The Tyrant's Tomb (The Trials of Apollo, #4)

by Rick Riordan

“O protector of Rome!” I read aloud. “O insert name here!” “Uh,” Ella said, “that’s where you—” “I will start again. O protector of Rome! O Diana, goddess of the hunt! Hear our plea and accept our offering!”

I was supposed to be doing something. Not dying. Yes. That was at the top of my to-do list.

To my surprise, I actually managed to shove him off-balance. He stumbled and landed on his armor-plated rear, leaving his sword quivering in the pavement. Nobody in the emperors’ army cheered for me. Tough crowd.

My first punch left a fist-size crater in the emperor’s gold breastplate. Oh, I thought in some distant corner of my mind. Hello, godly strength!

When I sang, people would often say I “killed it,” but they never meant that literally.

Then I started humming Dean Martin’s “Ain’t That a Kick in the Head,” because that’s just the kind of awful week I was having.

Got two words for you: Swiss Army unicorns, man! Okay, that’s four words.

With a flick of their snouts, her equine friends activated their favorite accessories: a sword blade, a giant razor, a corkscrew, a fork, and a nail file. (Buster chose the nail file, which did not surprise me.) They plowed through the undead, forking them, corkscrewing them, stabbing them, and nail-filing them into oblivion.

I wanted to warn Hazel there was nothing to find there, but I didn’t. I understood heartache a little better now. Each person’s grief has its own life span; it needs to follow its own path.

The Arrow of Dodona kept talking in my head: THOU HAST DONE WELL, APOLLO! THOU HAST ONLY ONE JOB NOW: LIVE! “That’s a really hard job,” I muttered. “I hate my job.”

The arrow relented and began singing along with me, though he lagged behind, since he had to translate all the lyrics into Shakespearean language.

I grinned at the newcomer. “Hey, Sis.” Then I keeled over sideways.

“He’s almost gone,” Diana said. Then I was gone. My mind slipped into a pool of cold, slimy darkness. “Oh, no, you don’t.” My sister’s voice woke me rudely.

“H-how long was I out?” I croaked. “Roughly three seconds,” she said. “Now, get up, drama queen.”

I beamed at my sister. It was so good to see her disapproving I-can’t-believe-you’re-my-brother frown again.

“I love you,” I said, my voice hoarse with emotion. She blinked, clearly unsure what to do with this information. “You really have changed.” “I missed you!” “Y-yes, well. I’m here now. Even Dad couldn’t argue with a Sibylline invocation from Temple Hill.”

Frank Zhang landed on his feet. He turned toward us. His hair was singed to a fine black stubble. His eyebrows were gone. His clothes had completely burned away except for his briefs and his praetor’s cape, giving him a disturbing resemblance to Captain Underpants. He looked around, his eyes glazed and unfocused. “Hey, everybody,” he croaked. Then he fell on his face.

‘Life is only precious because it ends, kid.’”

“The only difference between a satyr and a faun,” I said, “is what we see in them. And what they see in themselves.

She laughed. “Don’t you see, though? Venus put you up to the job. She tricked you into it, because she knew you are the only one in the cosmos with an ego big enough to handle the rejection. I could laugh in your face, and you would heal.”

I took charge of the scones. Meg, gods help me, took the coffee.

“O son of Zeus the final challenge face The tow’r of Nero two alone ascend Dislodge the beast that hast usurped thy place.”

“We’re on a scavenger hunt for more stanzas. This is just the starting point.”

“Okay,” she said, her voice resolute. “How do we get there?” “Oh! Oh!” Tyson raised his hand. His mouth was coated in cupcake frosting. “I would take a rocket ship!” I stared at him. “Do you have a rocket ship?” His expression deflated. “No.”