Grover’s hoof-fitted shoes slipped and skidded on the gravel shoulder. “Everything is connected. It has to be. I didn’t know about the Oracle until you told me, but if the emperor is guarding it, the maze is where he would put it. And the maze is the source of our fire problems.”
“When you say maze,” I said, “you mean the Labyrinth?”
“Sort of.” Grover’s lower lip trembled. “The network of tunnels under Southern California—we assume it’s part of the larger Labyrinth, but something’s been happening to it. It’s like this section of the Labyrinth has been…infected. Like it has a fever. Fires have been gathering, strengthening. Sometimes, they mass and spew—There!”
He pointed south. A quarter mile up the nearest hill, a plume of yellow flame vented skyward like the fiery tip of a welding torch. Then it was gone, leaving a patch of molten rock. I considered what would’ve happened if I’d been standing there when the vent flared.
“That’s not normal,” I said.
My ankles felt wobbly, as if I were the one with fake feet.
Grover nodded. “We already had enough problems in California: drought, climate change, pollution, all the usual stuff. But those flames…” His expression hardened. “It’s some kind of magic we don’t understand. Almost a full year I’ve been out here, trying to find the source of the heat and shut it off. I’ve lost so many friends.”
His voice was brittle. I understood about losing friends. Over the centuries, I’d lost many mortals who were dear to me, but at that moment, one in particular came to mind: Heloise the griffin, who had died at the Waystation, defending her nest, defending us all from the attack of Emperor Commodus. I remembered her frail body, her feathers disintegrating into a bed of catnip in Emmie’s roof garden….
Grover knelt and cupped his hand around a clump of weeds. The leaves crumbled.
“Too late,” he muttered. “When I was a seeker, looking for Pan, at least I had hope. I thought I could find Pan and he’d save us all. Now…the god of the Wild is dead.”
I scanned the glittering lights of Palm Springs, trying to imagine Pan in such a place. Humans had done quite a number on the natural world. No wonder Pan had faded and passed on. What remained of his spirit he’d left to his followers—the satyrs and dryads—entrusting them with his mission to protect the wild.
I could have told Pan that was a terrible idea. I once went on vacation and entrusted the realm of music to my follower Nelson Riddle. I came back a few decades later and found pop music infected with sappy violins and backup singers, and Lawrence Welk was playing accordion on prime-time television. Never. Again.
“Pan would be proud of your efforts,” I told Grover.
Even to me that sounded halfhearted.
Grover rose. “My father and my uncle sacrificed their lives searching for Pan. I just wish we had more help carrying on his work. Humans don’t seem to care. Even demigods. Even…”
He stopped himself, but I suspected he was about to say Even gods.
I had to admit he had a point.
Gods wouldn’t normally mourn the loss of a griffin, or a few dryads, or a single ecosystem. Eh, we would think. Doesn’t concern me!
The longer I was mortal, the more affected I was by even the smallest loss.
I hated being mortal.
We followed the road as it skirted the walls of a gated community, leading us toward the neon store signs in the distance. I watched where I put my feet, wondering with each step if a plume of fire might turn me into a Lester flambé.
“You said everything is connected,” I recalled. “You think the third emperor created this burning maze?”
Grover glanced from side to side, as if the third emperor might jump out from behind a palm tree with an ax and a scary mask. Given my suspicions about the emperor’s identity, that might not be too far-fetched.
“Yes,” he said, “but we don’t know how or why. We don’t even know where the emperor’s base is. As far as we can tell, he moves around constantly.”
“And…” I swallowed, afraid to ask. “The emperor’s identity?”
“All we know is that he uses the monogram NH,” said Grover. “For Neos Helios.”
A phantom ground squirrel gnawed its way up my spine. “Greek. Meaning New Sun.”
“Right,” Grover said. “Not a Roman emperor’s name.”
No, I thought. But it was one of his favorite titles.
I decided not to share that information; not here in the dark, with only a jumpy satyr for company. If I confessed what I now knew, Grover and I might break down and sob in each other’s arms, which would be both embarrassing and unhelpful.
We passed the gates of the neighborhood: DESERT PALMS. (Had someone really gotten paid to think up that name?) We continued to the nearest commercial street, where fast-food joints and gas stations shimmered.
“I hoped Mellie and Gleeson would have new information,” Grover said. “They’ve been staying in LA with some demigods. I thought maybe they’d had more luck tracking down the emperor, or finding the heart of the maze.”
“Is that why the Hedge family came to Palm Springs?” I asked. “To share information?”
“Partly.” Grover’s tone hinted at a darker, sadder reason behind Mellie and Gleeson’s arrival, but I didn’t press.
We stopped at a major intersection. Across the boulevard stood a warehouse store with a glowing red sign: MARCO’S MILITARY MADNESS! The parking lot was empty except for an old yellow Pinto parked near the entrance.
I read the store sign again. On second look, I realized the name was not MARCO. It was MACRO. Perhaps I’d developed a bit of demigod dyslexia simply from hanging around them too long.
Military Madness sounded like exactly the sort of place I didn’t want to go. And Macro, as in large worldview or computer program or…something else. Why did that name unleash another herd of ground squirrels into my nervous system?
“It looks closed,” I said dully. “Must be the wrong army-surplus store.”
“No.” Grover pointed to the Pinto. “That’s Gleeson’s car.”
Of course it is, I thought. With my luck, how could it not be?
I wanted to run away. I did not like the way that giant red sign washed the asphalt in bloodstained light. But Grover Underwood had led us through the Labyrinth, and after all his talk about losing friends, I was not about to let him lose another.
“Well, then,” I said, “let’s go find Gleeson Hedge.”
HOW hard could it be to find a satyr in an army-surplus store?
As it turned out, quite hard.
Macro’s Military Madness stretched on forever—aisle after aisle of equipment no self-respecting army would want. Near the entrance, a giant bin with a neon purple sign promised PITH HELMETS! BUY 3, GET 1 FREE! An endcap display featured a Christmas tree built of stacked propane tanks with garlands of blowtorch hoses, and a placard that read ’TIS ALWAYS THE SEASON! Two aisles, each a quarter mile long, were entirely devoted to camouflage clothing in every possible color: desert brown, forest green, arctic gray, and hot pink, just in case your spec-ops team needed to infiltrate a child’s princess-themed birthday party.