The Tower of Nero

Just as Cow the First lowered its horns and charged, a hand grabbed my shoulder.

Nico di Angelo’s voice said, “Gotcha.”

And the world turned cold and dark.

“JUMP THE COW?” MEG DEMANDED. “THAT was your plan?”

The five of us sat in a sewer, which was something I’d grown accustomed to. Meg seemed to be bouncing back quickly from her shadow-travel sickness, thanks to Will’s timely administration of nectar and Kit Kat bars. I, however, still felt like I was coming down with the flu: chills, body aches, disorientation. I was not ready to be assaulted for my choices in combat.

“I was improvising,” I said. “I didn’t want to see you die.”

Meg threw her hands up. “And I didn’t want to see you die, dummy. Did you think of that?”

“Guys,” Rachel interrupted, a cold pack pressed against her head. “How about none of us lets any of us die? Okay?”

Will checked her bruised temple. “Feeling any better?”

“I’ll be fine,” Rachel said, then explained for my benefit: “I managed to stumble into the wall when we teleported here.”

Nico looked sheepish. “Sorry about that.”

“Hey, I’m not complaining,” Rachel said. “Better than being trampled.”

“Guess so,” he said. “Once we…”

Nico’s eyelids fluttered. His pupils rolled up in his head and he slumped against Will’s shoulder. It might have been a clever ploy to fall into his boyfriend’s arms—I had used the catch me, handsome fainting trick a few times myself—but since Nico immediately began to snore, I decided he was not faking.

“That’s night-night for Nico.” Will pulled a travel pillow from his supply bag, which I suspected he carried just for these occasions. He eased the son of Hades into a comfortable sleeping position, then gave us a weary smile. “He’ll need about half an hour to recover. Until then, we might as well make ourselves comfortable.”

On the bright side, I’d had plenty of experience getting comfortable in sewers, and Nico had shadow-traveled us to the New York drainage system’s equivalent of the presidential suite.

The vaulted ceiling was adorned with a redbrick herringbone pattern. Along either wall, terra-cotta pipes dripped only the finest goo into a canal running down the middle of the floor. The concrete ledge upon which we sat was comfortably upholstered with lichen and scum. In the dim golden glow of Meg’s swords—our only illumination—the tunnel looked almost romantic.

Given New York rental prices, I imagined a place like this could go for quite a bit. Running water. Privacy. Lots of space. Great bones—mouse bones, chicken bones, and some others I couldn’t identify. And did I mention the stench? The stench was included at no extra cost.

Will tended to our various cuts and scrapes, which were surprisingly light given our morning’s adventures. He insisted we partake liberally of his medicinal stockpile of Kit Kat bars.

“The best thing for recovering from shadow-travel,” he assured us.

Who was I to argue with the healing powers of chocolate and wafers?

We ate in silence for a while. Rachel held the cold pack against her head and stared glumly at the sewer water as if waiting for pieces of her family home to float by. Meg sprinkled seeds into the scum patches next to her, causing luminous mushrooms to pop into existence like tiny umbrellas. When life gives you scum, make mushrooms, I suppose.

“Those forest bulls were amazing,” Meg said after a while. “If you could train them to carry…”

I groaned. “It was bad enough when you weaponized unicorns.”

“Yeah. That was great.” She looked down the tunnel in both directions. “Does anyone know how we can get out of here?”

“Nico does.” Will’s eye twitched. “Although he’s not going to take us out so much as down.”

“To the troglodytes,” Rachel guessed. “What are they like?”

Will moved his hands as if trying to shape something out of clay or indicate the size of a fish he’d caught. “I—I can’t describe them,” he decided.

That wasn’t reassuring. As my child, Will was bound to have some of my poetic ability. If the troglodytes defied description in your average sonnet or limerick, I didn’t want to meet them.

“I hope they can help.” Rachel held up her palm to ward off Will, who was coming to check on her bruised head again. “I’m okay now, thanks.”

She smiled, but her voice was strained. I knew she liked Will. I also knew she had issues with personal space. Becoming the Pythia tended to do that to you. Having the power of Delphi possess your body and soul at random intervals could make you tetchy about people getting too close without your consent. Having Python whispering inside your head probably didn’t help, either.

“I get it.” Will sat back. “You’ve had a rough morning. I’m sorry we brought that kind of trouble to your door.”

Rachel shrugged. “Like I said, I think I’m supposed to be in this trouble. It’s not your fault. A Dare reveals the path that was unknown. For once, I’m part of the prophecy.”

She sounded strangely proud of this fact. Perhaps, after issuing perilous quests for so many other people, Rachel found it nice to be included in our communal death-wish adventure. People like to be seen—even if it’s by the cold, cruel eyes of fate.

“Is it safe for you to come along, though?” Meg asked. “Like…if you’ve got Python in your head or whatever? Won’t he see what we’re doing?”

Rachel pulled her ankles into a tighter crisscross. “I don’t think he’s seeing through me. At least…not yet.” She let that idea settle around us like a layer of swamp gas. “Anyway, you’re not getting rid of me. Python has made this personal.”

She glanced at me, and I couldn’t escape the feeling that Python wasn’t the one she really blamed. This had been personal for her ever since I’d accepted Rachel as my priestess. Ever since…well, ever since I’d been Apollo. If my trials as a mortal had done anything, they had shown me how many times I’d abandoned, forgotten, and failed my Oracles over the centuries. I could not abandon Rachel in the same way. I’d neglected the basic truth that they did not serve me; I was supposed to serve them.

“We’re lucky to have you,” I said. “I only wish we had more time to figure out a plan.”

Rachel checked her watch—a basic windup model, which she’d probably chosen after seeing how easily technology went haywire around demigods, monsters, and the other sorts of magical people she hung out with. “It’s past lunchtime. You’re supposed to surrender to Nero by nightfall. That doesn’t give us much leeway.”

“Oh, lunchtime,” Meg said, staying reliably on-brand. “Will, have you got anything besides Kit Kats? I’m starv—”

She jerked her hand away from Will’s supply kit as if it had shocked her. “Why is there a tail sticking out of your bag?”

Will furrowed his brow. “Oh. Uh, yeah.” He pulled out what appeared to be a foot-long desiccated lizard wrapped in a handkerchief.