The Tyrant’s Tomb
On my other side, Hazel ignored her veggie wrap and grumbled to herself, “Can’t believe Frank…Trying to volunteer…Bad enough after his crazy stunts in the battle…”
Nearby, having already plowed through her lunch, Meg aided her digestion by doing cartwheels. Every time she landed, catching her balance on the loose tiles, my heart free-climbed a little farther up my throat.
“Meg, could you please not do that?” I asked.
“It’s fun.” She fixed her eyes on the horizon and announced, “I want a unicorn.” Then she cartwheeled again.
Lavinia muttered to no one in particular, “You popped a bubble—you’ll be perfect for this quest!”
“Why do I have to like a guy with a death wish?” Hazel mused.
“Meg,” I pleaded, “you’re going to fall.”
“Even a small unicorn,” Meg said. “Not fair they have so many here and I don’t have any.”
We continued this four-part disharmony until a giant eagle swooped out of the sky, snatched the rest of the grilled cheese from Lavinia’s hand, and soared away, leaving behind a flock of irritated seagulls.
“Typical.” Lavinia wiped her fingers on her pants. “Can’t even have a sandwich.”
I shoved the rest of the focaccia in my mouth, just in case the eagle came back for seconds.
“Well,” Hazel sighed, “at least we got the afternoon off to make plans.” She gave half of her veggie wrap to Lavinia.
Lavinia blinked, apparently unsure how to respond to the kind gesture. “I—uh, thanks. But I mean, what is there to plan? We go to the carousel, find the tomb, try not to die.”
I swallowed the last of my food, hoping it might push my heart back down to its proper location. “Perhaps we could concentrate on the not-dying part. For instance, why wait until tonight? Wouldn’t it be safer to go when it’s daylight?”
“It’s always dark underground,” Hazel said. “Besides, during the daytime, lots of kids will be at the carousel. I don’t want any of them getting hurt. At night, the place will be deserted.”
Meg plopped down next to us. Her hair now looked like a distressed elderberry shrub. “So, Hazel, can you do other cool underground stuff? Some people were saying you can summon diamonds and rubies.”
Hazel frowned. “Some people?”
“Like Lavinia,” Meg said.
“Oh, my gods!” Lavinia said. “Thanks a lot, Meg!”
Hazel peered into the sky, as if wishing a giant eagle would come and snatch her away. “I can summon precious metals, yes. Riches of the earth. That’s a Pluto thing. But you can’t spend the stuff I summon, Meg.”
I leaned back against the roof tiles. “Because it’s cursed? I seem to recall something about a curse—and not because Lavinia told me anything,” I added hastily.
Hazel picked at her veggie wrap. “It’s not so much a curse anymore. In the old days, I couldn’t control it. Diamonds, gold coins, stuff like that would just pop up from the ground whenever I got nervous.”
“Cool,” Meg said.
“No, it really wasn’t,” Hazel assured her. “If somebody picked up the treasures and tried to spend them…horrible things would happen.”
“Oh,” Meg said. “What about now?”
“Since I met Frank…” Hazel hesitated. “A long time ago, Pluto told me that a descendant of Poseidon would wash away my curse. It’s complicated, but Frank is a descendant of Poseidon on his mom’s side. Once we started dating…He’s just a good person, you know? I’m not saying I needed a fella to solve my problems—”
“A fella?” Meg asked.
Hazel’s right eye twitched. “Sorry. I grew up in the 1930s. Sometimes my vocab slips. I’m not saying I needed a guy to solve my problems. It’s just that Frank had his own curse to deal with, so he understood me. We helped each other through some dark times—talking together, learning to be happy again. He makes me feel—”
“Loved?” I suggested.
Lavinia met my eyes and mouthed, Adorable.
Hazel tucked her feet underneath her. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. But yes. Now I can control my powers a lot better. Jewels don’t pop up randomly when I get upset. Still, they’re not meant to be spent. I think…I have this gut feeling that Pluto wouldn’t like that. I don’t want to find out what would happen if somebody tried.”
Meg pouted. “So you can’t give me even a small diamond? Like, just to keep for fun?”
“Meg,” I chided.
“Or a ruby?”
“Meg.”
“Whatever.” Meg frowned at her unicorn shirt, no doubt thinking how cool it would look decorated with several million dollars’ worth of precious stones. “I just wanna fight stuff.”
“You’ll probably get your wish,” Hazel said. “But remember, tonight, the idea is to explore and gather intel. We’ll need to be stealthy.”
“Yes, Meg,” I said. “Because, if you’ll recall, Apollo faces death in Tarquin’s tomb. If I must face death, I would rather do so while hiding in the shadows, and then sneak away from it without it ever knowing I was there.”
Meg looked exasperated, as if I’d suggested an unfair rule in freeze tag. “Okay. I guess I can stealth.”
“Good,” Hazel said. “And, Lavinia, no chewing gum.”
“Give me some credit. I have very sneaky moves.” She wriggled her feet. “Daughter of Terpsichore and all that.”
“Hmm,” Hazel said. “Okay, then. Everybody gather your supplies and get some rest. We’ll meet on the Field of Mars at sundown.”
Resting should have been an easy assignment.
Meg went off to explore the camp (read: see the unicorns again), which left me by myself in the café’s upstairs room. I lay in my cot, enjoying the quiet, staring at Meg’s newly planted irises, which were now in full bloom in the window box. Still, I couldn’t sleep.
My stomach wound throbbed. My head buzzed.
I thought of Hazel Levesque and how she’d credited Frank with washing away her curse. Everyone deserved someone who could wash away their curses by making them feel loved. But that was not my fate. Even my greatest romances had caused more curses than they lifted.
Daphne. Hyacinthus.
And later, yes, the Cumaean Sibyl.
I remembered the day we had sat together on a beach, the Mediterranean stretching out before us like a sheet of blue glass. Behind us, on the hillside where the Sibyl had her cave, olive trees baked and cicadas droned in the summer heat of Southern Italy. In the distance, Mount Vesuvius rose, hazy and purple.
Conjuring an image of the Sibyl herself was more difficult—not the hunched and grizzled old woman from Tarquin’s throne room, but the beautiful young woman she’d been on that beach, centuries before, when Cumae was still a Greek colony.
I had loved everything about her—the way her hair caught the sunlight, the mischievous gleam in her eyes, the easy way she smiled. She didn’t seem to care that I was a god, despite having given up everything to be my Oracle: her family, her future, even her name. Once pledged to me, she was known simply as the Sibyl, the voice of Apollo.