like a human! We give you immortality and godly power, then you trade it in for love and a loft in downtown Indianapolis. The nerve!

BEING PRODUCTIVE. Ugh. It’s such a human concept. It implies you have limited time (LOL) and have to work hard to make something happen (double LOL). I mean, perhaps if you were laboring away for years writing an opera about the glories of Apollo, I could understand the appeal of being productive.

As for the ghost Agamethus, he hovered in one corner of the kitchen, holding his Magic 8 Ball dejectedly as if it were a third-place prize from a three-person competition.

I counted silently to five, then whispered to Calypso, “Are they gone?” “Let me use my super vision to look through this wall and check,” she said. “Oh, wait.” “You are a terrible person.”

“How did you—Did your magic return?” “I wish,” she said. “I faked it. Half of magic is acting like it will work. The other half is picking a superstitious mark. They’ll be back. With reinforcements.”

Telling me, the god of music, that I had a decent voice was like telling Shaquille O’Neal he played decent offense, or telling Annie Oakley she was a decent shot.

As long as gods shall live, so long shall I love you.

“If we die here, I’d just like to say you aren’t as bad as I originally thought.” “Thanks, but we’re not going to die. That would deprive me of killing you later.”

As for me, I did not weep. No, I’m sure my eyes were quite dry. I did not bawl like a baby in the slightest. The most I will admit is this: with her tears moistening my shirt, her cat-eye glasses digging uncomfortably into my chest, her smell of baked apples, dirt, and sweat overwhelming my nostrils, I was quite content to be annoyed, once again, by Meg McCaffrey.

My dear Commodus, Commode is named after you Hail, Toilet Caesar

After sixty-odd years together with the Hunters, we discovered something. It’s not how long you live that matters. It’s what you live for.”

“Nets can be traps. But they can also be safety nets. You just have to know when to jump in.”

I felt surprisingly better. Music and healing, after all, were not so different.

“Remember what Percy told us? Never say stuff like We made it or That was easy. You’ll jinx us!” “My entire existence is a jinx.”

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

“What’s the Valdez method?” “Don’t overthink it,” Leo said. “It’ll just make you depressed. In fact, try not to think at all.” Meg considered this, then seemed to realize she was thinking, then looked sheepish. “’Kay.” Leo grinned. “See? Easy! Now let’s go blow some stuff up.”

As if that were a simple request! I attempted all the obvious methods. I shoved the door. I kicked it. I attempted to get my fingertips under the edges and pry it open. I spread my arms and yelled the standard magic words: MELLON! SHAZAM! SESAME STREET! None of these worked. At last I tried my infallible ace in the hole. I sang “Love Is an Open Door” from the Frozen soundtrack. Even this failed.

“Dear Meg,” I said. “I can’t be sure about Lityerses. But I think we must try. We only fail when we stop trying.”

“Even after somebody tries to kill us?” I shrugged. “If I gave up on everyone who has tried to kill me, I would have no allies left on the Olympian Council.” She pouted. “Families are dumb.” “On that,” I said, “we can fully agree.”

I blinked back tears. I was not sad. I was not overwhelmed by their friendship. No, it had just been a very long day and my nerves were frayed. “I appreciate it,” I said. “You are both good friends.”

Was she just putting on a brave act? I didn’t think so. I was constantly amazed at how resilient mortals could be in the face of catastrophe. Even the most traumatized, ill-treated, shell-shocked humans could carry on as if things were completely normal. Meals were still prepared. Work was still done. Piano lessons were commenced and carrot sticks munched.

Greeks were never very good at building roads. That’s probably because Hermes was their god of travel. Hermes was always more interested in fascinating, dangerous journeys than he was in quick and easy interstates.

Now if only I could remember my name. It occurred to me that I had two of them. Was one of them Lester? Oh, dear. How awful! The other was something that began with an A. Alfred? Hmm. No. That would make this young girl Batman, and that didn’t feel right.

Before antibiotics, before aspirin, before even sterile bandages, we had songs. I was the god of both music and healing for good reason. One should never underestimate the healing power of music.

“Well, perhaps you didn’t pray for the right thing at the right time!” I yelled. “Pray for wisdom before you do something stupid! Don’t pray for me to bail you out after you follow your worst instincts!”

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. Commodus hated that piece of advice. He found it suffocating, self-righteous, impossible. What was proper? Commodus intended to live forever. He would drive away the darkness with the roar of crowds and the glitter of spectacle. But he generated no light.

Waystation. Marcus Aurelius would have approved of this place. Emmie and Josephine lived properly with what time they had left, creating light for everyone who came here. No wonder Commodus hated them. No wonder he was so bent on destroying this threat to his power. And Apollo, above all, was the god of light.

A few hours of dreamless sleep, followed by a bubble bath. It was not Mount Olympus, my friends, but it was close.

MAY THE FATES consign all root vegetables to the depths of Tartarus. That is all I will say on the matter.

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